A/N: This takes place after the events in Hannibal. Clarice has been having
a hard time over what happened, and receives a nighttime visit. Very sappy,
forgive me, I'm in a lovey mood. Please review, it would be greatly
appreciated and responsible of you. Now, enough stalling, onto the story!
For the third time that day, Clarice cried.
It had been only two months since the disaster at Muskrat Farm, and still Clarice was tormented. In her dreams, the sound of the cleaver and the clang of cuffs rang throughout her ears and roused her constantly during sleep. She was, however, grateful to be free of the FBI, at last. After her reckless decision to go after Lecter alone, the FBI had promptly relieved her of her duties. Even so, the burden of the FBI still sat on her shoulders, and the occurrences of that night still plagued her mind.
She leaned against the window beside her bed, and placed her hand against the pane. The rain pounded heavily outside, shaking the glass with tiny tremors. Tears crusted on her face, she cursed at herself. She had done what the FBI would have wanted her to do that night. What they would have called the right thing.
And for what? So they would take her back? For the honor it might bestow upon her, however little the amount? So they'd take him back to that wretched asylum, give her a shiny plaque, to prove her courage and incorruptibility?
"All you'd need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."
Hearing his voice again in her mind caused her to expel a hoarse cry and pound her fist against the window pane. Lost in grief, she cried, cried for her mistakes, for her decisions, and most of all, for her loss. Dr. Lecter was gone now, and he would never return, not after what she'd done to him.
Turning away from the window, Clarice flopped down on her bed, shut off the lights, and cried herself to sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Lecter, meanwhile, hidden someplace out of Clarice's sight, was observing her. Watching her cry, watching her in all her despair.
And it pained him to see her like this.
He may have been a monster, a cannibal, a madman, but he felt emotions as human as anyone else did. And he decided, then, that it was time to see her. How terribly he wanted to soothe her, to dry her eyes and stroke her face.
All in good time, he told himself. All in good time.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Lecter entered her bedroom cautiously, his feed padding silently on the carpet like a nervous cat. Her lights we off, and the only source of light was the glaring moon outside. With his superb senses, though, he didn't even need it to see her angelic face nestled in the pillow in peaceful sleep.
It would be a shame to wake her, but he knew her nightmares would soon yet shatter the serenity.
Gently pulling aside the sheets that lay framing her body, he placed himself beside her bed, near her face. He sat down on the side carefully. She did not stir.
For a long time he gazed at her, silently observing her sleeping form. Over her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her lips—
Her lips.
They beckoned him, teased him, and even he, with his composure and control, could not resist them. He leaned in close to her, until his breath grazed her face, till there was but a millimeter between them. Now, Dr. Lecter, he told himself, you've really gone and done it.
Delicately, he placed his lips upon hers. They were soft, like flower petals, and tasted of tears. Clarice's eyelids fluttered, and he pulled away. His conscience told him to go, but his feet would not move. He merely watched as she opened her eyes.
She blinked a few times, adjusting to the darkness, and to verify that what she was seeing was real. Was it possible?
"…Hannibal?"
The sound of his name, his first name, on her tongue made him smile briefly. His silence confirmed her question. Her eyes once again grew moist, and she smiled weakly.
"You came back…but I thought that you hate—"
"Hated you? Clarice, even had you conspired to kill me, I wouldn't hate you."
His sudden speech silenced her. It had been a long time since she had heard his voice outside her dreams. Tears flowed once more down her face.
"Your hand—"
"It's fine." An extension of his arm proved his claim true. Despite a scar and a little trouble with the use of his thumb, it appeared all right. Grasping his hand in her fingers, she traced its surface, before bringing it toward her chin. He laid it across her face, wiping away her tears.
"Stop crying, Clarice, for there is nothing to cry for anymore."
"I missed you."
"I gathered so. You worried me."
She was silent for a moment, but then looked into his eyes. They sat in silent contemplation of each other, their eyes traveling simultaneously over each others bodies.
"I love you." It came from her as a hoarse whisper. Three simple words, with so much meaning, coming from her, Clarice Starling, made his heart swell.
It was too much to bear. She expelled a whimper as he pressed his mouth to hers passionately, her arms lifting and joining around his neck as they drank each other in, crushing themselves in an embrace. His lips had never tasted so sweet, and she sobbed in relief as they kissed. After what seemed an eternity, she reluctantly broke away to utter but one thing.
"Make love to me."
And he did.
FIN
For the third time that day, Clarice cried.
It had been only two months since the disaster at Muskrat Farm, and still Clarice was tormented. In her dreams, the sound of the cleaver and the clang of cuffs rang throughout her ears and roused her constantly during sleep. She was, however, grateful to be free of the FBI, at last. After her reckless decision to go after Lecter alone, the FBI had promptly relieved her of her duties. Even so, the burden of the FBI still sat on her shoulders, and the occurrences of that night still plagued her mind.
She leaned against the window beside her bed, and placed her hand against the pane. The rain pounded heavily outside, shaking the glass with tiny tremors. Tears crusted on her face, she cursed at herself. She had done what the FBI would have wanted her to do that night. What they would have called the right thing.
And for what? So they would take her back? For the honor it might bestow upon her, however little the amount? So they'd take him back to that wretched asylum, give her a shiny plaque, to prove her courage and incorruptibility?
"All you'd need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."
Hearing his voice again in her mind caused her to expel a hoarse cry and pound her fist against the window pane. Lost in grief, she cried, cried for her mistakes, for her decisions, and most of all, for her loss. Dr. Lecter was gone now, and he would never return, not after what she'd done to him.
Turning away from the window, Clarice flopped down on her bed, shut off the lights, and cried herself to sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Lecter, meanwhile, hidden someplace out of Clarice's sight, was observing her. Watching her cry, watching her in all her despair.
And it pained him to see her like this.
He may have been a monster, a cannibal, a madman, but he felt emotions as human as anyone else did. And he decided, then, that it was time to see her. How terribly he wanted to soothe her, to dry her eyes and stroke her face.
All in good time, he told himself. All in good time.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Lecter entered her bedroom cautiously, his feed padding silently on the carpet like a nervous cat. Her lights we off, and the only source of light was the glaring moon outside. With his superb senses, though, he didn't even need it to see her angelic face nestled in the pillow in peaceful sleep.
It would be a shame to wake her, but he knew her nightmares would soon yet shatter the serenity.
Gently pulling aside the sheets that lay framing her body, he placed himself beside her bed, near her face. He sat down on the side carefully. She did not stir.
For a long time he gazed at her, silently observing her sleeping form. Over her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her lips—
Her lips.
They beckoned him, teased him, and even he, with his composure and control, could not resist them. He leaned in close to her, until his breath grazed her face, till there was but a millimeter between them. Now, Dr. Lecter, he told himself, you've really gone and done it.
Delicately, he placed his lips upon hers. They were soft, like flower petals, and tasted of tears. Clarice's eyelids fluttered, and he pulled away. His conscience told him to go, but his feet would not move. He merely watched as she opened her eyes.
She blinked a few times, adjusting to the darkness, and to verify that what she was seeing was real. Was it possible?
"…Hannibal?"
The sound of his name, his first name, on her tongue made him smile briefly. His silence confirmed her question. Her eyes once again grew moist, and she smiled weakly.
"You came back…but I thought that you hate—"
"Hated you? Clarice, even had you conspired to kill me, I wouldn't hate you."
His sudden speech silenced her. It had been a long time since she had heard his voice outside her dreams. Tears flowed once more down her face.
"Your hand—"
"It's fine." An extension of his arm proved his claim true. Despite a scar and a little trouble with the use of his thumb, it appeared all right. Grasping his hand in her fingers, she traced its surface, before bringing it toward her chin. He laid it across her face, wiping away her tears.
"Stop crying, Clarice, for there is nothing to cry for anymore."
"I missed you."
"I gathered so. You worried me."
She was silent for a moment, but then looked into his eyes. They sat in silent contemplation of each other, their eyes traveling simultaneously over each others bodies.
"I love you." It came from her as a hoarse whisper. Three simple words, with so much meaning, coming from her, Clarice Starling, made his heart swell.
It was too much to bear. She expelled a whimper as he pressed his mouth to hers passionately, her arms lifting and joining around his neck as they drank each other in, crushing themselves in an embrace. His lips had never tasted so sweet, and she sobbed in relief as they kissed. After what seemed an eternity, she reluctantly broke away to utter but one thing.
"Make love to me."
And he did.
FIN