disclaimer: not mine.
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" Each one stands alone on the earth's surface. Hit by sunlight. And it's already night."
-Genghis Khan-
Hannibal Lecter slips the harpy back into his pocket, and his body relaxes a little. In some part of his subconscious, he acknowledges the tension that gripped him when he looked at the young woman fully. She remains passive, body at ease, but still poised in an almost indiscernible attack crouch.
He takes a step forward. She does not move. He takes another step. She concedes in this battle of bluffs and they walk towards the restaurant together, two silent figures dressed in black, each confused, if a little intrigued by the other.
The lamplight illuminates these two. They stand, frozen in time, engulfed by the light amidst a shower of raindrops. He turns around and grasps her by her upper arms, pinioning them to her body. She is unable to move. We see the scar that runs between the third and fourth finger of his left hand clearly now. He looks up at her, and she tilts her head slightly to look deep into his eyes. At five feet nine, Angelus Antoine is a couple of inches taller than her father. She has her mother's aristocratic features. Her straight and proud roman nose, the shape of her face, the long slender neck, the full, almost pouting lips and even the natural tallness of Marie Jacqueline Antoine, Comtesse de Valois.
She has her father's eyes, however. As well as his spirit and intellect. They share the same poise, grace, and fluidity of movement. He lets go of her arms and takes her hands in his. He studies them intently.
They are identical in every aspect.
Their hands, skilful in the ways of art and murder, stained with the blood of so many, purified by the cleansing rain.
Flesh against flesh.
White on white.
One.
And the same.
Maroon eyes lock onto each other; a confession is made and accepted. A lie twenty-seven years in the making is brought to light, here in the darkened Piazza in the midst of a rainstorm, father and daughter communicate without words. Water drips down the tips of their finely carved noses and falls to the ground, seeping into the cracks and into the damp earth beneath the cobblestones. Hair now plastered close to their skulls. Coats drenched.
Before he releases her hands, he says to her, "A good evening to you."
Her answer; "Likewise."
Clarice Starling looks up just in time to see Hannibal Lecter enter the restaurant. There is a strange light in his eyes. One she has never seen before. He takes a seat far away from her table, but they are still able to see one another, unhindered by the other diners. His body language tells her to stay put, and that he does not wish to be disturbed. He is a man with a lot on his mind. Clarice has not encountered him in this state.
She does not notice Angelus, who has quietly pulled out her chair and taken a seat until the other woman makes apologies for her absence. Angelus finishes her wine. Her clothes are perfectly dry although her normally soft blonde hair is soaked thoroughly, making damp spots on her suit jacket. There is perhaps a dark stain on the right sleeve that did not come from the rain.
Their food is served, and Clarice and Dominique dig in heartily, but Angelus chooses to stare at it blankly, not noticing the delicious aroma wafting towards her nostrils. Clarice glances over at Hannibal. He has ordered the same wine Angelus chose to go with his meal, but right now, he is looking over at their table. She is unable to discern whether he is studying her or Angelus. They both have that same blank look on their faces, blind and unseeing.
At this exact moment, all the pieces come together in Clarice's head. She finally puts two and two together. Doctors. Match. Copperplate script. Match. Aristocrats. Match. Maroon eyes. Match. Murder. Match. For the first time she notices that Angelus' hands, which are clenched together at her side are identical with her beloveds. Match. They have the same hands, save for the scar that adorns Lecter's left. Match. Match. Match.
Oh My God. It is the first thought that races through her brain. She forces herself to calm down, act as if nothing of any importance is happening. There is plenty of time for answers later. Dominique Montero is asking her a question.
Her mouth has suddenly gone dry, feels that everything is being taken apart in her body, feels she contains nothing but smoke. The emptiness creating a hollow chasm inside the depths of her rational mind. Angelus stands up suddenly, without even excusing herself. Extremely uncharacteristic for someone with her impeccable manners and strict Roman Catholic upbringing.
Clarice fears that the two of them have gone out of their minds. Angelus. Hannibal. She watches as the tall and formerly graceful figure stumbles out the restaurant and into the rain, taking her coat. Without any semblance to her previous finesse. She acts like a woman possessed. Clarice notices that Angelus has left the keys to her Ferrari on their table. She reaches out for them but is restrained by Dominique, who shakes her head slowly.
"Clarice, I do not know what is going on, but I think that under the current circumstances, you had better let me drive."
Mutely, she agrees. Her strength has left her, and she is too tired to argue a moot point. It's strange how your whole life can change in that one moment you let your guard down. And how it happens when you least expect it. She will not talk to Hannibal about this. It is something to be settled between he and Angelus.
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" Each one stands alone on the earth's surface. Hit by sunlight. And it's already night."
-Genghis Khan-
Hannibal Lecter slips the harpy back into his pocket, and his body relaxes a little. In some part of his subconscious, he acknowledges the tension that gripped him when he looked at the young woman fully. She remains passive, body at ease, but still poised in an almost indiscernible attack crouch.
He takes a step forward. She does not move. He takes another step. She concedes in this battle of bluffs and they walk towards the restaurant together, two silent figures dressed in black, each confused, if a little intrigued by the other.
The lamplight illuminates these two. They stand, frozen in time, engulfed by the light amidst a shower of raindrops. He turns around and grasps her by her upper arms, pinioning them to her body. She is unable to move. We see the scar that runs between the third and fourth finger of his left hand clearly now. He looks up at her, and she tilts her head slightly to look deep into his eyes. At five feet nine, Angelus Antoine is a couple of inches taller than her father. She has her mother's aristocratic features. Her straight and proud roman nose, the shape of her face, the long slender neck, the full, almost pouting lips and even the natural tallness of Marie Jacqueline Antoine, Comtesse de Valois.
She has her father's eyes, however. As well as his spirit and intellect. They share the same poise, grace, and fluidity of movement. He lets go of her arms and takes her hands in his. He studies them intently.
They are identical in every aspect.
Their hands, skilful in the ways of art and murder, stained with the blood of so many, purified by the cleansing rain.
Flesh against flesh.
White on white.
One.
And the same.
Maroon eyes lock onto each other; a confession is made and accepted. A lie twenty-seven years in the making is brought to light, here in the darkened Piazza in the midst of a rainstorm, father and daughter communicate without words. Water drips down the tips of their finely carved noses and falls to the ground, seeping into the cracks and into the damp earth beneath the cobblestones. Hair now plastered close to their skulls. Coats drenched.
Before he releases her hands, he says to her, "A good evening to you."
Her answer; "Likewise."
Clarice Starling looks up just in time to see Hannibal Lecter enter the restaurant. There is a strange light in his eyes. One she has never seen before. He takes a seat far away from her table, but they are still able to see one another, unhindered by the other diners. His body language tells her to stay put, and that he does not wish to be disturbed. He is a man with a lot on his mind. Clarice has not encountered him in this state.
She does not notice Angelus, who has quietly pulled out her chair and taken a seat until the other woman makes apologies for her absence. Angelus finishes her wine. Her clothes are perfectly dry although her normally soft blonde hair is soaked thoroughly, making damp spots on her suit jacket. There is perhaps a dark stain on the right sleeve that did not come from the rain.
Their food is served, and Clarice and Dominique dig in heartily, but Angelus chooses to stare at it blankly, not noticing the delicious aroma wafting towards her nostrils. Clarice glances over at Hannibal. He has ordered the same wine Angelus chose to go with his meal, but right now, he is looking over at their table. She is unable to discern whether he is studying her or Angelus. They both have that same blank look on their faces, blind and unseeing.
At this exact moment, all the pieces come together in Clarice's head. She finally puts two and two together. Doctors. Match. Copperplate script. Match. Aristocrats. Match. Maroon eyes. Match. Murder. Match. For the first time she notices that Angelus' hands, which are clenched together at her side are identical with her beloveds. Match. They have the same hands, save for the scar that adorns Lecter's left. Match. Match. Match.
Oh My God. It is the first thought that races through her brain. She forces herself to calm down, act as if nothing of any importance is happening. There is plenty of time for answers later. Dominique Montero is asking her a question.
Her mouth has suddenly gone dry, feels that everything is being taken apart in her body, feels she contains nothing but smoke. The emptiness creating a hollow chasm inside the depths of her rational mind. Angelus stands up suddenly, without even excusing herself. Extremely uncharacteristic for someone with her impeccable manners and strict Roman Catholic upbringing.
Clarice fears that the two of them have gone out of their minds. Angelus. Hannibal. She watches as the tall and formerly graceful figure stumbles out the restaurant and into the rain, taking her coat. Without any semblance to her previous finesse. She acts like a woman possessed. Clarice notices that Angelus has left the keys to her Ferrari on their table. She reaches out for them but is restrained by Dominique, who shakes her head slowly.
"Clarice, I do not know what is going on, but I think that under the current circumstances, you had better let me drive."
Mutely, she agrees. Her strength has left her, and she is too tired to argue a moot point. It's strange how your whole life can change in that one moment you let your guard down. And how it happens when you least expect it. She will not talk to Hannibal about this. It is something to be settled between he and Angelus.