(Author's Note: This is the chapter where the story averts from the original option. The following segment of this story will be posted as soon as time allows. Thank you.)
In all her years, Starling reflected that the process of decision, despite how significant the matter was, was often strategic and outdrawn. She was a woman who didn't deal well with being wrong, and she often exercised every option until the issue in question was yesterday's news. When she reread the words Dr. Lecter articulated on paper, she acknowledged, perhaps in vain, that the decision she was presented with was already made. Before sending her inquiry to the designated publications, Starling accepted that her answer, should it arrive, might very well ask her to find him, wherever he might be.
Philadelphia.
Likewise, in admitting the possibility of her relocation as per his response, Starling had similarly debated her options – and arrived presumably at a decision. Truth of the matter was, there was so much more to lose if she ignored his offer than there was if it was accepted. After all, should she ever come to regret leaving, all she had to do was point her vehicle in the other direction and return. Such a leave of absence might cost her that coveted place in the Bureau, and she nearly laughed aloud at the suggestion. If that was it, so be it. She no longer felt the annoying obligation to apprehend him, steal his freedom. In stating that, she might as well hand over her badge. Though Starling faced no difficulty in cuffing the minor offenders, the drug dealers, those behind petty thefts, various gang members, and so forth, it didn't do well for her résumé that the one criminal she was admittedly incapable of apprehending just happened to be the so-called worst of them all.
She had fallen in love with the Bureau, only to discover after giving it everything she had that it did not love her back. In that, she sacrificed herself, the last wasted decade of her life, closing the final chapter of her law-enforcement career. Now she turned to run to the man that traveled halfway across the world to watch her to do so. Despite the feeble attempts to restrain him in the lake house, she knew he was free because she let him go. Because she wished him to have clean air that he might breathe without fear that it was his last. Because when it came down to it, they were just alike.
Just alike.
He was *alive* because of her, and similarly, she was *alive* because of him. Because she saved him from a horrific fate, her enemy, and in return, he saved her. Not merely in collecting her in his arms to whisk her away to their laughable happy-ever-after, but in opening her eyes to the damage the Bureau was doing to her. Had done to her, would continue to do to her, should she stay behind.
Now, after risking everything only to face coldness and rejection, he again reached to her, hand offered in empathy. A promised retreat so that they might chat as equals. Not FBI agent to fugitive, not doctor to patient, nor instructor to pupil. Equals.
Coins and medals were not the order of the day in this relationship. Not anymore.
Beauty and the beast, indeed.
There, decision made. Starling sighed, feeling the burdened weight relax off her shoulders. Once she realized the epiphany she made in just seconds, she felt the corners of her mouth lift into a smile.
("Now wasn't that easy, Clarice?")
Easier than a lot had been in the past few weeks, yes. For the first time since that evening on the Chesapeake coast, she felt she had reason to smile, genuinely smile. As her nerves tingled with the impulse to burst into hysteric laughter, simply for the implication that everything would truly be all right from now on, Starling turned her eyes one last time to the text. She had to read it again, if only to be sure the words hadn't evaporated or transformed to mean something else entire. Dialogue was what she craved, fresh conversation with him. Resolved issues, their deserved closure. Two meetings in ten years, each leaving her feeling emptier than the last: cold and unfulfilled. In this, she wanted to change that receptive trait, to confront him without seeking information about a case, without being influenced by drugs, and to leave, should that be her decision, with a completely new sense of self.
Once, some time ago, Dr. Lecter told her that all good things come to those who wait. He also similarly informed her that he had waited, but how long could she? Starling pursed her lips together in thought. There was less than twenty-four hours between now and when the phone would ring tomorrow afternoon. Could she wait that long?
Time. Starling sat forward with a start. If this is what she intended, she better get a jump on Dr. Lecter's instructions. There were reservations to make, cars to rent, and phones to answer. Suitcases? To hell with suitcases. She would buy clothing when she arrived. Having been raised to not squander her savings – something she followed with acute precision unless alcohol was on the receiving end – Starling knew her modest amount of money would cover essentials. Right now, she didn't want to pause. The environment of the house, the eerie silence of it, was making her uncomfortable.
("Unemployment is becoming to you, Clarice. Hasty behavior, as it is. Do you assume I will provide for you?")
To hell with providing. She wanted to get out, and was sure he would appreciate that. Doing a quick runabout the house, she gathered all the essentials: money, identification, her company passport, everything that would be required for a plane ticket to an absent holder on the first available flight to London. Once she knew she had everything, Starling didn't waste any time in scrutiny of the place she had called home for ten years. After all, she knew what she was leaving, and should she never return, something that was admittedly a possibility, she knew what it looked like and would never forget.
Pushing everything she needed into her purse, Starling withdrew her keys and started for the front door. She shut off all the overhead lights, methodically, careful to leave a few lamps on to distract attention from potential robbers until she discovered exactly where this was going. Should she decide to return, she wanted everything in place as she left it. No need to advertise her absence unless it was absolutely crucial.
With a conclusive sigh and a mental farewell, Starling moved to open the front door, nearly colliding with Clint Pearsall.
The first thought that crossed her mind was her overwhelming gratitude that she had opted for no suitcase, for she knew that this would look particularly odd, seeing as she had yet to call in and announce her weekend getaway plans. The second was darker and more complex. Starling felt her eyes narrow as she masterfully recollected herself, stood back, and breathed a sigh of mild irritation. "Mr. Pearsall," she said in greeting, reaching to brush some fallen hair from her face. "What can I do for you, sir? It is rather late."
"Going somewhere, Starling?" he asked, pointedly ignoring her question, arching both brows as he briefly glanced to the purse in her hand.
The lie she created came naturally, which surprised her, as if she had been born to fib to law officers, to her superiors. Lying always came easily when it was in the presence of a known-offender, but never had she bent the truth in Pearsall's company, nor the late Jack Crawford's. "I was heading out for some supper," she retorted. "Late night. What can I do for you?"
"You look a bit flushed. Are you all right?"
"Surprised that you're here is all."
"I see. Well, I'm coming by more as a friendly errand," he said, motioning with his eyes that he would like to enter. "Please. It will only be a minute."
Starling's patience was teetering, tired of being stretched, relaxed, and stretched again. However, he would only be suspicious if she refused his offer, thus she nodded and stood aside. "Of course," she muttered under her breath. "'Course. Sorry, Mr. Pearsall. You just startled me."
"I know I don't visit often," he replied with a chuckle, wiping his feet on the doormat.
"Ever," she corrected. "I don't believe you've ever stopped by."
"Surely once or twice in the course of ten years?"
"Maybe, but never unannounced, and never so late."
He offered a kind smile. "I'm sorry for that. I should have called first."
"Is this about a case you want to put me on?" Starling didn't intend to sound so direct, but her eyes were on the mantelpiece, watching as the seconds ticked by without mercy. Though she knew she could make good time, she was anxious to get out of here and on with it. Once she was on the road, she knew she would feel better.
"Oh no. No. I'm actually here to offer an apology." That caught her attention. Sharply, Starling's eyes turned up as she peeled layers away from his, as though determined to catch *him* in a lie. No such luck.
This didn't smell right. "And you couldn't say this over the phone?" she asked casually.
"The phone lacks the personal touch. Starling, I know you've been through hell and back, these past few months. None of us have made it any easier on you. You've taken your punishment for the unauthorized raid on the Verger estate very well, asking for nothing." He sighed, breaking eye contact to stare fixatedly on his shoes. That single gesture informed Starling that he was not tooting anyone else's horn, and she felt the expected stab of unwanted guilt at her recent treacherous actions spear her through her stomach. Nevertheless, she forced herself to ignore it. The revolutions she had made in the past half hour were not to be forfeited for anything. Her mind averted to Dr. Lecter, to the way his voice echoed through her mind without provocation. And she knew. She knew despite whatever Pearsall said, that she would have to go, if only to make that one last self-discovery before settling for the middle
"I'm not the only one that's noticed it," he continued, unaware that her mind was only half with him now. "But no one else wished to discuss this with you. We haven't come out and said it since you returned, and we haven't been as sympathetic on a *personal*, not professional, but personal basis as we could have. I guess all I'm here to say is, you're still one of our best agents. As soon as this whole thing blows over, and it will in time…you'll return to more acclaimed cases. No more paperwork. I know how dull that must be."
Starling blinked as his eyes finally tore away from the leather of his shoes and traveled upwards to meet hers once more. "I just wanted to tell you that. We…I felt you needed to hear it, after all you've been through."
Exerting a breath, Starling pursed her lips together and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Pearsall. That reassurance means a lot." In truth, it did, but she was itching to get out the door.
They stood simultaneously.
"Thanks for dropping by." And she meant it. Starling knew, before embarking on this crazy journey, that she needed that air of reassurance that everything *would* be here as she left it when she returned. Knowing that life could continue and otherwise remain unchanged, should she decide to leave Dr. Lecter's company after a few days, left with the back door open to return. To seize herself as she was before this, and try one more time for the name that daddy never had, but always wanted her to have.
And yet, despite this, Starling knew that her days as an FBI Agent, with or without Pearsall's promise, with or without Dr. Lecter's guidance, were over. She was not foolish enough to chance it a third time. The past has a tendency to repeat itself, and she stood there as living proof.
"It was a pleasure," Pearsall replied with a smile. "I think you needed to hear that."
But it doesn't really change anything, Starling thought, recalling his words after the hearing that followed the Drumgo raid. Except me.
And this time, she meant it.
When she went to open the door for him, their shoulders bumped and her purse slipped down her arm. Starling felt the bottom of her stomach drop. Both pairs of eyes followed it, and Pearsall, gentlemanly, knelt to gather its spilt content for her convenience.
And though he might have tried, the eyes do not contain the power to shut off and forget to read whenever the invasion of privacy is at stake. Therefore, when he saw the familiar writing on the linen envelope, it was rather difficult to ignore.
When his eyes wandered upward, Starling knew she had betrayed herself.
* * *
At 4:57 the next day, the pay phone at the 7/11 in the small town of Shelbyville rang several times, the call intended to whoever might be happening by and promised a good half hour of phone sex. When there was no answer, the callers evidently gave up, and all went silent once more.
Then, at 5:01, slightly tardy because of the teenage predecessors, the phone rang once more, three times and stopped. At 5:03, it rang once, then twice, then a third time, and again stopped, rather shortly with the taste of rejection.
There was no one to answer.
