Author's Note: The beginning of this might seem a little odd…but you can again thank My Fair Lady for that. Heh heh.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Twelve

In any circumstance, 'goodbye' is always the hardest thing to say. Minutes stilled between the place she had grown to love as home and the pavement that would lead her away. Night threatened to melt into morning. Starling paced herself gradually, as though willing someone to yet erupt from the doors and drag her back inside. But no—she knew better. Barney respected the validity of her word, and it would be hours before Dr. Lecter stirred from his chamber.

She wished spitefully on an anticlimactic note that it had taken him an uncharacteristically long time to both find and remain in peaceful slumber.

As courageous as she felt adopting a reaction that resembled leaving home again, Starling could not ignore the trembles of trepidation that quaked through her system. She understood how imperative it was to get as far away as possible, but the part of her that screamed vindication ached to watch the doctor receive exactly what he claimed he wanted.

At times such as these, it became essential to summon the words and reassurances of modern day philosophers, such as Joni Mitchell and John Lennon. She realized in frustration that the one CD she had failed to pack was the ever-important Beatles album she had arrived with.

Miserable is the man who gets exactly what he asked for, Mapp had said one particularly drunken evening. She chose to dismiss that at the time, the conversation had revolved around a man who was rolling on the floor, having been kicked resolutely where men particularly do not like being kicked. With as irritated as she was still at her friend's vacillatingly true accusations, that thought offered a pang of placid comfort.

Heaving a sigh, Starling resigned and forced herself away. The only place she knew to go was her old duplex, which was certainly now rented out to someone else. Mapp, without a doubt, salvaged what she could of the belongings left behind, even with the hostility of their last phone call. Their friendship had survived enough not to be threatened by one idle incident.

However, Starling vowed not to intrude on her friend's generosity longer than necessary. As soon as she found a reliable job and an apartment, she would relieve the load deposited on Mapp's shoulders. It was settled, at least in her mind, that she would not return to Quantico as a student. Not with everything that had passed, everything she saw and understood now. There would be one final trip to Jack Crawford's office for delivery of the completed Buffalo Bill file, and for that she was determined to look better than ever, admittedly for personal benefit. Just once, she needed to see Paul Krendler trip over himself. It would be the first selfish thing willfully done in what felt like an eternity.

These final steps she took sealed her agreement with herself. Starling inhaled deeply and held it, moving down the sidewalk. A couple blocks down was a bus stop. It felt odd in a frightening though equally liberating fashion; this was the furthest outside she had traveled in so many months—excluding the jogging she enjoyed at the beginning of the project—without Barney or Dr. Lecter at her side.

The thought seemed to jinx her. With a start, she noticed a figure, perceptibly male, standing in the streetlight across the road. She was apprehensive only for a minute—the light identifying him easily. As soon as their eyes met, a smile broke out across his face and he thundered across the pavement to meet her.

Starling blinked, unable to keep her surprise from breeching her voice. "Noble…whatever are you doing here?"

"I spend most of my nights here," he said eagerly, his eyes wide and admirably alert, given the time of morning. Were it anyone else, she would have seized the excuse to return to the safety of the house. Starling was reasonably tough, but she was intelligent enough to recognize a dangerous situation. A single white female, unarmed, at this time of the morning could not be the brightest move. After all, a man watching a house at such an hour in this day and age was not exactly a conventional friendly calling. However, the whelp, as Dr. Lecter had once described him, was harmless. His affections were sincere, if not obsessive. She doubted he had to work much, given his aunt's money and connections. "It's the only place where I'm happy," he continued. "Don't be angry, Ms. Starling."

Her eyes flashed achingly, though she knew he would not see it. "Don't call me 'Ms. Starling,' do you hear? Clarice is good enough for me."

"Has your housekeeper not told you? Or Dr. Lecter?" Pilcher took off after her as she began, hurriedly now, down the sidewalk. "I've come by several times, and called even more. They told me you were always busy, or…I—"

A searing surge of irritation overwhelmed her abruptly, attacking every raw nerve, a powerful wave of aggravated despair. What was it about him! Dr. Lecter himself did not (or could not, as the case was) want her, but he similarly prevented HER from wanting others. What calculating deceit! His insufferable pride prevented him from doing that which would make them both happy. And still, even knowing this, she could not provoke herself to turn that exasperation into dislike. Rather, knowing such devious conceptions only increased her irksome infallible favor.

However, her spirit descended once more as she paused in stride, performing an astute about-face, silencing Pilcher's ramblings in mid-speech.

The manor was still in view, illuminated by the weak streetlights. She frowned miserably. "Noble," she whispered, though more to herself. "You don't think I'm a misfit of society, do you?"

"How could you think so?" he demanded, voice not as coated with disapproval as Dr. Lecter's would have been to make such an inquiry. "I've been…completely infatuated…" He trailed off solicitously. "I can't understand why Dr. Lecter avoided telling you about my messages. I tell you, Miss…Clarice, there is no mistaking what I feel."

Starling smiled appreciatively as he went on as such, describing the many evenings he had lingered outside, simply pleased to know that he was on the street where she lived. That his nights were empty if spent anywhere else. Against her better senses, she began to soften. Purely knowing there was a man alive who genuinely liked her—beyond the merit of Paul Krendler—who didn't object to social status (or would continue not to, once he knew in which circle she ran) was refreshing.

Sweet vindication.

However, there was that reoccurring sentiment of repetition. On and on and on he went, his own line of speech hardly as articulate as Dr. Lecter's but equally strenuous and frustrating. Having spent months with a man who specialized in teasing her nerves, she was fed up with people who assured her of a favorable disposition without following their words with actions.

Not that she truly wanted this for herself. She was grateful, though, for the authentic tug at his emotions. Even the prospect of having caught her at the most unflattering of times—given her makeup and hair situation—failed to affect in the situation of his feeling.

However, despite this, there was only so much one could take. Though Starling had never considered herself a person to avidly welcome displays of affection, listening to this continuous stream of assurances, she found herself growing weak with agitation. She had just spent six months with a man who teased her nerves with innuendos never followed by action. At last, she exploded, unable to stand vulnerable while her anxious eyes darting to the house that held her heart as some eager pup tried to give her his.

The events that mounted the past few hours were catching up to her, a brewing pot set to explode. Tears would have tempted her again simply for inward suggestion, but she shook her head with steadfast stubbornness and released it. "Words, words, words! I'm so sick of words! Words are all I get, first from him—" She gestured violently at the house, "—now from you! You don't expect me to believe that's all men are good for!" She whirled in a stern turnaround and started away again, walking heated strides accentuated with firm conviction. "I don't need epic poems, or letters, or roses, or chocolates. For that you will only be resented. If your feelings are as you say they are, just show me and get it over with." Pilcher was more than willing to abide, but Starling increased her pace. The longer she stayed in his company, the more she was convinced that her previously good opinion—other than her gratitude at his heartfelt kindness—had originated as the regretful prompt for Dr. Lecter's jealousy. Still, she was too goaded and searing with the sting of wounded refutation to consider the weight of actions. Intentionally, she allowed a malicious slip of her perfected accent, wishing the doctor could hear. "There is no need to explaene."

The rest of their walk consisted of a race for the bus stop. There, she heaved a breath and placed her bags down, holding a hand to exhibit her demand for space. Respectfully, Pilcher backed up, though it was evident that he wanted to seal the gap between them.

"Where are you going?" he asked after a minute or so of silence.

"Where I belong," she retorted with a sigh. "Finally back to where I belong."

She sensed he wanted to inquire of her meaning but wisely restrained himself. As the early signs of morning began to blossom around them, her tensed nerves began to ease. It was a relief simply being paced away from the house, now out of Dr. Lecter's range from the master chamber.

Still, it was felt being here, and while she recited it to herself repeatedly, the very tangible thought that she would never see the inside of the manor or even his face again had not yet sunk in. Perhaps the notion was too much to grasp in the time allowed.

Perhaps she believed on a level that he would yet come after her.

"Foolish sentiment," she muttered, not having intended to speak aloud, and similarly, not reacting to the confused look she received from the man at her side.

The bus arrived. Pilcher presumptuously entered first, evidently set to follow her to whatever destination she might entail. Starling was not so eager, but no less reluctant. One last time, her eyes fell to the shadows they had emerged from, willing Dr. Lecter the last chance to come forward from darkness and stop her. When he did not, her shoulders slumped crestfallenly, and she nodded to herself, stepping up to the bus and flinching when the door closed behind her.


* * *



The sight of the duplex resembled a postcard to worn, tired eyes. Starling secreted a breath, set with newfound fatigue. It was nearly five in the morning, and she knew not to expect Mapp awake, as she herself would have been six months before. Fleetingly, she wondered how difficult it would be to fall back into habit. Several times, her mind had wandered in this direction, but standing here made the prospect more real. More final and determined, perhaps accentuated with the knowledge that it would never happen.

An angry day at school followed by a more spiteful retreat to some random bar, where, of course, not too much was consumed. After all, Starling was the designated driver. The responsible half of the pair. A return home around 2:00 AM, three hours of sleep before her alarm clock sounded, subsequently pursued by routine beatings of the snooze bar before she could convince herself up to take her morning jog.

That was, unless, some bored gentleman decided to approach in reaction to witnessing an act of spontaneously released agitation, proceed to irritate her to her very core that inevitably led, in one way or another, to Starling falling tragically in love with him.

Hopeless romantic…

She knew it would not be like that now. Not only did she find the practice of wasting evenings in a smoke-filled room of some anonymous pub trite and ridiculous, but now the teachings of Marcus Aurelius were hammered into her system. It was one of his philosophies as a Stoic that a person was made to work, thus there was no point in lying in bed, or in her case, fighting the alarm clock. All that and more, Dr. Lecter had allowed her to sleep until nine most mornings. For anything else, she was vastly out of practice.

"What are we doing here?" Pilcher asked, snapping her out of her reverie.

Starling blinked and shook her head, releasing a pained sigh. Being here gave her a certain flavor of distaste, the mundane twist that had remained concealed under habit until now.

"I live here," she retorted absently, ignoring the confused look she received. "Or, I used to live here."

"I thought you lived with Dr. Lecter."

Starling's eyes darkened and she shot him a brief glance. There was no point in growing cross with him; he had no idea how words could sting. "Did your aunt tell you that?"

"Yes. She said he was a friend of your father's who was looking after you until you got back on your feet."

The once solid aggravation she felt toward Mrs. Rosencranz fluttered slightly, but similarly drained its strength and fell inactive. There was no point in such aloofness now, and misplaced dislike.

"I was living with Dr. Lecter," she replied a cold moment later. "We had a…complicated situation that has resolved itself."

With a dry, inward chuckle, she realized suddenly what that made her. Homeless.

"I just assumed she was telling the truth," Pilcher continued, eyes widening in minor offense to the challenge of his aunt's validity. "She rarely has the motive to lie, and you said that you were tired of people feeding you with words. What else could you mean?"

The boy was either a highly skilled actor or located well beyond the lines of conventional ignorance.

"What else indeed?" she scoffed, affronted though knowing it was only for suggestion rather than any applicable irritation. "Obviously, you have it all figured out, Noble. What could my confirmation prove?"

When he smiled again, in true disclosure of his character, Starling took a sip of his previously wounded pride and smiled her threadbare kindness. It was difficult trying to create manifest dislike for someone so overly nice, in the same fashion as it was when searching for a victim at which to unleash her exasperation. A beat or so passed; she turned her attention back to the duplex and swallowed a breath. "I need to do this," she whispered. "Alone."

And, before he could offer a retort, Starling set off again, heaving her bags off the pavement as she paced up the walkway. She paused before the door, nibbling thoughtfully on her lip. If at all possible, she did not wish to disturb the inhabitant—or inhabitants, as they case may be—next door by pounding until Mapp woke up. Knowing her friend's history in sleeping off a wild night, such could take a reasonably long time. Similarly, though she knew where the spare key was located, she did not want to take advantage of her friend's hopefully good temperament and presume to invite herself in. Months ago, this would not have been an object. With the new awkwardness between them, however, it was a tad presumptuous to grant herself leeway.

As she processed her options, the front door swung open, causing her to gasp in surprise. A very awake, very alert Ardelia Mapp stood across the threshold. By her eyes, Starling could tell that she had been watching for some time.

Such an advantage did little conceal her friend's livid confusion to see her here at this hour. They stared for a second or two.

"Good morning, Ardelia," she said at last, determined to hold her ground.

Mapp gawked as though she had grown another head. "What the hell happened to your voice?" she demanded. Her tone suggested an accusation of murder.

The question at first threw her off. Over the course of the past couple months, Starling had grown accustomed to hearing her accent as it was, even with the willful slips into an old vernacular. It seemed odd that anyone should notice now, especially given that they had chatted since. "That was another exercise," she explained. "I thought you knew…we did converse not too long ago."

"Yeah. I thought my phone was fucking up," Mapp said dismissively, apparently losing interest along with her explanation. "That's incredible."

"You're awake," Starling observed, desperate to get off topic. Anything that reminded her of Dr. Lecter right now was unwelcome, even if she knew the subject was by in large inevitable. It was the only thing she could think of.

"Yeah," Mapp agreed, rolling her eyes as if to exhibit her weariness. "Since you left, I had to get all responsible. Fucking sucks. No more bar nights for me." Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

A sigh rolled off her tongue, shuddering through her system. Some burden left with it, glad at last, even through her still tangible irritation, to have a friend to talk to. Someone to share a rational conversation with while likewise avoiding a search for or the issuing of innuendoes. "So many things…here…may I come in?"

Mapp at first appeared offended that such a question was required, then nodded her compliance and stepped aside. "Of course, of course," she muttered. "Who's the guy?"

Fleetingly, Starling blinked in confusion before recalling that Pilcher stood by the curb. "Oh. Him. He's the nephew of one of Dr. Lecter's friends."

"Aren't you going to invite him in?"

"I'd really rather not."

"Uh oh," she retorted knowingly, reaching to grasp the other suitcase. "Another Paul Krendler? Why don't you just sock 'em, girl? Or has the Good Doctor made you forget how to do that too?"

Starling smiled in faint appreciation. "No. If Pilcher were as rude as Mr. Krendler, you can be assured that one of us would have done something by now."

It wasn't the warmest homecoming, but it was certainly more than she expected.

When they were inside, in the light, Mapp abruptly dropped the bag and stared. "Oh good god!" she cried. "I knew something had to be wrong. What happened?"

Again, she was confused, blinking in surprise until she noticed her friend's wide gaze studying in mute concern the telltale streaks of smeared makeup on her face. The skin around her eyes felt dry and fatigued, but still lingering a sense of normalcy. "Oh," Starling conceded, shoulders slumping as she fought the desire to let herself sink to the ground in defeat. "That. Yeah…I have a lot to tell you."

"I can see that," Mapp said, grasping her forearm in support, an intuitive nature rebounding in result of many years together. "Or you wouldn't be here. I thought you were mad as hell at me. Come on, girl. Let's get you cleaned up."

Ten minutes later, her face was spotless and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. A loose-fitting sweatshirt replaced her blouse, which had been carefully selected because she knew he, in particular, would approve of it. Such felt foolish now, even as only a few hours had passed. A pair of sweats and some old sneakers were thrown on in a frenzy to get comfortable. It felt alien reclining anywhere but her bedchamber in such relaxed clothing, like standing in a mall dressed in a towel. She had to fight the temptation to pull the afghan over her shoulders.

There was cautious, but there was also a line.

Mapp waited respectfully until she was ready to speak.

"I've been very foolish," Starling said without preamble, releasing a long sigh as she ached to break her perfect posture. Some solidly founded habit forbade her from doing so.

"What did he do to you?"

The next was difficult to confess, plausibly for it betrayed her state of rejection, the mindset that somewhere she had been wronged. However, there was no denying the truth. Those last few minutes with Dr. Lecter were a blessed relief; the emanation of such long-restrained tension was comparable only to a breath of fresh air. She closed her eyes in silent admonishment of her own reprehensive behavior. "He did nothing to me that I didn't want him to."

The lure captured Mapp's attention, and she eagerly leaned forward, eyes wide with expectation. "What did he do, Starling? Did you let him fuck you?"

"No."

"Did you fuck him?"

"No." She smiled weakly, recalling their conversation of long ago. It was apparent—surprisingly so—that her friend's mindset had alleviated a little in the past half year. "No. He was a perfect gentleman through it all. Until the end."

"But?"

"But…" Starling sighed again, pulling her legs under her. The first breech in etiquette. It felt flawed and rebellious, and she loved it. "I don't know where I went wrong, Ardelia. I've spent most of my life closed off and sheltered…my own protective world in my own protective ball. And somehow…I managed to…" She looked up miserably, what she couldn't say splayed clearly on her face. There was no want to hide it, and she doubted she could even if she were so inclined.

"Wait. Whoa. Hold the phone." Mapp jumped to her feet, sneering at her sharply. "Don't tell me you're in love with that old man!"

A flash of anger crossed her features, but she couldn't find the strength to reprimand her friend for such continuous ignorance. Instead, the spark died with relative ease, and she sighed, defeated. "I know I'm an idiot," she spat bitterly, though more directed at herself. "And trust me, I've been fighting it for weeks now. Maybe longer than that. Who the hell knows anymore? But…I can't understand why it would hurt so much otherwise."

"What do you mean?"

With little resistance, she found herself relating the ordeal entire. Every notion, every event that calculated itself to the final crucial moment. Every lesson, every look, every discussion, every feeling that passed between them. Every spark of divine similarity, every interruption by dear old Barney. Everything up to and including that final devastating conversation. Perhaps the only detail she left out was her admittance of the screaming lambs. That remained locked and secure inside an inner chamber, never to be shared with anyone again.

Mapp's own disposition suffered an unexpected transformation—moving from indignant to appalled that any man could reject her in such a fashion. It was amusing watching her; viewing such disparity as dislike and speculation melted to indifference, to respect, disappointment, and finally unabridged anger.

"That self-satisfied prick," she muttered angrily. "Well, you're better of without him if he thinks he's too good for you."

Starling offered a weak smile of appreciation. "I've been telling myself that," she complied with a nod. "And it's not like I don't have my prospects. Noble appears to love me regardless, even if he is one of the most annoying men I have encountered in the general acquaintance."

"…What?"

A short rumble of laughter. "I'm sorry. I suppose it will take a few weeks to lower my new sense of terminology. It's amazing what you pick up only by association. I didn't even realize I was speaking like him until I found myself enveloped conversation with the Secretary of State last night."

"I still can't believe it. You got to eat at the White House."

Starling shrugged simply, as though it were not any more important or exciting than a trip to the zoo. "Highly overrated, I assure you. I'll say faithfully, Ardelia, that the more I related with their snooty society, the more I appreciated ours. I will never regret doing it, I don't think. It was a fantastic experience from such a perspective." The smile began to melt off her face. "However, it was also an eye-opener. There were things I saw and realized that will ultimately mean a roundabout turn in my life."

Mapp paused hesitantly, not willing herself to hear.

"I will not be returning to Quantico."

"Excuse me?"

With a sigh, Starling climbed to her feet, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of such an allegation. "I mean it. I cannot do that to myself. I cannot be around such self-degrading influences as Paul Krendler. My life will not be founded and supported on my imminent destruction." A sigh heaved off her shoulders. "I fear I have him to thank for this. I would not have seen it for years, if ever, were it not for his prompting me to such insight."

Predictably, Mapp could not see it in such a light. Her eyes flashed angrily, her hands finding station at her hips like an angry schoolmaster preparing for a scolding session. "So not only does he make you fall in love with him," she hissed. "He also steals your future without offering you another one. What a guy, Starling! What a guy!"

"Stop it, Ardelia. It's for the best."

"How? How is it for the best? What in god's name will you do, now? You've only worked for this your WHOLE life! And what do you have to show for it?"

Starling smiled wryly. Without replying, she moved passed her friend and to her suitcase, unzipping the side-flap. Inside was the complete Buffalo Bill case file, ready to be analyzed, though she knew no one would find fault in her conclusions. As Dr. Lecter had said, it was a giant jigsaw puzzle, the pieces strewn across the country in waiting to be placed together. With some satisfaction, she handed it to Mapp, flipping open to the last page.

Blessed success.

The look on Mapp's face was, in Barney's words, an immense achievement. At first, her eyes were dark and skeptical, reeling in surprise that this, of all things, was her last resort. Then, as she traced the results, the clues placed together, her features fell to the same realization that had tackled Starling only hours before. Decisively, she gasped as her eyes shot upward, wide with surprise and admiration. "Holy fuck, Starling. Do you know what this means?"

"Yes—"

"He's been THERE! Under our noses the entire FUCKING time! Every time we had an agent go investigate…Belvedere…I don't believe it!"

Starling chuckled lightly, tugging the file from her grasp. "Do that for a few hours, Ardelia, and you might be in the same place I am right now."

"And…Dr. Lecter helped you see all this? We have HIM of all people to thank?"

"He helped me see it, yes. But those are my conclusions." For whatever reason, that distinction was essential. "But it's true that I would not have arrived at such a pivotal point if not for his influence."

The passing seconds assisted in lowering Mapp's excitement, though her chest heaved with exertion. "You know, Starling," she said thoughtfully a minute later. "Things might not be as bleak as you think they are. It sounds like, if he went to so much trouble for you, that he might…"

"I know he does. He told me so."

"And he kissed you."

She shrugged. "Well, you know what they say. 'A kiss is just a kiss.'"

"I thought you said it was a kiss is still a kiss."

"I found I much prefer the incorrect lyric."

"What are we going to do about this?" Mapp looked resolutely to the case file.

"Take it in to Crawford, what else? It'll be the last time I see him, or Quantico."

There looked to be an air of steady objection ready on her friend's tongue, but she released it just as quickly, nodding in comprehension. "I see. I see. Well, there's one thing we'll have to be certain of."

"What's that?"

Mapp grinned wickedly. "You're going to look fabulous."


* * *