Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters portrayed within this story, though I confess to an unnatural possessiveness of dear Dr. Lecter. They all belong to Thomas Harris. I am only borrowing them for the time being. This is after the movie, not the book, just for clarifications sake. No memory palace, no Mischa. But I may borrow details from the book that aren't in the movie, so I hope nothing's confusing. There. Think I'm done talking now. Read on! ^.^



1

There was once a time when running brought her a feeling of serenity. The sound of her own feet slapping against pavement was more calming than any amount of meditation, and more rejuvenating than a weekend at a health spa. Well almost, anyway. Now as she pounded down the street, all she could hear was his voice, echoing with every footfall.

I came halfway around the world just to see you run.

"Damn it," Clarice Starling muttered as she eased to a halt, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her temples. After only having gone about half a mile, she turned to go straight back home, keeping her pace at a slow walk to try and avoid those words from returning to her head.

**********

"It's only been one fucking year, Starling. Of course you're still freaked out," Ardelia said to her friend, with a pointed jab of her fork towards the ceiling. "He was Hannibal Lecter, probably the most feared and well known criminal in the history of the United States. You were being held prisoner, which would have been perfectly bad enough if you weren't running the risk of turning into hors doeurves."

Clarice just nodded vaguely as she focused on the careful French-braiding of Ardelia's thick hair. With them both in their pajamas, and the remains of several courses containing mostly sugar, the evening had taken on a pleasurable sleepover sort of a quality. It seemed that, for once, she might be able to have a comfortable evening without ending up dwelling on the events of twelve months ago. Then Mapp had to go and ask how her jog had been earlier that day, and things had gone downhill from there.

Ardelia, though admittedly not the most observant of people most of the time, could not help but interpret the silence behind her. Very well, a change of topic seemed in order, and thought it didn't seem completely congruent to the situation, she decided it time to bring up a topic that she'd been thinking on for a good deal of time.

"You know, Starling. It might help if..." Mapp paused, as she considered carefully the phrasing to use. It was a delicate subject, after all. "You got out more. Maybe... met some people?"

"I don't need a blind date, Mapp," Clarice replied, with a good-natured tug to her friend's hair before fastening the whole thing with an elastic band. "Or any date, for that matter."

"But this guy is perfect for you, Starling, really. I met him at the gym. He's attractive, clean-shaven, polite, and a brain surgeon... so he must be smart... and from what I've seen at the gym he had a more than adequate bundle in his shorts."

Clarice couldn't help but laugh at that last line, delivered so primly, and gave a light smack to the back of Ardelia's head. "Bad Mapp. More cheesecake?"

Still, as she sliced the last cheesecake clean down the middle (one half for each of them), she remembered Dr. Lecter popping the top of Agent Krendler's head off, and wondered if this blind date that Mapp so badly wanted her to go with had ever done that. Popped open someone's skull.

**********

1 'Jesus,' Clarice found herself thinking as she shook Dr. Gregory Smythe's hand. 'How the hell did I get talked into this one.' On the outside she put on a cheerful smile, and tried to remember just exactly how one was supposed to play this dating game.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Smythe. I'm Clarice Starling."

"Of course, of course. I recognized you immediately... the gunpowder beauty mark on your cheek. Miss Mapp has mentioned it before," the brain surgeon replied, with a warm smile. "And please, call me Greg. Shall we?"

Clarice found herself analyzing this man as he followed her into the restaurant that was to be the setting of their date. He was good-looking, as Ardelia said. Reminded her of Johnny Brigham somehow.

The baby blanket flutters, she sees Brigham hitting the ground, his facemask filling with blood.

She gave a firm shake of her head to quell those images, and determined in that moment that she was going to have a pleasant evening, and not think again of anything that happened in the past six months. No Evelda, no shootout, no Krendler... and definitely no Lecter.

**********

It was well past two in the morning by the time she was delivered home by the courteous Greg. She felt light-hearted, as she hadn't in a long time. The good-night kiss that he gave her was brief and sweet, and when he'd gone she danced briefly around the house to express her pleasure at freeing herself, if only for a night.

'Only a night for now,' she corrected the thought, knowing it would get continually easier for her. She knew that the lightness in her spirit would continue to grow, until she was floating above the clouds again. She would be able to do real work at the FBI again, not merely a mole that they sent on errands.

Ardelia was right. This was the beginning of a new life, she could tell.

Of course, it wasn't long before she collapsed face first onto her bed, the champagne finally getting the better of her.

She didn't dream.

**********

A year had passed since the last time he saw her, but for in his memory. Even that was unreliable, as memories fade. Get fuzzy. Get dull. The only thing that remained perfectly sharp in his mind was her smell, the scents that had associated themselves with Agent Starling in his mind. That was quite enough to sustain him, too, for it wouldn't do to get himself incarcerated again. Not after all these years of remembering how exquisite freedom felt.

But this was a very special occasion. It was nearing the anniversary of Paul Krendler's death, Clarice Starling's introduction to fine cuisine, and the loss of his hand to save his life. More importantly, it was to be the anniversary of their last meeting. Indeed, a very special occasion, one that he could not, in good conscience, leave unrecognized.

He played the piano while he considered this, his fingers effortlessly picking out the notes of songs that he composed over the years he spent in retirement in beautiful Florence. The music always helped him think, and such an important thing this was to debate. There were risks, terrible risks.

Such as - Would she prefer the almond hand cream as a present, or the ginger?





*Please R&R! It would make me so happy... let me know if it's good enough to continue with. I'm having a lovely time writing it.*