The next few days passed as some ethereal dream. In the past, Starling had referred to Pearsall as her largest supporter, something that really didn't say much for him, but it was nice to have someone on your side that spoke for you. Throughout her trials after the Drumgo raid, he insisted that all would be well, that the Bureau couldn't afford to lose her, and even managed to obtain a fallback job for her, however much she detested the position. After Krendler planted the so-called love letter from Dr. Lecter, he expressed his firm belief that they would discover a mistake had indeed been made. And when she reported the abduction she witnessed at Union Station, he stressed that her impending moves might jeopardize her continued career. Out of everyone from the inside, he alone seemed to understand that they couldn't afford to lose her.

Now, though, without Pearsall's support, Starling was left unequivocally alone. Never had she foreseen things turning this bad. Whispered voices and flamboyant rumors had been replaced with silence. Cold, piercing silences along with accusatory stares. She was alone in enemy territory, sitting outside of closed offices as the eager tormentors within gleefully plotted her undoubtedly long and over-pronounced punishment. The conspirators, now that she was fair game at her own accord and not by accident, were absolutely delighted, and not at all subtle with what they thought should become of her.

Usually, in matters such as these, every measure was taken to keep the news out of the headlines. However, in Starling's case, the media was welcome, and the story was public knowledge by the next evening. Expectedly, Starling quickly became Public Enemy Number One, and no one, even those on the outside, those she might pass on the way to the supermarket but never speak to, seemed terribly surprised. The mistrusted agent had finally given them a reason to set up the gallows.

But not yet. With as much media attention this matter bought, it was everyone's hope that Dr. Lecter would come to her aid in person to get her out of her mess. Until they were certain that he had given up, as such was indicated in his second letter, Starling was to be kept in the limelight, the public eye, and ridiculed as often as possible.

Through it all, Starling managed herself as best she could, really caring little what happened to her. That surprised her, and the holder's of her fate, for she bore a façade of disinterest, as though it mattered little what became of her career, of her life. What punishments she might face for this.

After debating the issue strenuously as Sneed gave her a lecture in front of the board, she concluded that her indifference was attributed to the fact that the Bureau was proving every notion Dr. Lecter made in his letters with the actions they were taking. It wasn't fair to say she felt no pangs of regret, sitting as the black sheep. Regret that she hadn't handed in her resignation after the lake house, or better yet, after the Drumgo affair. Regret that she hadn't been there to answer the phone, but not for the circumstances. The part of her that fed on selfishness was terribly thankful to the headlines, for they told Dr. Lecter that she hadn't ignored him, that she had indeed planned to be there and answer his call. However, the more sensible and fearful side of her psyche was beyond apprehensive that he would do something careless as an angry result. Though she knew he was cautious, extremely cautious, one couldn't risk too much when she was being watched as closely as she was.

Still, she couldn't help but be glad that, if he paid any attention to headlines, which she knew he did, that he was aware of the events that kept her from answering the phone. From driving to meet him, preferably never to return. That it was hardly by decision.

It amazed her that these men could study both letters and her article to the assigned magazines so carefully and miss the context, miss that they were doing exactly what he predicted they would do. Miss everything that might hint as to why she was on the verge of taking this drastic leap.

But despite the yelling, the insults, the silence, despite everything that suggested she should shiver with some regret, with something to symbolize that she wanted repentance, Starling failed to satisfy. It didn't matter. She could get on her knees and beg, scream the error of her ways and the many methods she undertook in order to 'see the light,' and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. Such extremities, firstly when she had no desire to preserve the secretarial position she had kept for the past few months, and secondly, when it would do little or no good, were hereby avoided. Despite the logic, her refusal to whore herself to their liking only added to their fury, and to the measures of her imminent chastisement.

A full week after Pearsall's late night stop passed before her one-time superior expressed any interest in speaking with her alone. Starling agreed more or less because of her curiosity. There was a hearing scheduled for the following week, and she wasn't required to do anything but show up until then.

She wanted to see what he had to say.

It was late when she entered his office, late for both of them. He was seated at his desk, copies of Lecter's letters and the magazines she had betrayed herself in sprawled across the top. Starling didn't look at them. Her eyes burned only into his, nothing of respite, but more or less to show that she didn't fear him, or what might happen to her.

They shared a long look.

"Sit, Starling," he said at last, breaking eye contact to indicate the chair she had occupied so many times in the past.

For a full minute, she stood in silence. Then, slowly, she moved and took her seat, eyes never leaving his face. As casually as she could phrase it, she said deliberately, "You wanted to see me, Mr. Pearsall?"

Her negligence annoyed him visibly, but he declined comment. Instead, he leaned forward, clasped his hands professionally, and stated, "You know what's going to happen now, don't you?"

"I won't until the hearing."

"They're not going to go sweet on you, Starling. You're an embarrassment to the Bureau."

"I believe, if you refer to those photocopies you have on your desk, that you'll find I'm not." Starling sat back, keeping her gaze level and calm. The waters she treaded were dangerous, and the glare she earned confirmed that. "Maybe if you would actually read—"

"We've poured ourselves over it," Pearsall dismissed angrily. "Over and over. What could have possibly motivated you to—"

"Motivated me?" Starling leaped up suddenly, snatching the printer paper off his desk, eyes skimming the words she knew so well. It was nothing final or provocative, more or less a product of her irritation and disbelief that they could read without absorbing. "How about this: 'Whatever you further accomplish in that esteemed secretarial job they have so thoughtfully granted will always be overshadowed.' And this!" She thumbed through the pages to find the next. "'You believe in the oath you took. They don't. You believe it's your duty to protect the sheep. They don't. It is an institution that doesn't love you back, despite the sweat and tears and blood you've poured over it, for it, in the honor of its all-powerful title. For that motto only you recite in faith of its power.

"'Despite all you have sacrificed, lost, given, had confiscated, they will never see what I see. Does that burn you as well, Clarice? Persistency in women does not earn a reputation for determination. Persistency, you see, is a very unattractive feature when it radiates from the wrong person. As you deduced sometime ago, your gender decided that for you long before coming to work for the FBI.' Is that clear enough for you, Mr. Pearsall? I'm tired of being your beck and call girl. I'm tired of taking all this horseshit, for paying for something because you people listened to the likes of Paul Krendler without bothering to think that he might not be right about something. I'm tired of waiting for that advancement I deserved ten years ago. It says so, right here," she slapped the papers against the edge of the desk, causing him to blink in surprise, "in black and white."

It took Pearsall a minute to conjure a reply, and when he did, his tone was dead and his eyes were dull in lack of comprehension. "So instead of simply resigning, you thought you'd run to the arms of the very same madman that got you into this position in the first place?"

"Good Lord…" Starling grumbled, rolling her eyes. "Hardly. It says clearly that all he wanted to do was help me. You people haven't done shit since the raid. You give me secondhand jobs, acting as though you don't care that what Mason Verger was doing was against the law. Forget that I had to witness Krendler eating his own brains; forget that I did try to apprehend Dr. Lecter. All because I was on fucking suspension for something I didn't do in the first place."

"You're still arguing that you didn't hold that letter on purpose?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Pearsall, if Dr. Lecter had sent me that letter, and I had kept it to myself, what would the point be in maintaining my innocence now? The mess I'm in currently is much worse."

Pearsall shook his head. "I still don't get it, Starling. You did all those things, as you said, to apprehend him, and at the first chance you get, you plan to run off to him with no admitted attention of pursuing his arrest."

"I wanted to talk. That's all. Talk to someone who fucking doesn't look at me as though I don't have a right to breathe his air."

"Clearly, he expected more, though," he said, snatching the papers from her fluidly. "'My own persistency matches yours, you'll see. A fellow just can't say no when the remuneration is too delightfully rewarding to dismiss.' And this…" He paused a minute as he shuffled through the papers. "'I will not make an ungentlemanly advance without your explicit permission, though that is not to say that I expect it. I long ago learned not to predict your actions. Rather than concede defeat when you pull a fast one (which is very typical of you. Delightful so) even without realizing it, I have discovered it is far more pleasant to sit back and watch whatever is destined to unfold.' Don't you get it, Starling? They're going to look at his reasoning as an insult to them, and you, having conceded to follow, are just as high up on their shit list. They don't care how much sense it made to you. They see a woman who's thrown her career away, and a madman who desperately wants to see her again, notably not only for talk, no matter what the text says." Sighing, Pearsall let the papers drop to the desk once again. "Starling…even if you did apologize and try to make this up…there's no way."

"I'm not going to apologize," she said firmly. "I'm not sorry. You people are just confirming everything he said in those letters. I'm too disgusted with it all."

He continued as though he hadn't heard her. "We can only hope that he has seen the coverage and comes for you. That might help loosen your sentence. But I wouldn't hope too much. Either way, I'd say you're dressed up with no place to go, except maybe behind bars for a time." Pearsall sighed wearily. "You almost got out of it the first time, which is what I don't get. You were almost out of the dark and into the clearing. But now…"

Starling shrugged. "Fantastic. I'll bet I could find better company there than in here."

He shot her an irritated glance, but knew no comment or reprimand would make any difference. "I'm just glad Jack Crawford isn't alive to see this. He was always fond of you."

"If Jack Crawford were alive, I doubt I'd be sitting here. I doubt any of this would've happened," Starling remarked. "He actually had faith in me. He was the only one who did."

"And look at you now."

That made her flinch. It was the first thing passed that stung, and she knew Pearsall must be thrilled at the sight. One thing she did hate about this was the implied disappointment flustering in her late mentor, wherever he was.

Conversation dwindled after that, comments constructed to make the other recoil at their own petty faults and inconsistencies doing nothing but fuel the will to battle. Neither at an understanding, nor at a complete crossroads, they met in the middle, and she chose the road less traveled. When she left his office that night, Starling felt some form of liberation, reciting Frost to herself as she headed to her car. If it was Pearsall's objective to make her visibly display any strings of regret, then he failed miserably. In direct counterpoint, she was only that much more sure of her new convictions.

Even if Hannibal Lecter was thoroughly disgusted with her and decided never to come around again, Starling didn't feel cheated of anything, except, perhaps, their dialogue. Without being here, he assisted her to see what would ultimately be seen, and for nothing would she take it back.

A hearing next week, followed by the inevitable jail time, or some other degrading punishment. Surprisingly, the thought didn't frighten her. It shook her somewhat, but didn't frighten her. She suddenly felt like Hester Prynne, standing in her self-constructed Hell, different and cursed to solitude by the others, watching as those she had known forever judged her for her sins, looking but never seeing.

If only things were still that simple. Starling very much doubted that a scarlet letter would suffice in place of the true castigation. And while she wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of jail time, it almost seemed worth it compared to the hell she was enduring. When a woman was as atrociously pissed as she was, hardly anything could match the source of her anxiety.

So enamored was she in the divinely liberating thoughts coursing through her head that it took a few seconds to recognize the gentle hum emanating from her purse. When she finally identified it as her cell phone – her private phone, she had to give the company one up several days before – she sighed and reached inward, plucking it out gingerly, her mind still occupied, clouded…but free.

"Hello?" she asked softly, rummaging through her bag for her keys, the outline of the Mustang standing not so discreetly against the night, given the nearest streetlight had evidently died. She had to strain to see it.

"Starling?"

It took her a minute to identify the voice, more or less because she hadn't heard it in a while. With a worn smile, she unlocked the driver's side door and slid inward, resting a minute against the seat. "Hey Ardelia. It's been a while."

"Yeah. Shoulda kept in touch and all that. Where are you?"

"In the Quantico parking lot. I'm about to go home."

"Tried you there…didn't wait for the machine to pick up. It rang about twenty times."

"I haven't had an answering machine in a while. Never seemed to be of much use. No one ever called."

There was a sigh on the other line, a brief pause, and Starling sensed the conversation was heading into perilous territory. She had not conversed with Mapp in an unusually long time, ever since her friend moved away. They had, of course, promised to keep in touch, but life, inevitably, stood in the way with all its glorious complications. There was work to consider, phone bills to pay, the need of sleep and the three-second checks on email, often resorting in a return of a line or two, usually a mimic of the last message. In the time that had passed, Starling didn't even know what Mapp's profession was anymore. She had left on an offer to teach at a university in Denton, Ohio, but her friend had many seasons about her and didn't like being tied to one occupation. Why she accepted to leave in the first place was unknown, though the popular assumption was it had something to do with a good-looking professor or dean.

At the time, before the Drumgo raid, before Dr. Lecter reentered her life, Starling had suffered pangs of abandonment and almost heated betrayal. Times were better then than now, though not much, and she was shocked at how easily her friend turned away from the one who needed her the most. Empty reasons had long plagued her conscious, and she wondered, inwardly, if Mapp's departure was caused or influenced by the very same standards by which Starling was in trouble today. If so, she could understand. Mapp would never vocalize her troubles like that. She always wanted to appear tough, to assume the position of comforting others. Decency, despite ostentation, was strong in her family.

"It's probably better that I caught you here," her friend decided at last. "They've bugged your phone, haven't they?"

"I'd expect so. I haven't checked…didn't really need the reminder," Starling replied, leaning into the seat. "I think they've probably taken every legal, and perhaps illegal, precaution to be sure I don't jump the country or something like that."

"Starling, I've held out. I don't know the whole story, but I have a pretty good idea of what happened from the headlines."

A moan crawled in her throat, but she killed it before it could escape. Her own notoriety should not surprise her now. However, the question, despite the obviousness of the answer, could not be defeated in the same fashion. "In Ohio?"

"Girl, you need to get over the stupid notion that Hannibal Lecter is local news. Everyone wants to know what happened, or what is happening, or what has happened in the past."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So what happened?"

"Huh?"

"Everyone includes me, too, you know."

Starling sighed, trying unsuccessfully to lean further into the seat. Darkness encircled the car, and the workers whose shifts were only beginning were instinctively avoiding the areas of lesser light. Words pieced in her mind, constructing pliable excuses, but she knew that despite how she explained it, no one, not even her very best (and possibly very last) friend would ever understand.

"What happened? Hell, Ardelia, if you say you've read the papers, then you know what happened," she barked at last, her mind dilapidated from the same tedious questioning, though still soaring with the promise of inward freedom. "Ain't much more to it."

"I'd rather hear it from you. Your side," Mapp replied stubbornly. "If I were to believe everything the headlines said, I doubt very much that you and I would be on the absolutely *fantastic* terms we are now. Girl, if you're in trouble, you better tell me. Don't push me away. I think you could use a friend right about now."

"I *am* in trouble. I don't want you to be, too."

There was a disbelieving snort on the other line. "Have they bugged your cell phone?"

"No."

"Do they even know you *own* a cell phone, other than the one on their phone bill?"

"No."

"Well, I will admit it's been a while since I studied procedure, but as far as I can remember, none of the board directors are psychic, are they?"

Starling chuckled dryly, without humor, placing her free hand on her head as though to wan away looming pain. Headaches, it seemed, were becoming more and more common. "Lord knows they seem like they are. I'll never get over how Pearsall timed his fucking visit that precisely."

"Tell me what happened," Mapp persisted, her tone sliding into the 'don't-fuck-with-me' recesses she always reserved for matters that were especially important to her. "Don't make me open up a can."

The truth tickled her tongue, beckoning to be released. Starling debated for a minute, then finally figured…what the hell? Someone might as well know the *full* story, and should her friend think any less of her, she would know exactly how easily Mapp's allegiance was earned, and similarly broken.

"Dr. Lecter contacted me a few weeks ago," she said at last. "I responded without informing the FBI, without intending to inform them. He gave me instructions on how to find him, and I was ready to do it."

"Why?"

"Because I needed to talk with someone who understands me. I *need* someone who understands me."

She heard the challenge in her friend's voice before the question was asked. "Why not give me a call? I've always understood—"

"Ardelia, I love you like a sister, but honestly, no one but the person who was right there beside me stands a chance in hell of understanding what I've been going through." She sighed, defeated. After waiting for a reply to little avail, she continued, "I was ready to leave…I thought he would visit me, but he decided it was important that I go to him. Make me make the move and everything…you know him…well, no I guess you don't. Anyway, in reality, that makes more sense. I'm glad he didn't visit me. Imagine what Pearsall would've said to find Hannibal Lecter in my house and not just two of his unpublicized letters."

A short silence. "How did Pearsall get a hold of the letters anyway?"

"He came by to say…" Starling paused to remember exactly what was the motive of his visit, and chuckled humorlessly with recollection. "Ironically, he came to say that he's sorry about how everyone's treated me. I was two seconds from leaving…he bumped shoulders with me on the way out, and Dr. Lecter's letters tumbled out of my purse."

"Where were you going?"

"To a pay phone. He was going to call me." Starling sighed. After another breath, she added with some conviction, "He has helped me, though, without having to be here. I might never have seen the pricks for what they were if Pearsall hadn't given me a full-blown demonstration. I should've seen it a long time ago. I'm too damned, trusting, Ardelia. He probably thinks I snuffed him, but oh well. It's too late now."

"I doubt that," Mapp replied earnestly. "I don't think there's a man, woman, or child alive who haven't seen the media coverage."

"People take what they want from the media, Ardelia. Isn't that why you called me in the first place?" Puffing out her cheeks, she shook her head, withdrawing from the seat, turning her keys to the ignition. "Well, there you have it. Diagnoses?"

"I think you need a psychiatrist."

She chortled appreciatively at her friend's honesty without taking time to consider the implication attached to that statement. "Knew I could count on you, 'Delia."

Mapp continued as though she hadn't spoken. "But for now, I hope a friend will due."

"You've been really helpful. Think any less of me?"

"Starling, this Ardie we're talking about. Remember me, babe? You did surprise me, but I'd never think less of you. I used to work there, once upon a time. I know what kind of bullshitters they have running the place. Though I promise you one thing: I'll never say you don't have a social life again." A short pause. "Incidentally, I'd really like to see you. It's been too damn long, and you could use a friend right now. Think you could drop by?"

"Hah. I don't think fleeing the city's the best idea at the time, girl, or you know I'd love to. These agent types might get funny ideas. After all…" She started the engine and started to pull out of the parking lot. By this time, traffic had died and the late shift workers were already positioned at their stations. All was quiet once more. "That is what I was planning to do in the first place."

"I took that into consideration," Mapp retorted coolly. "Which is why I'm staying at the Pennsylvania House all week."

Starling blinked and nearly swerved in surprise, her breath hitching with utter gratification, genuine for the first time in days. It was nice to feel an emotion other than disgust coinciding with liberation flowing through her veins. "You're in DC?" she demanded excitedly.

"Yep. Got here today, actually."

"Why didn't you say so?!"

"Wanted it to be a surprise?" Mapp replied sheepishly, repressed laughter tickling her voice. "I didn't know if you wanted company or not."

"Girl, if I had money, I'd hire company, if I didn't think they'd judge me. Are you serious? The Pennsylvania House? That's on my way home!"

"Don't think you'll get in trouble for that, now will you?"

"Hell to the no! Order us a pizza or something. I'm on my way!"

With that, Starling hung up and tossed her phone into the passenger seat, grinning like she hadn't in days. For someone who didn't understand her terribly well, Mapp came frighteningly close.

It wasn't until she arrived that Starling realized that she had cut their dialogue short before being told which room to go to. At the front desk, she explained the situation to the clerk, who phoned in to be sure before pointing her in the right direction.

Seeing Mapp's face on the other side of that door was a sight for sore eyes. They studied each other a minute before embracing.

"You know everything's gonna turn out all right, don't you?" her friend reassured her with a few empathetic pats.

"As a matter of fact, I don't," Starling said with a quivering breath, allowing some of her root anxieties to shed at last. "How could it? I just hope real prison is a step up from the one I've been living in for ten years."

"You're not going to prison."

She snorted her disagreement. "Yeah…you're probably right. They'll let me off again, all because of my dazzling personality and numerous accomplishments, not to mention dozens of supporters and friends." Retracting from their hug, she sighed and shook her head, right hand coming up to caress her brow. "You know…I wish he had been more forthcoming in our chat back at the lake house. I could've avoided this mess."

There wasn't much time to consider the events that transpired next, they happened so quickly. The walls suddenly seemed tight and desolate, cramped, but tolerable.

"Perhaps I would have, had that been an option."

All movement rapidly ceased within the room. Starling felt her heart stop abruptly, then similarly start pounding, as if she had just finished a good three miles on the course.

The voice that was very much Hannibal Lecter continued from behind, moving as he stepped away from the door and into view, "However, if you'll recall, I was rather pressed for time. Besides, Clarice…" He stopped in front of her, beside Mapp, eyes burning into hers, making her heart beat faster still. "I don't think you could have come to all these…liberating conclusions, without some first hand experience."

For a long beat, nothing stirred within the room. Mapp might as well have thrown herself out the window. Neither of them looked to her. Starling watched, still trying to pace herself, regarding the amusement dancing behind his eyes, and the seriousness. Her heart was still trying to keep up with her, but not successfully.

"Ummm…Ardelia…" she said finally, not averting her gaze from his. "Do you have something to tell me?"

"Hey, I told you that you needed a psychiatrist," Mapp replied. "Sorry I didn't mention that I had one ready."

Unbelieving, Starling finally found her breath and the pounding within her chest started to subside. After everything caught up with her, she forced her eyes away from his, trading looks between her best friend and the object of her recent dishonor, absolutely stupefied. "I have definitely just entered the Twilight Zone…" she decided.