Thank you, thank you, thank you all for staying with me through this torture test! I love you all deeply. I really appreciate having received such a response to this tale. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Cheers!

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Two Years Later

The air in Florence is warm as she slips from the apartment she has rented there. In ways, everything has changed since her last visit, in ways, it has all remained the same. She walks through the streets, eyes carefully shaded by a pair of Fossil sunglasses. Slowly winding her way to the post office, walks inside, and lowers the glasses from her face. Stunning green eyes read over the signs and posters that decorate the building's interior. She steps to the counter, producing a claim slip and asking for her package. The clerk takes the slip and shuffles to the mail room behind her to find it. The green eyes rest in a blue wanted poster that hangs on the wall. Il Mostro. She had seen a poster like it before, on the wall of the Behavioral Sciences department of the FBI, when she had visited Clarice Starling there.

The clerk returns with a thick padded envelope, and shoves the slip back at her, along with a pen. She does not sign her real name, since it was not addressed to her in that manner. She nods her thanks to the public servant and tucks the envelope into her satchel. The Fossil sunglasses are replaced and she steps back out into the sunlight.

Alone, in her apartment, she slides a letter opener under the flap of the envelope to break the seal. She carefully shakes the contents out onto the tabletop, fingers sorting through them. In turn, a passport, identification, cash, bankbooks, and keys are held to the light and inspected. She wears a pair of cotton gloves, so there are no fingerprints on the items. His instructions were very strict on that. Nothing could ever be connected to her, and she could not be connected to him. Her life had changed thanks to one long night in his home.

As she listens to the cello of Yo-Yo Ma echo over the speakers, if she remembers hard enough, she can feel the prick of the needle once again. There are times she wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. She often wonders why she agreed to aid him. Not as often as she once did, but still more than she should. He has provided her with a comfortable life here, but he expects exacting obedience in return. She is willing to oblige him.

Hours later, the documents are now sealed in a plain white envelope and are once more residing in her satchel. She always trembles when she steps inside a chapel here, and today is no different. She smiles and explains to the priest that she is part of the restoration team. It is only a partial lie, there is a restoration team, they were here last week doing preliminary studies of the small church of Santa Reparata. He nods as he listens to her, smiling and waving her into the storeroom to retrieve the ladder she needs. He helps her carry it into the church. She thanks him and scurries up it, face close to the wall as she ascends. Inches away hangs the Devil's Armor, coated in soft dust so that it looks as if it were covered in velvet. She duly removes a tape measure from her pocket, making measurements and inspecting the armor itself. She is careful not to let her breath stir the dust.

Glancing down now, she sees that the priest has left her. She is alone now, high above the pews and suspended next to the armor. She slips her hand into the satchel, which is still slung over her shoulder. Carefully, the white envelope is removed, along with a tiny spool of monofilament line. The line has a fishing hook tied to one end. She carefully secures the line to the envelope, and unwinds the line. The envelope rests against her thigh as she carefully lifts the visor on the helmet. The hook is set on the lip of the gorget and the envelope lifted, carefully being deposited inside. It now hangs the cuirass where the heart would be as she lowers the visor. She knows the next person to touch it will be him.

A few more minutes of her idle measurements and inspection before she descends from her perch. She walks back to the foyer of the chapel, seeking the priest. He helps her remove the ladder and return it to the storeroom. She smiles and thanks him again. She slips the sunglasses on once again as she steps into the afternoon light. A glance at her watch indicates she needs to hurry. She reaches the Jaguar and pulls the keys from her pocket. She is grateful for the transportation, and feels slightly guilty for depriving him of his car. The fear of running late causes her to floor the accelerator as she heads back to Florence. Petra Morricone has never been late for a meeting with the good doctor, for he would consider it quite rude. She slips a tape into the deck and settles back slightly, as the Goldberg Variations fill the interior. She could not ask for a better life.

*****

Washington DC, early morning. The skies above the city are just beginning to clear as the old Ford Econoline van pulls out from the garage. The rumble of the V8 engine trembles back through the van, vibrating the sheet metal Special Agent Clarice Starling rests against. Her eyes are half closed, her head rolling gently along with the bad suspension in the van. Jump-out squad. She wondered why she kept agreeing to do this. She opens her eyes and looks over at the man next to her, resting in a similar manner. A small smile lights her face as she looks at the fatigues that cover his body. Definitely couldn't see that tattoo through the fatigue shirt. John Brigham, yeah, that was the reason she kept doing this. She shifts uncomfortably under the weight of her Kevlar vest, realizing that the shoulder pads sewn into her fatigue shirt don't really help much.

She reaches for her water bottle and takes a swig from it, leaning as the van turns a corner. The other occupants of the van also sit grim faced. Made up of a joint team of FBI and BATF agents. Same as always. She bumps Brigham's shoulder as the van goes through a dip a little too fast, causing him to open his eyes and look at her. He smiles before closing them again. Clarice sips her water and closes her eyes too. Two years had passed since her fateful night. Had it really been that long? When she pauses to think about it, it seems like it could have happened last week. As she thinks back, Clarice becomes intensely aware of her bra rubbing against the scar on her back. Five inches wide, running from just below her shoulders to the top of her buttocks. It looks like it was made by precisely the instrument that had done it: a cheese grater. She had an aversion to them now, driving Delia nuts by insisting that they buy the already shredded cheese at the store. The things we did for peace of mind.

The next memory is the part that disturbs her slightly more. She still wakes up in the night, swearing that he is still kneeling beside her bed, brushing the hair out of her face. The scarred left hand, it had dawned on her much later that he no longer had a sixth finger, brushing her temple. And the kiss. No, she could not forget the kiss as he had whispered good bye. Again, a single tear begins to slip from her eye as it had that night. She can see him again, clear as day, slipping the Harpy back into the pocket of his leather jacket and walking out the bedroom door. Minutes later, she had heard the sound of sirens coming up the street. He was gone, and they wouldn't find him, she knew that even before Crawford had told her in the hospital a day later.

Back to him, she feels the van rock to a stop at a stoplight as she thinks. He had said something to her before he had left, when he had said goodbye. She had reached out to him at that point, protesting.

"You can't leave."

"But I must, Clarice. Do understand."

"But…"

"Goodbyes aren't forever, I assure you." and with that he was gone. Little did Clarice know, that tomorrow's events would change everything for them, and prove his line to be true.

*****