~Sorry it's been so long since I've updated. I had to change the story a
bit so I wouldn't make you all mad at me. Usual disclaimers apply as
always. This is one of those transition chapters, where the character
undergoes a dramatic change. Just so you're not confused about her actions.
I was feeling very descriptive in this chapter. Tell me if I should keep it
this way! With that said, ta ta for now. C.S.~
Clarice Starling was pacing again. Back and forth through her small home, the wooden floors creaking under her heavy footsteps. She was worried, and she wasn't keeping it a secret. She looked at the clock.
Five in the morning and I'm still waiting… she said to herself.
Hannibal had gone back to Buenos Aires yet again, saying it was only the smart thing, and the safe thing, to do. She hadn't argued with him at the time, but now she wished she had. She was almost fully recovered now, and she was back to work again. This, however didn't worry her. It should have, seeing as how she was on the case of Hannibal Lecter, and she was keeping him a secret.
She pressed the cigarette to her lips and drew in a huge puff of smoke into her lungs. She held it there for a while, looking at the phone, and then let it out slowly, the smoke making small circles around her lips and hair. She'd only recently picked up the habit, one which she hated almost as much as not being able to see Hannibal. It was also a secret habit, this smoking thing she was on. She didn't understand why it calmed her down, or why she'd decided to go to the store and buy the carton, but she knew she wasn't stopping anytime soon.
She only smoked three a day, in order to make it easier for her to breathe while running the Yellow Brick Road out in the woods at the FBI. She looked at the clock yet again, her eyes red and sleepless, burning in the rising sunlight.
Five after five…
She was waiting for a phone call from Hannibal, as he'd promised he'd call her every night. The past two nights, she hadn't heard from him. Which also meant, she hadn't slept at all. She took one last drag off the cigarette and smashed it out in the ashtray in her kitchen, quickly making sure she dumped it out and washed it, storing it neatly away in the bottom drawer under the sink. She'd be damned if she was going to let Delia find it one night when she decided to come over unannounced through the adjoining door. She made her way upstairs and threw off her clothes, turning on the cold water in her shower. She stepped in, not even making a face as the freezing water hit her head and back. She didn't even notice it, really, and it only freshened her up to the point of semi- zombie woman. She ran some Kiwi Lime shampoo through her hair, scrubbing it in to get the smoky smell out. She repeated this at least three times.
She took the soap and absentmindedly scrubbed her skin until it turned red, staining the smell of Apple onto her skin. She let the water rinse it away in its own time, and then stepped out of the shower, only half drying herself off. She ran the towel through her hair, just enough to make it stop dripping onto her back, and pulled it up with a black rubber band high on her head. She didn't bother to brush it at all. She brushed her teeth in all of twenty seconds, only giving the mouthwash at least three. She wiped her mouth on her arm, and put on her panties, black tank top, and black army cargo pants. God, she looked like the living dead. She looked to her perfume and decided against it. The deodorant was a must, although she didn't want it. She didn't like any smell that made her stand out. Not now, anyway. She wondered how long it would take the men (and women) at the station to recognize her today. They should be use to it, she mused, I wear black when I feel like shit.
She didn't dwell over why he hadn't called. She tried her best not to think about him at all, but it was hard when you went to work in the morning and saw his picture on every single wall, desk, poster, computer, and God knows what else.
She sighed and looked at the clock yet again. It was now six thirty. Time to go to work, oh joy, she thought. She jogged downstairs and put on her belt, locking the .45s into place. She remembered a line from a movie she'd watched on HBO that night. She said it outloud to herself.
"What kind of an asshole would keep a loaded gun in the house?"
What was the name of it? She thought. Oh yeah, Foxfire. A good movie on her list, but one she could only watch once, or she'd cry the second time.
Two stars for Angelina Jolie… she thought to herself yet again, remembering the time Delia had said she looked like Lara Croft, and smiled.
She walked into the kitchen, only grabbing a doughnut covered in sugar, and a thermos of coffee, black. She put her bag around her shoulder, the doughnut in her mouth, and headed for her car.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
(At the FBI)
Clarice walked through the doors, wiping the last remaining grains of her so-called "Breakfast" from the corners of her mouth. She hated walking down all these steps, but was glad she could even walk after her minor encounter with, as they liked to call Margot, "The Shrew". She ignored the worried, and offensive glances of the other agents, and headed for her "Hannibal House." It was funny how everything at the FBI, including the FBI itself, had a nickname. She wondered what hers was when she wasn't paying attention.
She amused herself thinking of all the possibilities, not knowing one of them was the correct one.
Hannibal Whore, Princess Bitch, Slutty Starling, Over The Moon…
She walked through the black curtain of her "office" and stopped dead. It had been raided, or so it looked like. Everything was trashed, and there was red pain, or what she hoped was red pain, all over the walls. The pictures of Lecter where torn in half, her files thrown all over the place, her computer on the floor, no doubt broken. She read the painted words.
"Whore, slut, bitch, Mrs. Lecter, cry baby, murderer…" and a few others we can't name. She felt a scream of anger rise up in her throat as she let her bag fall to the floor. Tears stung her eyes.
"Who the hell did this!" she yelled.
Delia came running, as usual, followed by a few other agents. Delia shook her head, along with her sidekick mules, and put a hand around Clarice's shoulder.
"Common, I'll get someone to clean this up."
Clarice let herself be lead out of the room by Delia, who picked up her back along the way. They headed for Delia's office. Clarice didn't look to the sides of her, although later on, she would be wishing she had, or she would have noticed Pearson in the back, smiling at her.
Clarice Starling was pacing again. Back and forth through her small home, the wooden floors creaking under her heavy footsteps. She was worried, and she wasn't keeping it a secret. She looked at the clock.
Five in the morning and I'm still waiting… she said to herself.
Hannibal had gone back to Buenos Aires yet again, saying it was only the smart thing, and the safe thing, to do. She hadn't argued with him at the time, but now she wished she had. She was almost fully recovered now, and she was back to work again. This, however didn't worry her. It should have, seeing as how she was on the case of Hannibal Lecter, and she was keeping him a secret.
She pressed the cigarette to her lips and drew in a huge puff of smoke into her lungs. She held it there for a while, looking at the phone, and then let it out slowly, the smoke making small circles around her lips and hair. She'd only recently picked up the habit, one which she hated almost as much as not being able to see Hannibal. It was also a secret habit, this smoking thing she was on. She didn't understand why it calmed her down, or why she'd decided to go to the store and buy the carton, but she knew she wasn't stopping anytime soon.
She only smoked three a day, in order to make it easier for her to breathe while running the Yellow Brick Road out in the woods at the FBI. She looked at the clock yet again, her eyes red and sleepless, burning in the rising sunlight.
Five after five…
She was waiting for a phone call from Hannibal, as he'd promised he'd call her every night. The past two nights, she hadn't heard from him. Which also meant, she hadn't slept at all. She took one last drag off the cigarette and smashed it out in the ashtray in her kitchen, quickly making sure she dumped it out and washed it, storing it neatly away in the bottom drawer under the sink. She'd be damned if she was going to let Delia find it one night when she decided to come over unannounced through the adjoining door. She made her way upstairs and threw off her clothes, turning on the cold water in her shower. She stepped in, not even making a face as the freezing water hit her head and back. She didn't even notice it, really, and it only freshened her up to the point of semi- zombie woman. She ran some Kiwi Lime shampoo through her hair, scrubbing it in to get the smoky smell out. She repeated this at least three times.
She took the soap and absentmindedly scrubbed her skin until it turned red, staining the smell of Apple onto her skin. She let the water rinse it away in its own time, and then stepped out of the shower, only half drying herself off. She ran the towel through her hair, just enough to make it stop dripping onto her back, and pulled it up with a black rubber band high on her head. She didn't bother to brush it at all. She brushed her teeth in all of twenty seconds, only giving the mouthwash at least three. She wiped her mouth on her arm, and put on her panties, black tank top, and black army cargo pants. God, she looked like the living dead. She looked to her perfume and decided against it. The deodorant was a must, although she didn't want it. She didn't like any smell that made her stand out. Not now, anyway. She wondered how long it would take the men (and women) at the station to recognize her today. They should be use to it, she mused, I wear black when I feel like shit.
She didn't dwell over why he hadn't called. She tried her best not to think about him at all, but it was hard when you went to work in the morning and saw his picture on every single wall, desk, poster, computer, and God knows what else.
She sighed and looked at the clock yet again. It was now six thirty. Time to go to work, oh joy, she thought. She jogged downstairs and put on her belt, locking the .45s into place. She remembered a line from a movie she'd watched on HBO that night. She said it outloud to herself.
"What kind of an asshole would keep a loaded gun in the house?"
What was the name of it? She thought. Oh yeah, Foxfire. A good movie on her list, but one she could only watch once, or she'd cry the second time.
Two stars for Angelina Jolie… she thought to herself yet again, remembering the time Delia had said she looked like Lara Croft, and smiled.
She walked into the kitchen, only grabbing a doughnut covered in sugar, and a thermos of coffee, black. She put her bag around her shoulder, the doughnut in her mouth, and headed for her car.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
(At the FBI)
Clarice walked through the doors, wiping the last remaining grains of her so-called "Breakfast" from the corners of her mouth. She hated walking down all these steps, but was glad she could even walk after her minor encounter with, as they liked to call Margot, "The Shrew". She ignored the worried, and offensive glances of the other agents, and headed for her "Hannibal House." It was funny how everything at the FBI, including the FBI itself, had a nickname. She wondered what hers was when she wasn't paying attention.
She amused herself thinking of all the possibilities, not knowing one of them was the correct one.
Hannibal Whore, Princess Bitch, Slutty Starling, Over The Moon…
She walked through the black curtain of her "office" and stopped dead. It had been raided, or so it looked like. Everything was trashed, and there was red pain, or what she hoped was red pain, all over the walls. The pictures of Lecter where torn in half, her files thrown all over the place, her computer on the floor, no doubt broken. She read the painted words.
"Whore, slut, bitch, Mrs. Lecter, cry baby, murderer…" and a few others we can't name. She felt a scream of anger rise up in her throat as she let her bag fall to the floor. Tears stung her eyes.
"Who the hell did this!" she yelled.
Delia came running, as usual, followed by a few other agents. Delia shook her head, along with her sidekick mules, and put a hand around Clarice's shoulder.
"Common, I'll get someone to clean this up."
Clarice let herself be lead out of the room by Delia, who picked up her back along the way. They headed for Delia's office. Clarice didn't look to the sides of her, although later on, she would be wishing she had, or she would have noticed Pearson in the back, smiling at her.