Author's note:
First off, Dear Reader – OK, OK, by popular demand, here's Clarice. She didn't show up until Chapter 11 of this fic's predecessor. But here she is.
Secondly, I am aware that Clarice's memory of her dinner with Dr. Lecter wavers a bit between book and movie canon. While I am usually a canon devotee – it worked best this way.
Finally, an interesting movie factoid from the IMDB. Apparently, the man-eating hogs that Verger intended to use to eat Dr. Lecter were chosen out of 6,000 other hogs and came from a hog farm in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Ridley Scott picked them out himself. I live not far from the border and have friends in Canada, it's a nice place. Frankly, I never would have guessed man-eating hogs to be the sort of thing Canada would produce, let alone export, but there you go.
With that little educational tidbit, on with the show.
Hannibal Lecter spent the day after his escape from Chesapeake in the hospital. So did the other two people who had been in the house. Paul Krendler and Clarice Starling had both been taken to Maryland-Misericordia Hospital in Baltimore. There were closer, smaller hospitals, but Maryland-Misericordia was deemed the only one capable of treating a patient whose skull had been opened. The ICU staff did as best they could for Paul Krendler, but amongst themselves they asked where the missing parts of his brain were. The staff conjectured a few guesses amongst themselves. A large black male LPN took one look, sighed deeply, and won the grisly office pool. No one asked how he guessed that the missing frontal lobe had been eaten, and he did not volunteer.
Krendler was far from an easy patient to deal with, and the staff was obliged to restrain him, as he kept attempting to get out of bed and raved about anything in his immediate vision. At 3:00 in the morning after his admission, Paul Krendler soiled his bed and then died in the throes of a massive seizure, saliva spewing from his lips. He was wheeled down to the morgue and put in a body bag there to await the tender mercies of the coroner. None of the staff was terribly surprised or sorry to see him go.
Clarice Starling, however, was in much better shape and received much less intrusive care. She sat on a gurney in the ER as a young resident scanned her eyes with a penlight.
"How're you feeling?" the resident asked.
Clarice worked her jaw. She could think and reason, to a point, unlike her former co-worker. But focusing required her active attention, and she had to really focus to hide her feelings. The drugs had rendered the concept of impulse control a much more difficult thing to grasp than before.
"All right, I guess. Kind of spinny."
"What drugs have you had?" The resident's voice was jocular and calm.
"I don't know," Clarice admitted.
"Lemme guess. A friend gave them to you and didn't tell you what they were but that it would be fun." The young resident's sarcastic tone indicated he'd heard the story a thousand times before. Clarice noticed a small patch on his jaw where he had missed shaving. Unable to control herself, she reached out and touched it. The resident stared at her for a moment but said nothing.
"Something like that, I guess," Clarice said.
A nurse walked in and handed the resident a sheet of yellow paper. The resident looked at it and raised his eyebrows.
"Well, Miss Starling, looks like you had a pretty fun night," the resident said.
Clarice closed her eyes and thought. Fun. Yeah, that's the word. Dinner with Dr. Lecter and Krendler, I got to see Krendler eat his own brain, then ended up confined to the refrigerator by my hair, and thought Dr. Lecter was going to chop off my hand. That's fun all right.
Her tongue itched to speak those words. She thought vaguely that she shouldn't, not to a civilian.
"Fun," she said confusedly.
"Looks like we have some morphine in your system, some Valium, some hallucinogens…not even sure what this is here…basically put, Miss Starling, it's a minor miracle you can still form syllables. And somebody you know knows his drugs."
Starling fought the brief but strong urge to yell out Ba-ba-ba-ba at the top of her lungs like a toddler to prove her syllable skills. She blinked blearily at the young resident. Her hands were trembling. She could make them stop for short periods, but as soon as her attention wandered to something else, they would start trembling again. Everything in the hospital seemed so bright, ugly fluorescent light. Clarice squinted her eyes.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"We admit you for detox and see how you are in the morning."
"Detox? No, wait…I'm not a druggie. I'm an FBI agent."
"Detox. At least overnight. And I know you're an FBI agent. Your boss called here. Doesn't change your bloodwork."
"Crawford?" she asked instantly.
The resident shook his head. "No, that wasn't it."
"Pearsall?"
"That sounds like it. And he said he'll be by to check on you and Krendler in the morning."
Clarice remembered something about being on suspension, but it was slow and thick in coming. A wave of childish resentment rose up in her. The phrase Swear me and you swear too floated to the top of her brain. She wasn't sure, but she had the very firm idea that it didn't apply anymore.
A nurse came down to escort her up to the ward. Starling sighed. But if Pearsall was going to be there in the morning, she had better be there. As she left the ER to head up to the detox ward, she saw a uniformed cop with his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest, as he talked to a nurse. Starling's eyes went automatically to the holstered pistol on his belt. She could grab it, clear the holster, and take them all out, the nurse, the cop, the resident who treated her, everybody.
But the nurse escorted her past the cop swiftly and her chance was gone. Starling did not say anything on the elevator ride up. At the desk on the ward, Starling was asked for some information to fill out her admission form. She wondered if she should put the FBI as her employer or put 'none'.
Screams issued from the rooms in which drug addicts were battling their own demons. Clarice flinched a bit to hear them. The ward was secure, with the patients denied whatever privacy patients usually got. The floor was dingy institutional gray linoleum. It reminded her far too much of the maximum-security dungeon at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Clinically Insane.
"I don't belong here," she muttered.
The nurse smiled a big fake plastic smile. Starling wished for her .45.
"Let's just try to get some sleep," the nurse suggested. She steered Clarice through the hall to an empty room. It was small and possessed only one bed. There was no window, only blank gray walls. Here, Clarice was made to surrender the black dress in exchange for a paper gown which gapped open at the back. As a special bonus, she received an IV needle in the back of her left hand. She frowned. Just what I need. On display and on a leash. They must put patients in these gowns so they can't leave without paying the bill.
There wasn't much else to do, so Starling did what she was expected to do. She climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Someone in the next room was banging on the door and pleading for something. Probably heroin, Starling decided. If she'd had some, she would have given it to him gladly so he would shut up. She glanced at the door, which was still open. A long yellow oblong of fluorescent light gleamed in from the hallway.
At least they didn't lock me in. That's something.
Clarice bunched up her pillow and tried to wedge it over her head in order to block the pounding and the screams. It didn't work terribly well. Despite herself, she wished for Dr. Lecter. He probably had all sorts of useful tips on how to ignore screaming madmen. He'd done it long enough. He's still out there. I have to find him.
A doctor came by just long enough to smile at her and give her a sedative. He introduced himself and Starling forgot his name promptly. But the sedative did its job, and she was asleep within minutes. The lambs did not scream for her that night, and her ears were mute to the screams of the junkies.
In the morning, Starling felt much better. She asked for and got a trip to the bathroom. She was offered breakfast and took it. Cereal and eggs, the eggs oddly tasteless, as if some vampire in the kitchen had sucked them free of taste and left merely yellow gooey nutrients. The staff seemed to be aware that she wasn't here for heroin or cocaine; just an exotic choice of pharmaceuticals delivered by a Board-certified, brilliant, and highly dangerous psychiatrist. She was allowed into the dayroom to watch TV. Her doctor found her there and demanded the sacrifice of a vial of her blood. Starling sighed and handed over her arm without complaint. She returned to her TV desultorily.
Around eleven that morning, a man in a suit came onto the ward. He walked into the dayroom and sat down next to Starling. She looked at him with no surprise.
"Agent Pearsall," she said.
"Hi, Starling." He smiled pleasantly. "How you feeling?"
"Better," Starling allowed. "How's Krendler?"
"Krendler died last night."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Starling said. Her tone made it obvious that she wasn't.
Pearsall leaned forward.
"Starling, listen up. We found a receipt in Verger's office. We know you didn't place that ad. Verger did. Plus, with both Verger and Krendler dead, there's not enough to bring you before OPR on."
Starling considered for a moment. This was good news. It meant reinstatement. A return to the fold. Perhaps she wouldn't be welcomed back with open arms, but she would be allowed back. Or was it good news? Did she really want to go back to the FBI?
"I see," Starling said archly.
"We didn't know, Starling. We had to go on what we had."
"I know," she said in a tone bereft of forgiveness.
"Listen, Starling. Now is your time. People feel guilty. Take advantage of it."
"Are you going to reinstate me?" she asked directly. She crossed her arms over her chest.
"Hearing is scheduled for day after tomorrow. Since Krendler's dead and the complaint had his name on it, should be a cakewalk. I'm going to spring you from this nuthatch if the doctors say you can go." He held up a small nylon bag. "We've got your dress down at Quantico. Mapp gave me some clothes for you. Go get changed and be nice to the doctors."
Starling took the bag and retreated to her room. The slacks and denim shirt were a definite plus over the butt-baring paper gown. The IV was a pain, but the sleeves were wide enough that she was able to get the tube running up the sleeve and out her collar, as if it was dripping directly into her jugular.
That didn't bother her. Something else did, and it took her a moment to figure it out. She missed the comforting weight of the big .45 on her hip. Well, that would just have to wait until she got reinstated. She returned to the dayroom, raising a few eyebrows in normal clothing but with the IV still attached, and sat down across from Pearsall.
"So what's new on Lecter? Anything?" she asked.
Clint Pearsall sighed. The past several hours had been stressful. First Krendler with his brain missing…and suspicious stains on his teeth. Then Starling, drugged and befuddled. Then the discovery of the receipt clearing Starling. Then Krendler's late-night death. He hadn't slept at all last night.
"You're still on administrative leave until your hearing," he said.
"I thought I was cleared," she said sharply.
"Not much on Lecter. We do know of a plane theft that occurred at a little municipal airport about twenty minutes away from the house."
Starling leaned forward intently. "Plane theft?"
"Yeah. A little Piper Cub. You know, puddle-jumper. Can Lecter fly a plane?"
Starling considered. A night's sleep had filtered most of the drugs from her system and her recall was much quicker than it had been the night before.
"There's nothing in the file about it," she said ruminatively. "He never had a pilot's license. But it wouldn't surprise me if he could." She let out a bitter chuckle. "Dr. Lecter is a multitalented man. I'd want to look at flight schools that have been around for a while, see if maybe he took some lessons before his incarceration."
"He certainly is. Look, let me take you home. Take a couple of days, Starling. We still don't know what Lecter did with your head."
We know what he did with Krendler's, Clarice Starling thought with some satisfaction.
"I feel fine, sir," she said. "With respect, I'd like to come back and see what I can do."
Clint Pearsall sucked his cheek into his mouth and chewed on it while he thought. The effect was not lovely to watch. But Starling knew it was a good sign. Legally, he was supposed to say no right off. While she was on suspension, she was Joe Blow, not an FBI agent.
"I'll have to talk to higher authority," he said calmly. "Make you a deal. Go home. Get some rest and some chicken soup. If I get the OK, I'll call you."
Her doctor stuck his head in the room. "Miss Starling?" he called.
Clarice dutifully came when called. The doctor waved a yellow sheet at her.
"Your bloodwork looks good. How are you feeling?"
"Better after a night's sleep," she said.
"Then you can go home," he nodded. He pulled the IV needle out of her arm and taped a piece of gauze across the wound. "Just see the nurse when you leave, they have some documents for you to sign."
Feeling as if she was being granted bail, Starling went and dutifully signed her name to the documents. They stated that she had, in fact, been treated in the detox center, had in fact spent the night there, and was, in the opinion of her esteemed physicians, fit to re-enter society. She solemnly attested that she had been given post-discharge instructions and would follow them with slavish devotion. Whatever it took.
Finally, she was allowed to go. Pearsall's car was a Buick, oddly bland and without personality. She wondered where her own car was. Probably back at the scene or in the impound lot. She'd have to get it out. Starling watched the scenery and did not speak on the drive home.
"Starling, don't be mad. You know the procedures," Pearsall said, and she could tell that he was honestly sorry for what had happened.
"I'm not, sir," she answered. "Just…thinking."
Silence reigned for the rest of the ride to Starling's duplex. Mapp was there, and immediately decided that Clarice was in desperate need of spicy chicken. Ever prepared, Mapp had some handy which she proceeded to serve out in large quantities. The chicken was actually quite tasty, and Starling liked it a lot. However, Ardelia had apparently misestimated the capacity of her stomach by an order of magnitude. If she ate everything Mapp wanted her to eat, she'd rupture something. While Clarice ate, Ardelia demanded and got the story of what had happened out at the lake house.
"You mean you ate Krendler's brain?" Ardelia demanded.
"Mm-hmm," Starling mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.
"Jesus," Ardelia looked away. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
Starling swallowed. "Nope," she said, and held up her hands. "Put my hair in the fridge and broke off the handle. That's it. He chopped off his own thumb, not mine."
"He didn't…do anything else to you, did he?"
Starling paused and poured herself a glass of inexpensive but tasty red wine. "He kissed me," she admitted. "When he had me on the fridge."
"Nothing else?"
Clarice snorted. "No, nothing else."
There was an unspoken tension in the air. In order to break it, Ardelia returned to Krendler.
"I can't believe you ate Krendler's brain," she said.
"It wasn't by choice, believe you me," Clarice said in her own defense. "And it wasn't just me, you know. Lecter ate some and so did he."
"Lecter made him eat his own brain?" Ardelia seemed even more aghast at the idea. Clarice wondered internally why eating your own brain would be worse than eating someone else's. On a moral scale they seemed to be rather equivalent to her.
Even though she was recovered from the influence of Dr. Lecter's drugs, the idea did not seem horrible to Clarice at all. She could remember it clearly. Krendler's brain reddish above his truncated skull. The top of his skull and hair on the table next to other wrappers and things to be discarded. Dr. Lecter's silver fork digging into the lobes. Krendler taking a piece off the proffered fork, commenting that it tasted great.
She could recall it as easily as she could recall her father's face, and none of it bothered her in the slightest. It was no more horrifying than memories of being on Hannah's broad back during her childhood. The horror Ardelia was experiencing from hearing the tale secondhand slipped from Clarice's mind like oil from water. She could see the reaction on her friend's face and felt sympathy for Ardelia over it, but she simply could not share in the horror herself. Not over Krendler.
"Yep," she said.
"Good God," Ardelia managed. "That's…I don't know. Horrible. You ought to talk to a counselor."
"Nah, I'm okay," Clarice said indifferently. "I've got training in psychology myself, 'Delia. I don't need a shrink."
"Clarice, you ended up being held hostage by Dr. Lecter. And he made you watch while he cooked Krendler's brain. And then you ate some of it?" Clarice got the idea she was speaking more for herself than asking. Ardelia shook her head. Her face had horror writ large on it, her eyes blank as she tried to imagine what had happened.
"I'm OK," Clarice pointed out. "It's not a problem for me. C'mon, Ardelia. I'm just happy to be alive and in one piece, that's what it is. And they're gonna reinstate me."
"Clarice," Ardelia said, staring at her as if she was crazy, "I mean, Krendler was a big asshole, don't get me wrong, but did he really deserve to die like that? And it doesn't seem to bother you at all."
Clarice shrugged. If Krendler was a lamb, he was a lamb that she would be willing to give up to the slaughterhouse any day of the week. She didn't blame Ardelia. It was a good thing Ardelia had gone into the FBI, she thought. She could be such a bleeding-heart liberal on some things. Everybody has rights, bla bla bla. Her own social conscience was markedly secondary to the job. Clarice shuddered to think what would happen if Ardelia had been a criminal defense attorney. She'd have gotten people to feel sorry for Dr. Lecter.
"Dr. Lecter thought so," she said. "And he didn't die. That was at the hospital after I fell asleep. I was drugged, Ardelia. I'd have helped him if I could. It wasn't my fault."
The words seemed like the truth as she spoke them, but in her heart she knew it was not true. She had tried to attack Dr. Lecter. She had handcuffed herself to him. But for Krendler himself, she had done not a thing. It was easy to tell herself that Lecter would have stopped her if she had tried. It was easy to blame it on the drugs. But none of it was true.
She'd stood by and watched while Hannibal Lecter lobotomized Paul Krendler. She could have tried to stop him. She could have pleaded for Krendler. But she hadn't. She'd simply sat there and watched.
What was more, she felt not an ounce of guilt over it. Dr. Lecter had once told her she judged herself with all the mercy of the dungeon scales at Threave. But on the subject of Krendler, she simply felt nothing. No guilt, no horror, and no urge to save him. Krendler's death had all the moral weight of deciding whether or not to sharpen a pencil.
We're more alike than we think, Clarice, Hannibal Lecter whispered from the back of her mind.
Clarice leaned forward and put her hand on Ardelia's arm. She smiled tenderly, as if Ardelia had been the one through hell in the past few days. She took a deep breath.
"'Delia," she said in a voice both resolute and kind, "I appreciate you being worried about me. I really do. But I'm okay. Really. Some horrible things happened, that's for goddam sure. But don't worry. I'm going back to work and I'm going to get Lecter. But don't get all up in arms about me. I'm alive, I'm safe, and I'm here to fight another day. Isn't that what matters?"
Ardelia nodded. "I know, you're right. I just…I can't believe you just bounce back like nothing's happened."
Clarice shrugged. "Might seem weird, but you know, Evelda was worse. That was something I was all there for. And I got by. I'll get by this too." She paused. In the forefront of her brain, her father spoke up angrily. Clarice Starling, you know better than t'say what you're about to. Starlings don't lie.
Clarice kept up her smile for Ardelia's sake. For the first time in her life she did not immediately comply with the voice's demands.
Sometimes you have to, daddy.
"I'm sorry about Krendler, he
didn't deserve that. But I couldn't do
anything to help him."
…
"Sit down," Hannibal Lecter said, as if she was the guest. "You needn't change. I was a resident once, I know how it is."
"No, wait," Erin Lander said. "I can at least put on a skirt." She surveyed the table, more elegant now than it had ever been. She disappeared into her bedroom. Dr. Lecter could hear her opening drawers. She returned perhaps fifteen minutes later, in a knee-length black skirt and a white silk blouse. She looked shy and ill at ease. Probably her only dress clothes, Dr. Lecter thought. He could smell the creamy, spicy aroma of her perfume. Freshly applied, he noted.
"You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble," she said, eying the table.
"I wanted to," he answered gently.
The déjà vu was palpable. She looked at the large steaks on the plate suspiciously.
"What are we eating?" she asked. Her one hand flitted to behind her back, covering one kidney protectively. Dr. Lecter did not think she was aware she was doing it. He smiled pleasantly.
"Filet mignon," he said. "Quite rare. I do hope you like rare meat."
She nodded absently. "No sautés reins?" she said with just a bit of suspicion.
Dr. Lecter grinned. "You remember. I'm touched. No, one cannot eat…exotic food all the time. This is nothing more than steak. The best cut, of course, but just steak."
They sat down at the table and began to eat. Dr. Lecter poured the wine with his good hand. Over dinner, she ran down his procedure with him. Dr. Lecter found it quite interesting, and had to admit that her surgical knowledge outweighed his own. Then again, he reflected, reattaching something back onto someone was a practice he had never engaged in personally. The steak was quite good, even if Dr. Lecter said so himself. It was nicely soft and cool and red in the middle. Erin complimented it extravagantly.
He asked about her other work that day, and she discussed that with him too. His surgery had been the highlight of her day: other than that she had done an appendectomy herself and observed a gunshot wound repair. All in a day's work in an urban trauma center.
She sipped her wine and her mouth quirked.
"We had some excitement in the parking garage, apparently," she said in a voice that made it eminently clear to Dr. Lecter what she meant.
Dr. Lecter swallowed his mouthful of steak. He raised his eyebrows as if surprised.
"Really? What happened?" he said attentively.
"Apparently someone was attacked," she said. "Their tongue was completely excised from their mouth."
"How awful," Dr. Lecter said ruminatively. "Why didn't you reattach it for them?" He held up his thumb as if to point out that this was in within her capabilities.
"Well…," she said, noting his amusement. "I've never reattached a tongue before. It's possible, but it's very rare." She tilted her head and eyed him with mock sternness as she forked another piece of rare steak into her mouth.
"I'm sure whoever did such a thing had a good reason for it," Dr. Lecter assured her.
"The other reason we could not reattach the tongue is because it ended up in the gutter of the parking garage. By the time they got it out, we couldn't reattach it." Her nose wrinkled. "It was dirty and had gotten pretty mauled."
"When your tongue comes from the gutter," Dr. Lecter said primly, "it will find its way back."
"Would you happen to know anything?" Her eyes sparkled at him with gallows humor. "Did you see anything while you were fleeing my care at the hospital?"
"I wasn't fleeing you, Erin. Merely the physical custody of the hospital." He smiled pleasantly. "And I didn't see anything."
"I was just curious," she asked, "because the man turned out to have shared a room with you."
"Was that the fellow? He made rude comments about the staff. I'm not surprised this happened to him."
That surprised her. "Comments?"
"He commented on some of the physical attributes of you and your staff," Dr. Lecter said by way of defense. "I didn't think it was appropriate."
Erin knew that was all the confession she was going to get. She smiled pleasantly. Part of her was troubled at the thought of Dr. Lecter slicing out someone's tongue, but part of her found it pleasing that he had done such a thing for her. Defended her honor.
After dinner, Dr. Lecter would have enjoyed the chance to play the piano, but Erin Lander's one-bedroom apartment did not allow for such things. Besides, he doubted she would have let him. A CD of Bach as played by the Baltimore Philharmonic was an acceptable substitute. She checked the thumb calmly and then handed him an orange pill vial as violins danced light in the air.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Antibiotics," she answered promptly.
Dr. Lecter checked the pills. They were exactly that.
"Where did you get them without a prescription?"
"From the drug lockup. Where else? I have some Vicodin too, in the bathroom if you want it."
Dr. Lecter's hand was indeed throbbing a bit, but he was quite able to ignore it if he chose. "Thank you, but I'm all right."
"I can give you a prescription for antibiotics," she offered. "Just tell me what name you want."
Dr. Lecter considered. Good thing it's me she's like this for, he thought. Someone else might take advantage of her.
"In the morning, please," he said. "I'll need to get a few things before I have a proper name to give you."
He closed his eyes then and sat down on the couch. Briefly, he wondered whatever had happened to the President of the Baltimore Philharmonic. Not whoever was President now, the fellow who had been President when Dr. Lecter gave his famous dinner for the board of that esteemed body. The meal hadn't seemed to bother him overmuch at the time, but once he'd found that it contained the sweetbreads of the former first flautist, the man had simply fallen right apart. In a treatment center somewhere, Dr. Lecter believed.
He was aware of Erin Lander sitting next to him on the couch, enjoying the music. Classical was something he had taught her about back when she had been his charge. From her CD collection he could tell that the taste had stuck. Neither spoke as cellos and horns filled the small apartment. Neither one wanted to interrupt the music. For Dr. Lecter, listening to music was something he treasured more than the average person. Years of only having music in his memory palace made him appreciate the real thing more.
When the CD finally finished, Dr. Lecter realized that they would probably need to sleep. She would, at least. She had to be up early for morning rounds. And he was tired himself from the anesthesia.
"We ought to go to sleep," he murmured.
She nodded. "Let me just get a blanket and sheet," she said.
Dr. Lecter tilted his head curiously.
"To make up the couch," she explained.
"I see." He rose courteously. "An extra pillow, if you please." Years of one tiny, flat jail pillow had also left its mark on Dr. Lecter.
"What?" She stopped and gave him a puzzled look. "No, Dr. Lecter, I'll take the couch. You're my guest."
"Nonsense," Dr. Lecter said. "I do not wish to impose. It's fine."
They argued back and forth politely for a few minutes. Dr. Lecter privately found it amusing. Was this not the sort of thing courtesy was supposed to avoid?
Erin finally broke the impasse with an unexpected turn.
"We could share the bed, I guess. It's big enough."
Dr. Lecter crossed around and glanced into the bedroom door. Her bed was indeed larger than he would have expected for a single woman. Then again, a comfortable bed for a resident was a necessity, not a luxury. He turned back and watched her smile nervously and tremble at him, expecting to be turned down.
"All right," he said calmly. "I suppose we're both adults."
He allowed her to turn down the bed and change first. He put the scrub pants back on – unfortunately, the shirt was too bloody – and hung up his suit carefully on one of the new wooden hangers he had purchased that afternoon. The bed was quite comfortable, he thought. The sheets were cool and pleasant against his skin. On the other side, Erin eyed him carefully and tugged on the hem of her nightgown.
There's a cannibal in my bed. There's a cannibal in my bed, she thought. He seemed to sense her gaze and opened his eyes. In the dim light, they reflected redly at her. She rolled over and crammed a fist into her mouth. Her heart raced. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, serial killer and cannibal, lately of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, was lying next to her in her own bed.
Erin Lander was not a psychiatrist and had not yet looked into the whirlpool of emotions that Dr. Lecter evoked in her. Before, when he had simply been a figure in the back of her mind, it had been buried, a hidden pool under the groundlayer of her normal, busy life. Now that he was here, in the flesh, (and in my bed, right here in my bed, her mind gibbered), the groundlayer had given way and the pool burst under pressure. Then again, how was she supposed to feel towards a man who replaced her failed kidneys and then fed her the old ones?
There was gratitude and respect in the mix, certainly. Counterpointing it was no small amount of fear and terror. Below those main elements were feelings she did not want to acknowledge and ignored as best she was able. Sometimes they overwhelmed her, as they had in the ER, but she did her best to keep them down. Dr. Lecter was being a perfect gentleman on his side of things; she should try to mimic him. But it wasn't easy: not when he had the ability to make her heart race and her palms sweat with a single glance. This time, there were no psychotropic drugs to fence her off from her emotions.
Next to her, Dr. Lecter shifted. Erin shivered.
Like I'm gonna get any sleep now.
She could feel his breath, calm and warm, on the back of her neck. For a moment, she thought she should roll over. After all, did she really want to be that vulnerable around Hannibal Lecter?
But then it occurred to her that she was already quite vulnerable to him no matter what position her body took. Fear…terror…respect…gratitude…love? It didn't matter whether it was one or all: all she knew was that he made her heart sing and race at the same time. She could feel the warmth of his body, the heat of his body, and realized he was closer than he was before. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
Go to sleep, she told herself, but her body would no more obey that command than it would grow a third arm. She watched the lattice-pattern of moonlight from the window projected onto the ceiling and wall. Her hands bunched into nervous fists.
Then there was the rasp of a body moving beneath the blanket, and Dr. Lecter's head rose above hers in the faint moonlight. Erin gasped. Then his mouth was on hers, his sleek head blotting out the light, and his hands were on her body. And then Dr. Erin Lander could think no more and surrendered to the moment.