*  *  *

Clarice watched the shadowy figure disappear down the steps to the beach below the house.  Still reeling from their explosive union, she fell back against the window seat to wait. 

When he'd come to her tonight, she hadn't known what to expect, but she had been prepared for one of two possible outcomes.  When he'd fallen upon her with the speed of a pouncing tiger, she'd felt her first moment of true fear.  Through every perilous raid she'd led over the years, never once had terror struck her as it had in that single moment tonight. 

With strength borne on a tsunami of adrenaline, she'd wrested herself from beneath his weight and pinned him beneath her, intending to reach for the kitchen knife secreted under the mattress, but he hadn't struggled, and his quietude had unsettled her resolve.  He'd felt good under her legs.  His eyes had gleamed in the dark, and she'd fallen into him, straddled him, undulating in a powerful rhythm, the earthy scent of wantonness matching the tide of passion burgeoning within her, and any resentment of him and what he'd done to her had melted into the pool of heat overtaking her everything.

Cold now, Clarice shifted her seat and peered out the window, seeking a trace of him.  She smiled a little.  Hannibal Lecter.  I must be out of my mind. 

She'd spent every waking moment of the last twenty-four hours deliberating over her predicament, only to realize that this was the most interesting she had ever been in her whole damned life!  He was right all those years ago, when he'd so nonchalantly proclaimed her to be "so ambitious."  She was.  Clarice Starling wanted to be someone special.  She wanted a place in the world that was uniquely her own, a distinguished existence.  She hadn't found it wearing the white hat—she was ready to try the black.

She'd spent the whole day wandering around the house.  Forays into the library and his bedroom revealed that the house was, surprisingly, his.  Books on every subject, from art to science, from history to religion, were strewn across every flat surface, and most were annotated in his very distinguishable handwriting.  There were books so old she feared for their preservation in her curious hands.  In his bedroom, closets and drawers bearing clothing of the finest hand all shared his rich scent.

She'd watched the views from every window, and wondered at which were his favorites.  She'd wondered which views he'd enjoyed over the years while she'd been cooped up in the back of a smelly van, or shivering in the cold, dark of an old warehouse, or staring at the sick, gray walls of Quantico—or down the barrel of a gun.  While she'd wasted away, diligently pursuing the dream of a livelihood with meaning, a job where she could make a difference, he'd been here, in sunshine and glory. 

Leaning her head back against the wall, Clarice fervently wished that she could turn back time, and regain those lost years.  She'd missed out.  There was little solace in the thought that she had never really known what she was missing all those years, she knew now, and sadness overwhelmed her.  Maybe she should have listened to Ardelia.  She'd had more than a few opportunities to establish a relationship, though she had a suspicion that no other man would have made her feel this way. 

She would have him then.  He already wanted her, now she had to make him need her—alive.

*  *  *

Lecter trod through the back door at the precise moment that Starling entered the kitchen wielding a large butcher knife.  They each stopped in their respective doorways.  Clarice moved first, in just such a way as to promote ambiguity in her intent.  Pride and regret waged a strange battle in her at the look of uncertainty that flitted briefly across Lecter's face before his features were, once again, schooled into five card stud perfection. 

There was a gentle clink as she set the knife in the sink, and turned to face him.

There she stood, vulnerable—and beautiful—to him.  Caution tempered his urge to touch her, but it did not keep him from approaching her, keeping a keen eye on her reaction.  It required the greatest of effort on his part not to flinch when she reached out to him, only to cup a hand around his head, pulling him in for the first kiss she ever initiated between them.  Their locked gazes remained unbroken as her lips grazed his softly, pulled away slightly, a breath between them, then another meeting of lips, deeper, and frighteningly satisfying.  It was she who broke away, and said:

"I consider it an unspeakable discourtesy for you to share my bed only during sex.  It leaves me unsatisfied.  I expect you to correct your distasteful habit.  Hannibal."

A stare.  A blink. 

A small smile, and a nod:  "As you wish, Clarice.  Shall we?"  He bowed slightly, gesturing to the door with one elegant wave of his hand.

"I think not.  It's almost day, and I would like some coffee," she said, fighting to keep the tremors from her voice.

He watched her a moment, eyes slightly narrowed, and she fought the urge to run.  Just when she feared she'd uttered her death sentence, he turned and set about brewing a pot, saying:  "Why don't we breakfast altogether?  I'll bring a tray to the morning room, if that is suitable to you?"

"It's still dark.  I'd prefer the library, if you don't mind."  Clarice was glad he kept his back to her during the long silence that followed.  At last he turned, and answered equably:

"I don't mind at all, Clarice."  His drawn enunciation of her name was reminiscent of their earliest days together, all those years ago, and his look was one of understanding.  Clarice shored up her courage, determined to see this through.  Her life depended on it.  Both their lives did.