In spite of Dr. Lecter's direction, Starling remained
relatively alert on the way home. Though she didn't offer much conversation,
she answered politely to whatever he asked. For the most part, however,
attempts at lengthy dialogue were rejected. Her captor didn't appear
discouraged at her reluctance, rather agreeable and pleasant.
Starling found it was becoming difficult to hate him,
and that thought frightened her. Her mind raced to the note left frantically on
the bathroom wall of their previous stop. Doubt clouded her mind. With the whimsical toss of their attire, she
felt it unlikely they were spotted. The few security cameras that aligned the
museums were carefully avoided. It was to her disadvantage that she was in the
grasp of an experienced, intelligent fugitive, careful to a fault. He was too
cautious to slip from fortitude, too
observant to miss anything.
Well, she thought with
some satisfaction. Almost.
Still, the message left encrypted was in English, and incomplete. All she could do was wait and hope.
Sourly, Starling noted the lack of adequate surveillance, despite the regulations she set.
When the cat's away, she thought glumly.
Dr. Lecter shook her from her reverie, speaking suddenly. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, Clarice. I can understand if museums don't intrigue you. Your upbringing was rather primitive, I gather."
That would have hurt had it come from anyone else. However, Starling was used to it; prepared.
When she opened her mouth to reply, she dejectedly caught the lack of coldness in her voice, yet made no attempt to reset herself. It was obvious it had little affect on him, and she rather not waste the effort. "It was interesting, Dr. Lecter."
"Interesting?"
"I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, if that's what you're asking."
A spark of amusement flickered behind his eyes. "Hmm…I would love to enlighten you. Though I admit I have visited more compelling attractions, it was mildly entertaining. Perhaps we'll visit Rome someday, Clarice. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Starling froze as the color drained from her face. For a minute, she forgot to breathe. Had she heard correctly? She thought so. Did he intend *never* to release her? How long did he think that would last before she ultimately forced him to end her life?
There were other things she could do. She could cause a scene in public, stir up some unwanted attention. That caused her to pause and consider. Why had she refrained from it that afternoon? It was the perfect opportunity, yet failed to cross her mind.
Because, she told
herself, on some level, you don't want to be rescued. Only to return to that
land of traitors and people who do little more than talk behind your back?
Here, at least, you can be yourself.
Still, that was easily settled. Once rescued, she would hand in her resignation. Simple as that.
Only, Agent Starling, you
don't want to be rescued at *all*, do you? You're enjoying yourself here, even
if you don't want to admit it. Perversely, of course. You don't want to be
taken from this.
No! Starling gave her head a furious shake, banishing that thought hurriedly. The motion captured Dr. Lecter's attention, but she didn't gratify him a responsive glance.
Her mind refused to grant her
appeal. You were glad when the lipstick broke, weren't you? Overall
discouraged, but that covered something else, didn't it? Relief. Can't you
admit that?
NO!
"Clarice? Are you all right?"
"Fine!" she barked in quick reply. "Perfectly fine."
Though she wasn't looking at him, she felt his smile, and it drove her insane.
"Sure?" he inquired with keen interest.
"Positive."
Though he did not offer further comment, Starling knew he was amused. Sighing in aggravation, she turned again to her window, trying desperately to focus on another matter.
The rest of the trip carried through in silence.
* * *
Starling felt a rush of excitement when Dr. Lecter announced he would be cooking again. Though she knew alternative means of nourishment were temporarily restricted, it never occurred it her that he would personally prepare supper for her. Of course, she should have known. Despite the conditions, he was the perfect gentlemen, and wanted to be sure she was as comfortable as possible.
The thought was upon her that she no longer considered herself a prisoner. On some level, she never had. Were prisoners given liberty, near absolute trust, fed top-notch food, and provided day-trips to town? When Dr. Lecter first abducted her, he made a whimsical reference to a fictional Fugitive's Handbook. In the Hostage's Instruction Guide, she couldn't recall the suggestions of comfort.
She could, however, remember reading about the Stockholm Syndrome, and *that* thought terrified her. Not because of the possibility, rather the implication.
At seven o'clock, Dr. Lecter suggested she might slip into one of the evening gowns he placed in her closet. Though Starling didn't want anything too revealing or evocative, she decided to abide. Fighting was useless. Besides, she was in the mindset to agree with anything at the moment. As long as it kept him preoccupied, she would oblige.
The dress she selected was beautiful. Dr. Lecter left her no other option than to look stunning. It was wine-red and sleeveless, of lady-like-length, though she suspected that was more for her benefit than his.
When she entered the dining room, Dr. Lecter stopped abruptly, carrying a covered tray. Starling felt herself crimson, almost by instinct. The awkwardness didn't last long. He cleared his throat professionally before placing the serving dish on the decorative table.
Letting out an anxious breath, Starling hated to admit her nerves were bouncing in every which direction. She bolted for her seat before he could look at her again.
The centerpiece was large and lovely, but low enough not to block their line of vision.
"First course, Clarice?"
She cocked her head as though considering. "Umm…sure."
Stopping as he lifted the tray-cover, he arched a brow. "Was that a yes or a no, Agent Starling?"
"All right! Whatever. Just…"
"Just…?"
Starling sighed in annoyance and sat back. "Just serve."
The expression on Dr. Lecter's face emerged from unreadable. With a smile, he scooped a healthy helping onto her plate. Sensing his love of patience, she refrained from reaching for her fork. He poured her a glass of wine as she folded her napkin into her lap.
It looked delicious.
Starling studied the wine after he withdrew, returning to the other end of the table. "What is this?" she asked.
"Chateau D'Yquem. A favored brand. You'll enjoy it."
Shrugging, she set the glass down and waited for him to situate. Something rumbled within her stomach, but she didn't think it was hunger. No, something else.
Raising his glass, Dr. Lecter offered a pleasant smile. "A toast, Clarice?"
If you say to 'absent friends,' I'm leaving. I've seen this movie before, Starling thought dryly.
"A toast…I suppose." She lifted her glass.
"To beginnings, would you say? Is that accurate?"
Starling's gaze darkened. "Beginnings to what, Dr. Lecter?"
In response, he offered an innocent shrug. "I suppose we'll have to see. That's up to you, really."
She swallowed hard. "Up to me?" Without drinking, she set the wine down. "Dr. Lecter…whatever you're thinking, please stop."
"Certainly. I won't discuss it further, that is, without your consent." There was a teasing tone to the end of his voice, and again, anger flustered within her. He was insufferable.
A few minutes of uncomfortable silence. Starling drank her wine quickly, keeping her eyes on Dr. Lecter all the while. Though his gaze remained focused on his meal, she sensed he was watching her through other means. That man could see anything. She didn't want to blink, lest she miss something.
Idle chitchat all through the main course. Nothing to write down in her diary.
As Dr. Lecter rolled out the desert, Starling drew in a breath of courage. There was one area she felt she had avoided, well, in her rational state. Something she had to know. Given her tormented thoughts throughout the previous evening and that day, even after her treacherous message on the bathroom stall, it had become a sensitive concern. She feared she was losing something that was owed at least an attempt to be saved.
Bravado pulsing through her, she raised her voice when he was beside her, handing her something that looked delectable. "Dr. Lecter…how long are you planning to keep me here?"
For a minute, she feared he wouldn't respond. After all, there was no reason to. She had asked the question before and wasn't gratified an answer. He had what he wanted, and that was all that mattered to him. However, in the course of the past twenty-four hours, she had emerged from that state of irrational cloudiness.
Still, he managed to surprise her. In a tone that was agreeable and soft, he replied, "As long as it takes."
A fleeting rush of hope struck her. "As long as what takes?"
"For you to see what they were doing to you. Eat up, Clarice."
Ignoring his instruction, Starling pressed forward as he moved away, presumably to reclaim his seat. "I saw, Dr. Lecter. I've seen. I've already made up my mind to resign. Please?"
Sitting, Dr. Lecter repositioned his napkin in his lap. "Fed up with my company, already? And to think…after all we've been through together."
She let out a trembling breath, choosing not to think about that. "What more do you want? I told you I've seen—"
"Clarice."
"Dr. Lecter!"
"Clarice," he repeated, his eyes steady on her, imploring hers with explanation. Then she understood. The answer was on his voice, unspoken, the answer she was dreading. The answer she had to hear. Something about it being implicit but seen in his gaze made it all the more difficult to grasp, to accept.
He was keeping her here until she broke, and not just from the Bureau. Until she was his completely. Until he had *everything* he wanted.
That thought enraged her.
"Eat your desert, Clarice," he said softly, more of a demand than a request.
Visibly quivering with anger, Starling looked up, her eyes reflecting fire. "I don't want any." Her voice shook with the tremors of her body, dripping with her hatred, her confusion, her raw anger. The emotions that she was unable to control, and wouldn't, should she be so talented.
Dr. Lecter tilted his head at her, unaffected by her coldness. "I made it just for you."
That broke her. It was nothing definite or provocative, but all in the same, it caused her patience to fold. In a swift motion, she was on her feet, slamming her napkin onto the table as her fists followed, making the wooden frame shake. "You can't do this!" she screamed. "You can't hold me here prisoner and *force* me to love you!"
A long silence settled as her outburst died down the corridor. Starling found herself locked in a staring contest with Dr. Lecter but refused to look away. Something significant sparked behind his eyes, though he didn't speak.
She felt a wave of self-consciousness flush over her, followed predictably with remorse. However, she couldn't let him see this. Just as he, she was strong willed and stubborn. Nothing won with ease, and admittance into an apology would take much coaxing, even if she knew her wrong.
Then suddenly, it broke. The next thing she was aware of, Starling was pressed against the far wall, her wrists held over her head with his left hand, a pressure at her neck. Though the touch was unthreatening, she recognized something dangerous in his eyes, something she had never before seen. Was this the last thing his victims saw? This contempt for those who pushed him to limits never before treaded? Starling swallowed an alarmed breath and tried desperately not to let her fear reveal itself.
He spoke, then, voice husky and perilous. His words chilled her. The pressure at her neck didn't relinquish or tighten, but the implied danger was enough to make her wet herself.
"Do you realize how easy it would be for me, Clarice? The slightest pinch, held accurately, and you would never again have reason to worry of your duties, what I might steal from you. What you might *allow* me to steal." For the briefest minute, the grip on her neck constricted, as though he really would go through with it. Starling closed her eyes, unwilling to look at the fire behind his any longer. She wanted to choke a sob, but dared not flex for the world.
Then, as rapidly as it came, his outrage withdrew. The hold relinquished, though he didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers ran soft strokes over her reddened skin, as if to soothe. When Dr. Lecter spoke again, his tone was equally passive. "But I won't," he said, breath hot on her face. "You know that, you've always known that. Just remember not to take my good graces for granted, Clarice. You're better to remember yourself."
Before she could open her eyes, or even summon for her voice, he was gone, the warm shield vanished – allowing her to be hit with a wave of cold air. Starling breathed harshly, her arms remaining over her head, as though not having registered that his grip no longer held them.
It took a minute to collect herself. Dr. Lecter did not look at her as he left the room, pushing the cart that held their dishes into the kitchen.
Starling remained immobile longer than she wanted to admit. Heart still pounding furiously, she trembled as she forced herself from the wall. By the time she made it to the table, she was fighting for balance, clutching to the head of a chair. She was thankful when he opted not to reenter, not wanting him to see how badly he shook her, though on some level she knew it was too late.
Strength gathered after a few minutes and she felt stable to walk again. When her legs didn't betray her, she ran to her room and slammed the door shut.
* * *
An hour later, Starling sat on the carpet in the larger parlor, having retrieved a glass of wine for herself. The dress was gone, replaced now with the white tank top she wore earlier and pajama pants. She watched the fire play in the darkness, lost in the voidance of her forbidden thoughts. A tightening grasped her neck, but she wasn't alarmed, or even angry. After what she said, after the outburst caused by her carelessness, it was almost justifiable.
In his terms, anyway.
Starling was terribly afraid she was getting used to this, even after only two days. Without the morphine or the possibility of phoning for assistance, Dr. Lecter was a difficult one to battle. There was no choice but to listen, or watch. What she had seen here did not suggest savageness. Well, everything but that outburst in the dining room.
The fire flickered as Dr. Lecter entered the room. Starling's head tilted but she didn't look to him. Something that resembled shyness overcame her, as well as shame. He sat in a chair across from her.
They said nothing for a minute.
Finally, Starling drew in a breath and placed her wine on the coffee table. "Dr. Lecter…" she said softly. "I want to apologize—"
"No need, Clarice," he excused, his gaze intent on her neck, studying the bruise he left. "I'm sorry I hurt you."
She shook her head, subconsciously reaching to touch the soreness at her throat. "It doesn't hurt," she assured him. That was mostly the truth. The physical wound didn't register; the implication of what caused it could have killed her. "Not as much as my stomach, anyway."
Where had that last part come from? Oh yes. The pain she had ignored for two days, the one caused by his Harpy at the warehouse. She wondered why it should occur to her to mention that. To tease the guilt?
She hoped it had gone unnoticed. For some reason, causing him blame right now felt dirty and unsportsmanlike. It seemed to vacate her head that she was here against her will, being denied her freedom.
"Your stomach, Clarice?"
"Dr. Lecter," she intervened, hoping to send him off course. "Let me go."
"Your stomach?" he repeated, bluntly dismissing her request.
"It's nothing."
"Clarice." His voice coaxed her eyes to meet his, and she found herself trapped, unable to look away, unable to defer with another question, unable to do anything but respond.
Slowly, her hand traveled to the hem of her tank and curled it in her fingers. "When you abducted me…that Harpy left quite the impression."
Dr. Lecter's eyes widened as he sat forward, coming from his chair to her on the carpet. "Let me see," he insisted softly.
"It's not necessary—"
"Let me see."
Knowing there was no other option, Starling extended the fabric to his reach in silent concede. Slowly, she felt the material slide up her abdomen, baring her stomach to him. There was a welt there, a rather large one. She heard Dr. Lecter breathe a guilty sigh, his fingers brushing the wound slightly, making her flinch, though not in pain.
"Oh, Clarice," he said with a sigh. "Wait here. I'll be back."
Before she could reply, he was to his feet, walking briskly to the kitchen. When he returned, he held a moistened washcloth and some lotion. Coming once again to her side, he gently applied the rag on the swelling. The feeling was cool, but overall unneeded. Whatever pain was there failed to register, though Starling held the hem up for him anyway, knowing he would allow no differently. When finished, he turned and lathered the lotion into his hands lightly before rubbing it into her skin.
The sensation was heavenly.
"Dr. Lecter, this isn't necessary."
"It is," he argued gently. "This shouldn't have happened. You have an…" He looked up to savor the affect of his words on her face, "uncanny effect on me."
Starling released a trembling breath, wanting to run, wanting to flee, wanting to be anywhere but here. Something within her stirred once more, something dark and forbidden. His eyes locked hers and held them there for a minute, the soft caresses at her stomach continuing. Then, slowly as though he were unaware of his acts, Dr. Lecter's eyes dropped to study his healing tough before allowing his head to follow.
Something primitive escaped her lips as she felt him run his tongue over the irritated patch of skin. She yearned to fight it; yearned to beat against him, to scream and find the part of herself he was taking. The part she could rely on.
But she didn't *really* want to.
Slowly, Dr. Lecter's lips traveled upward, skating over her trembling form. Up her neck, to either side of her eyes, until he was looking at her, breathing raggedly at his own exertions.
"Dr. Lecter," she whispered, breath quivering as she watched the fireplace lighting align his features. His arms suddenly came to grip her waist, pulling her to him with sharpness. Her hands moved to his arms, initially to push him away, but she couldn't find the strength.
How could she escape? Ask him to stop? No…he might kill her for that, for going back on her word. His eyes traced hers, ablaze with something unspeakable. Desperately, she forced those thoughts away, not wanting to consider, lest she change her mind.
What could she say in place of stop? The word tumbled from her mouth, intention plain. "Please…"
In the minute that followed, she wondered if he understood the nature of her statement, then remembered exactly whom she was dealing with. This man misconstrued nothing – there were just some requests he chose to ignore.
Even if they came from her.
Before she could breathe another word, he sealed the space between them, hungry mouth drinking her in. At first, she was motionless, not able to do anything but sit there and take it. However, once Starling felt herself respond, she knew she was unable to do anything to stop him. The feel of his lips on hers promptly drained all fight from her, all reason to dispute. With the taste of him in her mouth, she experienced a rush of heat to hear him moan into her. A moan she provoked.
The hands at his arms went to his face by instinct, pulling him closer to her, savoring the response he gave. What had she done to deserve this? Nothing that she remembered. Yet here she was, being consumed alive by this person, by this man who was supposed to be her enemy, and stopping was the last thing on her mind.
At least at first.
Suddenly, the initials of the FBI were with her, flashing her closed eyes. She saw herself, who she was and what she allegedly stood for. Clarice Starling, Special Agent. Not anymore. But could she really forfeit everything her name brought with it? The morals, the ethics, those things she built herself on?
Her hands left his face immediately, retracting once again to grip his forearms as she cried out and forcefully pushed him away. Likewise, she fell back, breathing hard as she shook her head. She was a captive, here against her will. Despite everything, she couldn't forget that.
Nor could she forget whom she was with.
Trembling, her eyes met Dr. Lecter's, fiery once more. He would have let her, too. Let her ruin herself all for him. And she was close. So close. The taste of him was still in her mouth. It ran bittersweet.
When she parted her lips to speak, she recognized her familiar tone, the anger in her voice. "Dr. Lecter…" she breathed harshly. "What have you done to me? What *would* you do to me if I let you?" The vindication on her voice was both tormenting and empty. It was hard to know what she meant by it, even for her.
Nothing but a gaze in response. His breathing leveled again, his control reclaimed. Eyes still cold, Starling fought to her feet. She exerted another breath, then turned and left him in the darkness.
It wasn't until she was gone that Dr. Lecter uttered his reply. "Hmm…likewise, Clarice, likewise."
Similarly, what he referred to remained safely indefinite.
* * *