disclaimer: lecter, starling, mapp, and crawford ain't mine, so there!
this chapter's title is a song by Placebo. :)
***********************************************************************
these bonds are shackle free,
wrapped in lust and lunacy....
-placebo-
The morning dawned cold and rusty, the sun making its way across a red sky. Several police cars were lined up along a portion of the interstate highway with a large part of its guard railing torn away. A great oak tree was missing some branches and its trunk bore marks that could only have been left by a car crash. Down by the river several officers of the law walked around, puzzling. A tow truck had its cable hooked to some unknown submerged object, and was slowly pulling it out of the murky water. A tall, regal man wearing a dark brown suit, stood with his arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. Beside him an attractive African-American woman was barking out orders into her walkie-talkie. Her navy blue windbreaker had the letters F.B.I. emblazoned on the back. Ardelia Mapp, veteran of many crime scenes was not prepared for the sight that greeted her as the river finally yielded its quarry. She ran towards car, into the river, desperately seeking for some sign of Clarice. She was not rewarded.
Jack Crawford let his head fall and his arms drop wearily to his sides. 'She's gone," he thought to himself. 'Dear God, I know it is wrong for me to ask of you so, but let her be dead instead of her being with that monster.'
Other F.B.I. Agents had joined Mapp around the car as it was finally towed onto dry land. Swarming around the car like ants they yanked the doors open and searched futilely for any signs that the occupants had indeed survived. All they found were the badly mangled corpses of Officers Joshua Carson and Roland Smith. There was no sign of Clarice Starling or Hannibal Lecter, indeed no trace had been found of our couple to even indicate that they had lived or died.
Ardelia Mapp took some comfort in this.
"Well, that's it people. It's official. Nobody could've survived that crash." Jack Crawford declared. He refused to believe anything else.
"But Mister Crawford, what about Clarice?! And Lecter?!" Ardelia could not believe her ears.
"Nobody could have survived, Agent Mapp. Nobody." He said with finality. "Their bodies will turn up in time." Section Chief Jack Crawford made his way slowly up to the highway, where in the safety of his car, he would allow himself the tears he so desperately wished to shed.
Several miles further upstream….
He was sleeping again. It was his turn now, to lay on the large white bed upstairs. I tried to fix us some breakfast. I had changed into a pair of denims the master of the house kept in his closet, tightening the waist with some thick rope. I still wore the white shirt though. It clings loosely to my frame, and I was grateful for that fact, as I wore no brassiere under it. The bacon sizzled as I dropped it in the pan. A couple of minutes later, the eggs were added. As they cooked, I began to wonder how long it was before we were discovered.
Right now, Jack and Ardelia must be going mad with worry. Surely they must have reached the accident site and fished the car out the river. I wonder what they must be thinking. Do they believe me to be dead, or that the doctor has taken me? In a way, the latter holds true, for Hannibal did spirit me away from the scene, but not for the reasons they think they know.
A sound from the stairs distracts me. It is Hannibal. He has woken up from his nap and is coming down the stairs. Belatedly I realize he is still in handcuffs. Somehow though, he has taken his shirt off and he held it in his hands. I concentrate on what I am doing and try not to look at his body.
"Good Morning, Clarice." He drapes the shirt around the back of one of the chairs and starts to set the table. How he does this with such fluid ease, I have no idea, especially in his current state of ahem, *bondage*. I try to sneak a peek at him out of the corner of my eye. Damn, he's out of my field of vision.
"Good Morning, Doctor Lecter." I can't fucking stand it! I turn around to take in his half-naked form. This time, it is MY breath that catches in my throat. His body is well-built for a man his age. Hell, it was well built for a man of any age. No, he did not have six-pack abs, but from what I could see, his muscles were firm and finely toned. A light scattering of graying hair covered the upper part of his chest and his skin was tanned. Hmmm, looks like his time in Florence has done him good.
"Are you alright, Clarice?" he cocked his head to one side, his expression concerned. Too late I realized I had been caught gawking. Blushing furiously, I turned back to the stove, where the eggs were just about overdone. In my haste I accidentally touch the hot metal of the pan, and let out a yelp of pain as it burns me. In a flash, Doctor Lecter is by my side, his cuffed hands on my wrists, trying to pull me away from the heat.
"You really shouldn't be doing any work while you are in your present state, my dear."
He leads me to one of the chair and sets me down. Mentally I flagellate myself for even thinking about him THAT way, and the next thing I notice is him wrapping a cool cloth around my hand.
"That should help ease the swelling," he flashes a brief smile. His eyes are, as of this morning, as unreadable as ever. He presents me with his back as he turns to look after breakfast. By now, the eggs and bacon are hopelessly charred beyond all recognition, and his face expresses his distaste as he scoops up the remains and dumps them in the garbage.
"You know, Hannibal, we really should get you out of those cuffs."
"Oh really now, Clarice? I thought you might have enjoyed seeing me like this." He raises his hands to emphasize. "Perhaps you might have the key?" he adds helpfully as my gaze wanders away from his hands and travels all over his upper body. This time, I could not hide my embarrassment as well as the blush that spreads across my face. I run out of the kitchen, and out of the house.
Starling, you have to get a grip on yourself, girl. The man is a murderer, and he's been declared insane to boot! Okay, so maybe he doesn't remember jack shit at all, but still, that doesn't change anything. Not a damn thing. And he is in there, in that house, in the kitchen, walking around without his fucking shirt. And got be damned girl, you are enjoying every moment of it. What would happen if say, Crawford and company showed up, guns a-blazing? And they will, you know. Would you let them pump bullets into that fine physique? Could you stand to do nothing?
"Fuck it," I say out loud. I go back into the house and in the kitchen where doctor Lecter has finished making breakfast. He has even managed to rustle up some orange juice in addition to the ham, bacon, cheese, and eggs on the original menu. Right now, he was just sitting there, with his back to the door, waiting patiently for me to come in.
"Ah Clarice, I see you are feeling…." He stopped in mid-sentence as I yanked him out of his chair and dragged him outside. Leading him towards a boulder, I lay his hands as well as the cuffs on it and began to pound on the links until they broke.
"Get up," I say to him. He does so and we stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He wasn't much taller than I, and we were so near each other, almost nose to nose that I was breathing the same air as him. He raised his brows as if to say, 'Well what now, Clarice?' I looked away, but he put his thumb and forefinger to my face and gently turned my head back. He bent his head. Make up you mind. His lips were almost touching mine. Decide. We brushed against each other. I could feel his desire pressed against my groin. Make your decision. His arms went around my waist, gripping tightly. In a flash, I knew exactly what I had to do. I pushed him away.
As I started to walk back towards the house, I heard him exhale his frustration before grabbing a hold of my left wrist and jerking me back to slam against his chest. Then he kissed me. Hard. His lips were soft, yet firm and moved expertly across mine.
It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Clarice. My Clarice was kissing me back with all the fire and passion of a woman in love. Love? MY Clarice? These thoughts were soon pushed away by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that came over me. Has this happened before? I was so confused that I quickly broke the kiss.
"Hannibal?" she was looking at me questioningly, beseechingly. Her face had the pinkish tinge that only desire, an intense desire could bring out. I had a feeling that her wants echoed mine. I pull her back and we begin to kiss again, clumsily stumbling back into the cabin, neither one of us willing to relinquish the feel of the other's lips.
I fall over furniture and we crash to the floor. Clarice does not seem to notice, or perhaps she does not care. I suppose I should be concerned about the bruising, but for now, all I can hear is the sound of her breathing and her gentle moaning as they fill the air. We get up and make our way to the bedroom on the second floor.
Once again I trip, and we end up sprawled on the stair like that scene from the Thomas Crown Affair. Hannibal is above me and I run my fingers through his short, thick hair as we continue to kiss madly. Insanely. He lets out a low growl as my nails scratch his back, drawing blood. He pulls away from me and puts his right arm under my legs, scooping me up into his arms as he goes into the bedroom. He deposits me into the bed and covers my body with his. I cease to think from this moment on.
Afterwards, I lay panting on his chest. We were both trying to catch our breath and Hannibal was tied to the bed with the rope I had used to hold up my pants. He looked so surprised was I looped the rope through the cuffs and around the intricate designs of the headboard. I had sat astride him, feeling him grow harder by the second, and he was oh so deep inside of me. I rode him hard, savoring the feel of him and the expression on his face akin to pain as he came. We climaxed simultaneously.
So here I am, with Clarice lying sprawled across my chest. My, what a……….What?!?!?
Sprawled?!?! My wrists are tied to the damned bed, and she is naked across MY chest?! I note with plenty of surprise that I am nude as well. Then the memories came rushing back to me. First the dinner, then the way she kissed and cuffed me at the same time. The way she callously turned me over to the fucking F…B…I. Finally the car crash and everything that followed.
"Clarice,"
"Hmmm? What?" she was awake now, alert.
"Untie me, please." She did so quickly. I rubbed my chafed wrists as I slid out of bed and put on my clothes.
"Hannibal? Hannibal? What's wrong?" she looked worried.
"So I'm Hannibal now, am I, Special Agent STARling?" I put on the shirt she had worn. God, even now the scent of her could still drive me mad. She grabbed my arm.
"Take your hands off me!" I thundered. It's funny how I couldn't control my rage this time. Perhaps it was the humiliation of being rejected for who I was and embraced for who I wasn't.
"I don't understand…." That was true. She didn't look like she did at all.
"Maybe I should refresh your memory, Special Agent STARling. You turned me in. you kissed me, and then cuffed me. You rejected everything I had offered you. And once I lose my memory, albeit temporarily, you choose to FUCK me. Isn't it a bit too late for that, my dear?" She was starting to cry now. I put on my shoes and walk out the room. I pause by the doorway.
"Ta ta, Clarice." She cries even harder. Her tears rip me apart. But right now, I was too enraged to even do anything. I'm sure she'll live through it. After all, she has the F…B…I.
I was sure I would never see Special Agent Clarice M. Starling again.
But that was five long years ago. Now I sit in my 1956 Jaguar roadster, watching her driveway. I have not heard of her since that fateful day she and I had spent in pure bliss. This is my first time back in the United States as I had fled to Switzerland immediately. Tapping my fingers in time to the beat of Scarlatti, I observe as her dark Mustang comes into view and cruises down the street, parking into her driveway. Ahhh, Clarice. What would be your reaction to seeing me after so long a time? Would you hate me, my love? I know I would.
Her engine shudders to a stop and I watch as she gets out of the car. She is as beautiful as ever. I open my door and cross the street, hiding behind the shadows of an elm. Clarice reaches into her vehicle to pull out two bags of groceries. She sets these down on the hood before closing the door and going over to the other side. She opens the door to retrieve something from inside. More groceries, I assume. But I am wrong.
Out of the car comes a little boy, no more than four years of age. He turns around and I feel an impending heart attack as I see his features more clearly. Beneath that unruly mop of blonde hair, he has Mischa's eyes. Clear as the sky above ocean waves. He stretches, cramped from the ride, reaching towards the heavens. He has six fingers on his left hand. I raise my own to my lips, tracing the scar that runs in between my index and remaining middle finger. Clarice reaches back into her car and hands out a little girl of about the same age. She and the boy must be twins. She looks like a perfectly formed little doll. She also has Clarice's red hair. Her eyes are shut tight as she lets out a yawn. When she opens them, they are of a clear, unblinking Maroon.
"Nicholas," she says as she turns to her brother. "Race you to the door!" letting out a shout of laughter, she bolts. Her brother yells after her, "Alex, wait for me!" the sound of their laughter sends a sharp pain shooting through this fiendish heart of mine. Clarice shook her head, a soft smile on her face as she picks up the groceries and goes up the stairs of the duplex she shares with Agent Mapp.
The children have left their bags behind. I go to them and on the flap of each, written in childish, yet surprisingly clean and legible copperplate, the names Nicholas Sebastien Starling and Alexandra James Starling. I close the bags and retreat to my car, where the tears are beginning to well up. I have not cried for a very long time. But as they begin to flow, I do not know whether they are because of joy or of grief.
*******************************************************************
well, that's all folks! pleases r/r. i know the ending is pretty abrupt and quite fucked, but hey, makes room for a sequel. :) what do you think?
this chapter's title is a song by Placebo. :)
***********************************************************************
these bonds are shackle free,
wrapped in lust and lunacy....
-placebo-
The morning dawned cold and rusty, the sun making its way across a red sky. Several police cars were lined up along a portion of the interstate highway with a large part of its guard railing torn away. A great oak tree was missing some branches and its trunk bore marks that could only have been left by a car crash. Down by the river several officers of the law walked around, puzzling. A tow truck had its cable hooked to some unknown submerged object, and was slowly pulling it out of the murky water. A tall, regal man wearing a dark brown suit, stood with his arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. Beside him an attractive African-American woman was barking out orders into her walkie-talkie. Her navy blue windbreaker had the letters F.B.I. emblazoned on the back. Ardelia Mapp, veteran of many crime scenes was not prepared for the sight that greeted her as the river finally yielded its quarry. She ran towards car, into the river, desperately seeking for some sign of Clarice. She was not rewarded.
Jack Crawford let his head fall and his arms drop wearily to his sides. 'She's gone," he thought to himself. 'Dear God, I know it is wrong for me to ask of you so, but let her be dead instead of her being with that monster.'
Other F.B.I. Agents had joined Mapp around the car as it was finally towed onto dry land. Swarming around the car like ants they yanked the doors open and searched futilely for any signs that the occupants had indeed survived. All they found were the badly mangled corpses of Officers Joshua Carson and Roland Smith. There was no sign of Clarice Starling or Hannibal Lecter, indeed no trace had been found of our couple to even indicate that they had lived or died.
Ardelia Mapp took some comfort in this.
"Well, that's it people. It's official. Nobody could've survived that crash." Jack Crawford declared. He refused to believe anything else.
"But Mister Crawford, what about Clarice?! And Lecter?!" Ardelia could not believe her ears.
"Nobody could have survived, Agent Mapp. Nobody." He said with finality. "Their bodies will turn up in time." Section Chief Jack Crawford made his way slowly up to the highway, where in the safety of his car, he would allow himself the tears he so desperately wished to shed.
Several miles further upstream….
He was sleeping again. It was his turn now, to lay on the large white bed upstairs. I tried to fix us some breakfast. I had changed into a pair of denims the master of the house kept in his closet, tightening the waist with some thick rope. I still wore the white shirt though. It clings loosely to my frame, and I was grateful for that fact, as I wore no brassiere under it. The bacon sizzled as I dropped it in the pan. A couple of minutes later, the eggs were added. As they cooked, I began to wonder how long it was before we were discovered.
Right now, Jack and Ardelia must be going mad with worry. Surely they must have reached the accident site and fished the car out the river. I wonder what they must be thinking. Do they believe me to be dead, or that the doctor has taken me? In a way, the latter holds true, for Hannibal did spirit me away from the scene, but not for the reasons they think they know.
A sound from the stairs distracts me. It is Hannibal. He has woken up from his nap and is coming down the stairs. Belatedly I realize he is still in handcuffs. Somehow though, he has taken his shirt off and he held it in his hands. I concentrate on what I am doing and try not to look at his body.
"Good Morning, Clarice." He drapes the shirt around the back of one of the chairs and starts to set the table. How he does this with such fluid ease, I have no idea, especially in his current state of ahem, *bondage*. I try to sneak a peek at him out of the corner of my eye. Damn, he's out of my field of vision.
"Good Morning, Doctor Lecter." I can't fucking stand it! I turn around to take in his half-naked form. This time, it is MY breath that catches in my throat. His body is well-built for a man his age. Hell, it was well built for a man of any age. No, he did not have six-pack abs, but from what I could see, his muscles were firm and finely toned. A light scattering of graying hair covered the upper part of his chest and his skin was tanned. Hmmm, looks like his time in Florence has done him good.
"Are you alright, Clarice?" he cocked his head to one side, his expression concerned. Too late I realized I had been caught gawking. Blushing furiously, I turned back to the stove, where the eggs were just about overdone. In my haste I accidentally touch the hot metal of the pan, and let out a yelp of pain as it burns me. In a flash, Doctor Lecter is by my side, his cuffed hands on my wrists, trying to pull me away from the heat.
"You really shouldn't be doing any work while you are in your present state, my dear."
He leads me to one of the chair and sets me down. Mentally I flagellate myself for even thinking about him THAT way, and the next thing I notice is him wrapping a cool cloth around my hand.
"That should help ease the swelling," he flashes a brief smile. His eyes are, as of this morning, as unreadable as ever. He presents me with his back as he turns to look after breakfast. By now, the eggs and bacon are hopelessly charred beyond all recognition, and his face expresses his distaste as he scoops up the remains and dumps them in the garbage.
"You know, Hannibal, we really should get you out of those cuffs."
"Oh really now, Clarice? I thought you might have enjoyed seeing me like this." He raises his hands to emphasize. "Perhaps you might have the key?" he adds helpfully as my gaze wanders away from his hands and travels all over his upper body. This time, I could not hide my embarrassment as well as the blush that spreads across my face. I run out of the kitchen, and out of the house.
Starling, you have to get a grip on yourself, girl. The man is a murderer, and he's been declared insane to boot! Okay, so maybe he doesn't remember jack shit at all, but still, that doesn't change anything. Not a damn thing. And he is in there, in that house, in the kitchen, walking around without his fucking shirt. And got be damned girl, you are enjoying every moment of it. What would happen if say, Crawford and company showed up, guns a-blazing? And they will, you know. Would you let them pump bullets into that fine physique? Could you stand to do nothing?
"Fuck it," I say out loud. I go back into the house and in the kitchen where doctor Lecter has finished making breakfast. He has even managed to rustle up some orange juice in addition to the ham, bacon, cheese, and eggs on the original menu. Right now, he was just sitting there, with his back to the door, waiting patiently for me to come in.
"Ah Clarice, I see you are feeling…." He stopped in mid-sentence as I yanked him out of his chair and dragged him outside. Leading him towards a boulder, I lay his hands as well as the cuffs on it and began to pound on the links until they broke.
"Get up," I say to him. He does so and we stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He wasn't much taller than I, and we were so near each other, almost nose to nose that I was breathing the same air as him. He raised his brows as if to say, 'Well what now, Clarice?' I looked away, but he put his thumb and forefinger to my face and gently turned my head back. He bent his head. Make up you mind. His lips were almost touching mine. Decide. We brushed against each other. I could feel his desire pressed against my groin. Make your decision. His arms went around my waist, gripping tightly. In a flash, I knew exactly what I had to do. I pushed him away.
As I started to walk back towards the house, I heard him exhale his frustration before grabbing a hold of my left wrist and jerking me back to slam against his chest. Then he kissed me. Hard. His lips were soft, yet firm and moved expertly across mine.
It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Clarice. My Clarice was kissing me back with all the fire and passion of a woman in love. Love? MY Clarice? These thoughts were soon pushed away by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that came over me. Has this happened before? I was so confused that I quickly broke the kiss.
"Hannibal?" she was looking at me questioningly, beseechingly. Her face had the pinkish tinge that only desire, an intense desire could bring out. I had a feeling that her wants echoed mine. I pull her back and we begin to kiss again, clumsily stumbling back into the cabin, neither one of us willing to relinquish the feel of the other's lips.
I fall over furniture and we crash to the floor. Clarice does not seem to notice, or perhaps she does not care. I suppose I should be concerned about the bruising, but for now, all I can hear is the sound of her breathing and her gentle moaning as they fill the air. We get up and make our way to the bedroom on the second floor.
Once again I trip, and we end up sprawled on the stair like that scene from the Thomas Crown Affair. Hannibal is above me and I run my fingers through his short, thick hair as we continue to kiss madly. Insanely. He lets out a low growl as my nails scratch his back, drawing blood. He pulls away from me and puts his right arm under my legs, scooping me up into his arms as he goes into the bedroom. He deposits me into the bed and covers my body with his. I cease to think from this moment on.
Afterwards, I lay panting on his chest. We were both trying to catch our breath and Hannibal was tied to the bed with the rope I had used to hold up my pants. He looked so surprised was I looped the rope through the cuffs and around the intricate designs of the headboard. I had sat astride him, feeling him grow harder by the second, and he was oh so deep inside of me. I rode him hard, savoring the feel of him and the expression on his face akin to pain as he came. We climaxed simultaneously.
So here I am, with Clarice lying sprawled across my chest. My, what a……….What?!?!?
Sprawled?!?! My wrists are tied to the damned bed, and she is naked across MY chest?! I note with plenty of surprise that I am nude as well. Then the memories came rushing back to me. First the dinner, then the way she kissed and cuffed me at the same time. The way she callously turned me over to the fucking F…B…I. Finally the car crash and everything that followed.
"Clarice,"
"Hmmm? What?" she was awake now, alert.
"Untie me, please." She did so quickly. I rubbed my chafed wrists as I slid out of bed and put on my clothes.
"Hannibal? Hannibal? What's wrong?" she looked worried.
"So I'm Hannibal now, am I, Special Agent STARling?" I put on the shirt she had worn. God, even now the scent of her could still drive me mad. She grabbed my arm.
"Take your hands off me!" I thundered. It's funny how I couldn't control my rage this time. Perhaps it was the humiliation of being rejected for who I was and embraced for who I wasn't.
"I don't understand…." That was true. She didn't look like she did at all.
"Maybe I should refresh your memory, Special Agent STARling. You turned me in. you kissed me, and then cuffed me. You rejected everything I had offered you. And once I lose my memory, albeit temporarily, you choose to FUCK me. Isn't it a bit too late for that, my dear?" She was starting to cry now. I put on my shoes and walk out the room. I pause by the doorway.
"Ta ta, Clarice." She cries even harder. Her tears rip me apart. But right now, I was too enraged to even do anything. I'm sure she'll live through it. After all, she has the F…B…I.
I was sure I would never see Special Agent Clarice M. Starling again.
But that was five long years ago. Now I sit in my 1956 Jaguar roadster, watching her driveway. I have not heard of her since that fateful day she and I had spent in pure bliss. This is my first time back in the United States as I had fled to Switzerland immediately. Tapping my fingers in time to the beat of Scarlatti, I observe as her dark Mustang comes into view and cruises down the street, parking into her driveway. Ahhh, Clarice. What would be your reaction to seeing me after so long a time? Would you hate me, my love? I know I would.
Her engine shudders to a stop and I watch as she gets out of the car. She is as beautiful as ever. I open my door and cross the street, hiding behind the shadows of an elm. Clarice reaches into her vehicle to pull out two bags of groceries. She sets these down on the hood before closing the door and going over to the other side. She opens the door to retrieve something from inside. More groceries, I assume. But I am wrong.
Out of the car comes a little boy, no more than four years of age. He turns around and I feel an impending heart attack as I see his features more clearly. Beneath that unruly mop of blonde hair, he has Mischa's eyes. Clear as the sky above ocean waves. He stretches, cramped from the ride, reaching towards the heavens. He has six fingers on his left hand. I raise my own to my lips, tracing the scar that runs in between my index and remaining middle finger. Clarice reaches back into her car and hands out a little girl of about the same age. She and the boy must be twins. She looks like a perfectly formed little doll. She also has Clarice's red hair. Her eyes are shut tight as she lets out a yawn. When she opens them, they are of a clear, unblinking Maroon.
"Nicholas," she says as she turns to her brother. "Race you to the door!" letting out a shout of laughter, she bolts. Her brother yells after her, "Alex, wait for me!" the sound of their laughter sends a sharp pain shooting through this fiendish heart of mine. Clarice shook her head, a soft smile on her face as she picks up the groceries and goes up the stairs of the duplex she shares with Agent Mapp.
The children have left their bags behind. I go to them and on the flap of each, written in childish, yet surprisingly clean and legible copperplate, the names Nicholas Sebastien Starling and Alexandra James Starling. I close the bags and retreat to my car, where the tears are beginning to well up. I have not cried for a very long time. But as they begin to flow, I do not know whether they are because of joy or of grief.
*******************************************************************
well, that's all folks! pleases r/r. i know the ending is pretty abrupt and quite fucked, but hey, makes room for a sequel. :) what do you think?