LA VITA NUOVA
by MEL

 Starling's vision blurred and she opened her eyes wider, wide as she possibly could to try to ward off the weariness that threatened to close them for the night. It was almost 7.30pm and she'd been in the office since 6 in the morning. She wasn't a natural jobsworth, wasn't usually the one her superiors found pounding her desk last thing at night. Or at least not until Lecter. Doctor Lecter she reminded herself. Referring to him by surname alone detracted from what he was somehow, and she was trying so desperately to hold onto that - whatever that was. With a deep sigh she turned her attention back to the cluttered mess that was her desk. She had been cross-referencing something... trying to lay her hands on a fax of a signed stub. She lifted piles of papers to look underneath, stacks of books, a pile of discs fell to the floor with a satisfying clatter; she left them there. Where was the damn fax?

The credit card had belonged to a David Binder, a 43 year old computer analyst from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, He had been reported missing by his hysterical wife two days after Lecter's escape from the ambulance in Memphis, where Mr. Binder had been conducting some business. During the two days in question the card had been used several times, but being uncertain of precisely when it had left Mr. Binder's possession Clarice couldn't be sure whether the purchases were Binder's... or somebody else's. The last debit on the card was for a plane ticket to Puerto Rico. Clarice chastised herself for the smirk that tugged at her lips as she recalled Chilton's last journey, following a lead down there himself, trying to save some face no doubt. The fax of the signed receipt was a long shot, but she was sure it had been Lecter. It could well have been David Binder who stopped at the airport to buy a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem and a quarter of fine tobacco and a pipe on that fateful day... but Clarice didn't think so. She added the items to her list of consumables to be watched.

"Clarice?"

She jumped at the voice from the doorway. She hadn't seen Jack Crawford draw back the curtain and step inside. "Uh - Mr. Crawford Sir-"

"It's OK," he said, gesturing for her to sit back down. "Just thought I'd come and check on you - it's getting late. You onto something new?"

"No," she breathed. "I don't think so, old news."

"Any new news?" Crawford shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shuffled further into the room.

"Um, well, tomorrow I get some new reports on the monitored goods." She watched Crawford watching the floor. "So...." she let the syllable stretch on. He had come here to say something. "How about you?"

"Me?" he tried to feign innocence.

"Mr. Crawford?"

"You look tired Clarice." He seemed to consider something for a moment, then spoke again. "You haven't taken any of your leave this year. Why don't you take some time huh?"

"And leave all of this?" she tried to joke, not liking the way this conversation was going.

"I spoke to Bob over at Justice this afternoon." He still kept his eyes lowered.

"And?" Clarice shook her head, her mind beginning to stir with unwelcome postulation. "It's Krendler isn't it?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "What's he stirring up?"

"I don't know exactly Clarice," he sighed. Clarice was surprised at the lack of denial. Crawford was no fan of Krendler, but the Guru usually played office politics like a true professional. He spoke again,

"But I do know that what you need right now is time," he gestured to the general clutter, "to find him."

"He's here Jack, um, Mr. Crawford. He's here, I know it. I just need to - I just need - " Clarice grimaced and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I know Clarice. But that's gonna take time, and I don't know how long I can see them off."

Clarice was quiet. Crawford seemed genuinely distressed and concerned. Something in his tone suggested that she shouldn't fight, not this time. She nodded. Dammit. She was so close, she could feel it. Krendler and his goons were going to have her slung out of here, and soon, if Crawford's mood was anything to go by.

"So if I take my leave, this'll all be postponed until I get back?"

"Might even go in your favour."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Even as she asked she knew exactly what he meant. It was the picture of Pazzi and his innards hanging gruesomely from the balcony of the study room of the Palazzo Vecchio, the mugshots of Dr Lecter almost smirking at the camera, the crime-scene shots, the sign someone had stuck on her curtain - Hannibal's House' - that she had kept and hung inside. Agents were frequently chastised for allowing themselves to become too close to a case, for getting too involved. Thing was, there was just no other way to get to Hannibal Lecter, and no other Agent who could. She felt keenly the familiar stab of disappointment, that in the higher echelons of this establishment, playing power games was more the order of business these days than apprehending criminals and serving justice, power games that even now were going to jeopardise the hunt for one of the world's most infamous predators. She was reminded briefly of that Tatler headline - Bride of Frankenstein'. She'd been offended then. Now the phrase had more than a ring of truth to it.

***

"Clarice is that you??"

"No."

"Very funny Clarice. Could you come in here please?"

Clarice slung her bag in the corner and headed towards the kitchen, and her room-mate's voice. She found Ardelia bent over, a bottle of red wine between her knees, tugging at the corkscrew embedded in the stubborn cork.

"Could you-?" Ardelia made one last attempt at the cork and then handed it over.

"So-" Clarice gripped the bottle between her knees and took a good hold on the waiter's maid. "So what's all this about? You got company coming?" Whatever was in the oven smelled delicious.

"No, no. Just thought we hadn't had a night in for a while."

The cork exited the bottle with a satisfying pop'.

"U-huh. No, really, you haven't cooked for me in ages."

"Clarice." Ardelia put on her best long-suffering voice, Clarice merely raised her eyebrows.

"Well?"

"Well it's a few things."

"Such as?" Clarice took the long-stemmed wine glass Ardelia offered and held it up to be filled.

"Remember my sister married that English guy?"

"Robert? Yes, I remember."

"Well they want me to go visit. I've got three weeks of leave coming and I'm gonna go see them in Oxford."

"Oh - that's great! When?"

"This weekend."

"Jesus Ardelia!" Clarice laughed. "You're not wasting any time are you?"

Ardelia merely winked and smiled. The two women regarded each other over the rims of their glasses.

"What? What is it? Something else?" Clarice was suddenly suspicious.

"Why don't you come along?"

"What?....Come....what to England? Oh...."

"Damn Clarice it would be great!"

"But I - I can't just...up and leave!"

Ardelia didn't answer and the pause stretched on interminably until the cogs in Clarice's mind finally clicked into place.

"Crawford called you didn't he?" She shook her head and tried to look stern.

"Yes but I was gonna ask you to come anyway, it's just... now there's an extra reason," Ardelia smiled brightly then laughed. "Oh come on Clarice."

Clarice pursed her lips.

"Oh alright."

Perhaps this was just what she needed to get back on track.

***

Ardelia's sister had married well; she and her husband lived in a huge townhouse in North Oxford. They were lovely people but by the time they had reached the house from the airport Clarice was beginning to wish she had insisted on staying in a hotel instead of with the family. She felt as if she were intruding. The fact that she and Ardelia had already had one row on the plane didn't help matters much, so after dinner she announced that she was going for a walk, and left the family to themselves.

The row on the plane had been about the fact that she had brought work along with her. Ardelia wanted to forget all about Hannibal Lecter, and wished Clarice would surrender the case up to a fresh mind. This wasn't the first row they'd had about the good doctor. But Clarice couldn't forget him, couldn't give up the case. She was close to Lecter now, close to tracking him down; she wasn't far behind him she knew it. She also knew what Crawford thought, and what Ardelia thought, that she was obsessing about catching Lecter, that it was unhealthy. They were only partly correct. It had taken her a long time to recognize it and an even longer time for her to fully admit it to herself, but she was drawn to Lecter in a way that went far beyond intellectual admiration and professional respect. Drawn to him.' Still she was pussyfooting around the fact even with herself. That was a quickening of the heartbeat she felt when she thought of Dr Lecter sipping a fine wine on the balcony of an expensive hotel in some nameless European city. It was a tightening in her gut that she felt when she remembered their last meeting in Memphis, when it had been the only important thing in the world that she get away from Chilton and back to Lecter, if even only for a second. And it was a definite excitement, and a twinge low, low in her abdomen that she felt every time she saw her own name scripted on the front of an envelope in his fine copperplate.

There had been one letter that she hadn't handed in to the Bureau. It had contained a sketch of her, naked and demure; her head had been bent down but she was making eye-contact with the artist. Lecter had signed his name along one bare thigh, and Clarice had caught her breath as she imagined him making the sketch, felt the signature like a whisper of fingertips on her leg. The accompanying note had read "Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi". It was a quotation from Dante - Behold a god more powerful than I who comes to rule over me.' Upon first beholding Beatrice Dante had been convinced that Love was the new divinity in his life. That had been the moment when Clarice had forced herself to face the truth. The simple beauty and honesty of Lecter's gesture had seared her through to her soul and thrown her own feelings into sharp relief, so much so that the very next week she had taken out adverts in both the International Herald Tribune and the China Mail. Addressed to A.A.Aaron as he had requested, and signed Hannah', Clarice had followed Lecter's example and quoted "Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra" from the same text - Now your source of joy has been revealed.' She had felt exhilarated when she had seen it in print, the black-and-white proof of her feelings for Dr Lecter, had felt excited as a teenager and just as guilty. She had spent that night in broken sleep, dreaming that the Doctor visited her and soothed her fevered skin with kisses, and that they joined, finally, borne up on fierce tides of physical need.

Clarice took a deep breath and watched as her sigh billowed outwards before her in the dim evening air, orange-tinted through the gathering streetlight. She had walked down into the city centre, spent the entire stroll thinking about the Doctor, wondering if he ever saw her response in either of the papers. She could feel herself getting edgy, punchy, and tried desperately to find something to take her mind off him. What better for a cold and lonely individual in a strange city than a good stiff drink? She looked about her for a bar of some description. She had emerged from a long road of houses so tall they blocked out most of the light from the rising moon, and now found herself facing a hugely wide road, flanked with massive sandstone buildings, all parapets, gargoyles and thick wooden doors. All the anomalous architecture in such a small place made Clarice feel slightly unsettled. The evening shadows lent a Gothic resonance to this odd scene, of 800 year old battlemented colleges and accompanying pay-and-display parking meters, the immense iron-girded oak doors and nearby bus-stops. The ancient and the modern were not in harmony in this university city, it just seemed to meander on never fully letting go of its past nor embracing its future. Yet for all of this, scholarship and tourism flourished here. She wondered what it was like to actually live in the city.

She didn't feel like walking down that big, strange street, so she ducked off into a narrow cobbled passage to her right. The passage opened out into a small road that was strung with great ropes of white lights. Three or four bars were situated on the right hand side of the street, and Clarice followed a group of women into the nearest. The clean lines, smooth surfaces and bright colours of the interior were a surprise after the traditional looking front of the establishment. Clarice parked herself at the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels. She renewed her efforts to put thoughts of Lecter out of her mind, but after three, four more shots the thoughts came thick and fast. Thoughts of him rounding the next corner in front of her, of his eyes piercing hers... she tried not to think of how she had felt the electricity as if it had arced between them over that case-file in Memphis, how it might feel if he were able to touch her properly, what his fingers might feel like... how it would feel for those lips to descend upon her shoulder... her eyelids fell softly closed and she breathed an audible sigh. Pressing her thighs together she languished in the self-inflicted torment.

It took all of her willpower to steer her thoughts away from these dreamings, to something, anything else. The group of women she had followed into the bar were getting louder and more rowdy with every minute, and it was easy to listen to their conversation instead of her own body's raucous voice. Apparently they were leaving, heading on somewhere else... had she heard right? They were going to a bar called Freud's. Well how appropriate. If there was a place she belonged right now, that was it. The Tattler had run that article about her when she had first begun questioning Dr Lecter, had detailed her childhood and the major events in her life, added a little psychoanalysis, saying that Clarice saw some kind of father-figure in Lecter. Clarice gave an un-ladylike snort at this recollection. No, she most certainly was not interested in Hannibal Lecter as a father-figure. The papers had Lecter all wrong. They saw him as quite mad, insane probably, but Clarice was certain of the fact that he was one of the unfortunate people that evolution throws up who was that little bit more sane than the rest. Lecter managed to see black and white where the rest of us see only grey. We see the grey because that's the way we live, in the grey. We avoid making clear decisions and honest judgments in order to uphold the social graces, try to convince ourselves that we are civilized, that we are not animals. Society calls people like Lecter animals, when in fact we are the under-evolved. Clarice thought it an ironic twist that the idea of cannibalism as the originating movement of civilized society, was gathering support in many circles. Take that psychoanalysis. Lecter saw no difference between dissecting the mind and dissecting the body, and prided himself on doing both extremely well. It was difficult to see which people were more afraid of, considering Lecter had sent numerous people screaming from Chilton's asylum after only a few minutes conversation. And yet she had no fear of either from him. She did not fear for her body, she had the doctor's promise that he had no such interest and he had no reason to lie to her. And it was the dissection of her mind, of her very soul by Lecter that she yearned for. Clarice realized this was enough to make people fear her too, but this made her feel oddly empowered.

The women were rising from their seats now, and wrapping up for the bitterly cold outdoors. Trying not to tail them too obviously, Clarice followed them out of the cozy bar and into the festive-looking street. She allowed them to get a way ahead of her before she began to meander after them. After about five minutes they disappeared between a pair of huge gateposts. Clarice reached the gate and looked up in amazement. At the top of four large stone steps was a small church, brightly lit and humming with conversation. Tables and chairs littered the ground beneath the pillared facade, and a burly looking man in black tie stood by the double glass doors. Pausing only briefly in surprise, Clarice took the steps and entered through the door held courteously open for her. Inside was just as much a surprise as outside. There was a long bar immediately to her left, staffed by smart-looking waiters, a half-dozen more of which scuttled from table to table with trays of wine, beer and cocktails. The original roof loomed high above and Clarice stared, followed the lines of the beams down to the far end of the building where a band were setting up their instruments on what used to be the altar. All along the walls, high up near the ceiling, were sculptures of angels made out of reams and reams of silver wires. Beneath them tasteful paintings adorned the walls where the stages of the crucifixion must one have hung. Clarice finally turned her attention down to the people. Those who weren't milling around the bar, or hanging by the band, were sat around long wooden tables, on pews. Successfully stunned by the find, Clarice in a daze ordered a bottle of house red and took it down the centre aisle, where she eased herself into of the pews facing back towards the entrance.

The wine was going down very easily, Clarice found, and the atmosphere pleasantly surprised her. There was a wide mix of people here - she recognized students, professionals and scholars, all together. Behind her she could hear a group of older men discussing Classical Italian literature. The pleasant scents of expensive cigars and exotic tobacco drifted over to her, and the band began to play relaxed jazz. She listened to the conversation behind her long enough to begin to distinguish voices and personalities. There seemed to be four gentlemen. One was very young, and obviously seemed concerned about holding his own in the group. Two, by the sounds of their voices, were much older, one had a Northern-English accent. She was also convinced that there was a fourth someone sat directly with his back to her, she could hear his breathing and every now and then got a waft of his cigar smoke, but he had yet to speak.

"But Classical Italian poetry is the most romantic and sensual of all our literature," the young man insisted. He had slightly affected R's.

"Now now - you can hardly have read enough to make such a sweeping statement."

"And," the gentleman with the Northern accent chimed in. "All of the Italian writers were so very old. Are you so anxious to dismiss the strains of youth?"

"Well why don't we ask our esteemed visiting scholar?" the young man challenged.

"Yes!" one of the older men laughed throatily. "Let him earn his money for once! And this is your speciality after all Sir."
Clarice smirked to herself as the scholars laughed amongst themselves. What a charming conversation.
"Well," the man directly at her back finally spoke. "I think young Mr McLoughlin here has a point. And you are forgetting that Dante Alighieri was not even eighteen years old when he penned La Vita Nuova"

The glass in Clarice's hand stopped halfway to her lips, and the smirk dropped from her face. The man's words, his voice, rung in her mind and she felt slightly faint as her pulse quickened dramatically. Dr Lecter. For all of the dreaming and fantasizing Clarice was rooted to the spot, partly from excitement, partly from fear. Finding Dr Lecter was one thing, but finding him here, now, when they were simple strangers in a bar, when she was unarmed, unprepared and already aroused from the evening's train of thought.... And what was more, he knew she was here. The reference to Dante and La Vita Nuova had been for her benefit. The seconds of immobility seemed immense to Clarice, but she already knew she was going to stay. She realised that Dr Lecter was speaking again, and she shut her eyes and allowed his rich tones to seep under her skin. She had hardly thought that she would hear them again.

"Dante was raised in an extremely religious environment. DO not imagine that he spoke the words Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi and meant them lightly."

He was speaking to her again. She could hardly bring herself to believe it, this welcome confession..

"Ah Dr Fell, you have been spending too much time with Professor Whitely," one of the gentlemen said disparagingly, and the group laughed again at some in-joke.

Dr Fell - so that was what he was calling himself. An idea seized Clarice and she was up out of her seat before her courage could fail her. Hesitating only momentarily she turned and stepped up to the table, fixing Dr Lecter's eyes with her own and offering a forced polite smile.

"Dr Fell!" she tried to sound surprised. "What a coincidence to find you here!"

The group of men all looked expectantly at her, then at Lecter, but their gazes were locked on one another. Clarice felt as if the rest of the world had receded away into nothing; all she saw were Lecter's pale pale eyes, drilling into her own. And he was standing to greet her, lifting her hand, his fingers were warm around hers, as he lifted her hand and placed his lips gently to her knuckles, lingering there. She opened her mouth to speak but no words would come.

"How wonderful to see you again my dear," he said, and the vibrations of his deep voice set her whole body humming, began an all-over tingling that culminated in her now sensitive breasts and between her legs.

"Dr Fell?"

It was one of Lecter's companions. The world suddenly returned for Clarice, and the buzz of conversation and dinner jazz filled her ears.

"An old friend," Lecter smiled benignly at his companions but offered no more by way of explanation. "Shall we?" This to Clarice, who numbly linked her hand under the elbow he offered and allowed herself to be led towards the throng of dancing couples by the old altar.

As they reached the end of the aisle Lecter turned towards her and slipped his free arm about her waist; pulling her to him he moved them both into the crowd and away from the eyes of his companions. Clarice swallowed hard, trying desperately to commit this all to memory, she did not want to forget if this transpired to be all to brief an encounter. She still could not speak, but words seemed to be the last thing from the Doctor's mind also. His hand at the small of her back radiated a delicious heat. They were almost cheek to cheek, but she inclined her head slightly and their eyes met. To be here, in such close proximity to him, was like a drug. She drew in a ragged breath, saw him open his mouth as if to speak but then simply close it again, and realized that she was seeing Lecter shaken. Emboldened, she slipped her hand slowly from his arm, and tentatively up, up, until her hand rested at the back of his neck. They stepped closer. Clarice's silk tee brushed against Lecter's cotton shirt and she felt her nipples harden, and knew he must have felt it too. A step and a sway; they were just another couple as far as the crowds were concerned. Lecter's arm about her tightened and they were pressed to one another, she could feel his firm body all along her own. In a glorious moment Clarice felt Lecter hard against her belly. Her eyes narrowed and a small smile graced her lips.

"Do you feel like a goddess Clarice?"

She felt an answering swell of heat and wet between her legs.

"Oh yes," she breathed, moving against him. Lecter's hand came up, the backs of his fingers grazed her cheek, then he took her chin between thumb and forefinger and looked into her eyes. Slowly, so slowly, their faces edged nearer, until Clarice could feel his breath hot on her lips. And then they were kissing one another. His lips were soft yet firm, and moved over hers assuredly, sensually. Their initial excitement gathered momentum, and with it the kiss. Clarice reveled in the pressure of his mouth on hers, at the feel of his hand cupping the back of her head and holding her to him. Their mouths parted over one another and she slipped her tongue between his lips, lightly tasting him. The combination of rich wine and something that was uniquely him dizzied her. It was his turn to sigh raggedly as they finally parted.

"Dr Lecter," her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes...?"

"I think we should leave."

Lecter's hand stroked up and down her back and she could think no further than that.

"I have rooms at the Randolf."

***

The short walk to the Randolf Hotel became steadily quicker. All of the way Clarice could feel the slight but sure pressure of Lecter's guiding hand at her back. His polite overtures in the bar gave her a sense of his restraint, and she longed to see it released. Somehow she had always known that his courteous demeanor would make him an unusual lover, the exact opposite of every man she had ever met. The idea that she was about to test this hypothesis, of what she was about to do, caused her stomach to knot in delicious anticipation. They gained the steps of the hotel and the Doctor held the door while she entered.

"This way," were his only words, but the pressure of his guiding hand increased suggestively as he steered her into the lift.

The doors closed and silence descended upon them. Clarice wanted to reach for him, to feel him against her once more, but she was suddenly unsure of herself.

"What do you want, Clarice?" the Doctor's soothing tones filled the small compartment. "Tell me, and don't lie, or I'll know." This time there was no edge to his voice as he spoke those words, and Clarice felt the heat that had begun to kindle earlier flare once more. She inhaled nervously then turned to face him.

" know what you want," Lecter pre-empted. "Oh I know." A graceful smile played across his features and without having even been touched Clarice felt her arousal ratchet up one more notch.

"Doctor I -" she began hoarsely, but couldn't finish. Stealthy as a jungle cat and twice as quick, Lecter was standing up against her, pushing her backwards against the wooden partition. This time Clarice felt the proof of his virility press into her groin and a small strangled sound escaped her lips as she tipped her hips into his and felt him respond. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes clouded with obvious pleasure. He reached for her hands and pinned them to the wall above her head as they maintained the gentle pressure, each hardly daring to move. Their faces were mere inches apart, their breath mingling, audible in the quietness.

As quickly as he had come to her, Lecter moved away and Clarice sagged a little against the wall, her knees trembling. The doors to the lift opened and he turned to her and offered his arm once again. Clarice swallowed and moved unsteadily towards him, clutching his forearm as they walked out into the corridor.

"These are my rooms," Lecter said softly, opening a door. "Please, after you."

Clarice stepped past him. The room smelled musky and warm. Dim light emanated from a room a way along the hallway, and she walked towards it. She almost wilted at the feel of Lecter's hands on her shoulders, and was left feeling cold when he helped her off with her coat and his touch left her, but as she turned into the doorway she had barely enough time to take in the plush bedroom before she felt hot hands snake around her waist and up under her shirt. She reached up behind her and caressed the Doctor's sleek head as he began dropping searing kisses on her neck, trailing his tongue up to gently suck her earlobe into his mouth. She tried to turn in his arms but he stopped her, instead taking hold of the hem of her tee and raising it up, waiting for her to lift her arms in acquiescence, and away into a silky pool on the floor. Clarice closed her eyes and bit her lip as the Doctor continues his frustratingly slow disrobing of her, refusing to let her assist or hurry him along. His fingers blazed a trail over the skin he bared, drawing intermittent shudders of pleasure from her. She felt a tension akin to pain in her tight nipples as he brushed his thumbs teasingly over the peaks pushing through her white cotton bra, before unhooking it and peeling it from her.

"Doctor please!" It was almost a whine.

"Hush Clarice, it will be time soon enough."

His reassurances merely stoked the heat. She felt him hook his fingers into the waist of her panties and begin to draw them down her legs. They clung damply to her, then whispered down to the floor. She kicked them away and turned before he could rise and stop her. She had never really been comfortable being naked like this before, but she and Lecter had had years of curious foreplay and it was time to finish what started all those years ago in a dark basement in Baltimore.

Lecter slowly stood, and Clarice could see that he was taking in every inch of naked flesh before him.

"Am I as you imagined?" The undisguised desire in Lecter's expression gave Clarice a confidence to which she was unaccustomed in such situations. It felt good coursing through her veins. Yes she did feel like a goddess. His hands reached up to caress her cheeks; she did not flinch. He brushed her hair back from her face.

"All that and more." His voice was throaty, uncontrolled, and he did not stop her when she pushed his jacket from his shoulders and began to open his shirt buttons, one at a time. The pristine garment opened to reveal a broad chest with a scattering of greying hair. She pressed her hands flat to his pectorals, relishing the dry heat, then firmly smoothed outwards, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and down his strong arms. She looked up. Lecter's expression was still, his lips slightly pursed. She kept her eyes on his face as she reached for his trousers, saw the alight flicker of his eyelids and quick intake of breath before his hands caught hers and stopped her.

For the second time that evening Lecter went from unnatural stillness to swift action. Clarice gasped as she found herself pushed backwards, stumbling, to finish on her back on the bed with the Doctor looming above her. He ran a hand over her face, her neck, and down the soft valley between her breasts. Over her taut, trembling abdomen, the firm pressure, his hand slowed as he reached her soft curls, and his eyes, which had followed his hand, now came up to meet hers as if asking the final permission. Clarice allowed her legs to part slightly and covered Lecter's hand with her own, pressing down. She was unable to stop the low moan that came rolling up from the depths of her body as Lecter's fingertips made contact with her most sensitive part, and she instinctively arched her back to press upwards to him. her head tipped back, dizzied, as with the lightest of touches he stroked her expertly, slipped one finger then another inside her. Clarice felt as if she might black out from the sensations, physical and emotional, that this man was awakening in her. Doctor Lecter bent his head at the gentle pressure from of her hand and their mouths met in a kiss of unintimated urgency. Their tongues clashed, slipping hotly over and over, his tongue keeping a rhythm with his intrusive fingers.

Just when he had removed the remainder of his garments she was unsure, but now he moved up and over her, and she felt skin on hot skin. This had gone on long enough. Clarice reached down between them, found his hard length and gloried in the sharp exhalation that the contact pulled from him. Her fingers fluttered lightly over his slick manhood, and she guided him towards her, shaking - excited and fearful - at the prospect of being penetrated by the Doctor, of being joined with him, an honour of massive connotations, her god amongst men. Without ceremony he thrust inside her, filling her, and they both cried out. Clarice rocked up towards him, wanting to take him deeper inside herself, as Lecter pressed down towards his enigma, the one woman he had promised himself. The tension they had nurtured during the evening began to cascade out of control as Lecter set a slow, firm rhythm. Clutching her hands he forced them down on the bed so she was open, spread to his will, and Clarice fought to keep her mind amidst the wonderful onslaught of his body. Again and again he filled her, each thrust jarring and causing her to call out, and when she felt herself tip over that edge and she called to him, and saw his face contort in the same heady ecstasy, it was as if the world turned in on itself, and there was nothing more.

***

Clarice stirred in that hour that is neither night nor day. Wan moonlight streamed through the open curtains and onto the figure in bed with her. She lifted her head from his chest and looked at his seemingly sleeping face. How long he had been awake she did not know, but she was somehow unsurprised when he spoke.

"Clarice this is our time. Our only time."

She did not answer, didn't quite know how.

"Some of our stars are the same. Do you remember? Only some. I cannot stay here."

He opened his eyes and the moonlight seemed to rush into them and be swallowed down. For a moment she fancied she saw something approaching regret in his expression. It gave her comfort.

"I understand."

"Good girl. Perhaps one day I will not have to visit only in moonlight." He paused, as if expecting her to comment, then continued. "Life will go on Clarice, for you and for me, but you are mine now."

"And you are mine."

He laughed, deep and low. Clarice found the sound infinitely comforting.

"It was always so Clarice."

He spoke with conviction, and at that moment she could no more deny it than she could have wished the evening undone.

***

The stars shift a fraction in their great journey across the skies, and the moon peeks out from her cloud cover to shine a little on a sleeping pair far beneath. The woman sighs in her slumber and frowns. Her lover looks at her then eases out of their bed and quickly dresses. Before he leaves he turns back and we see him utter a few words... a benediction? a promise? He is out now, disappearing into the witching hour shadows. The moon slips back behind her cloud; this is not for her to see. The stars shine on.

FIN