Author's Note : Last chapter!  There will be in epilogue in a few days. Thanks to Nikita for editing the first part for me. Have a blast at SW tonight – as if you couldn't. Hah.

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 Fifteen


A time of many firsts. The first time that he did not possess the answers, the first time that he did not know where his feet should carry him, the first time he reflected on his decisions as follies rather than a rational course of action, the first time to question his judgment. This all came as consequence, of course, as it was the first time to be in love.

For years, Dr. Lecter had prided himself on acting logically, reasonably, thinking things through even if he knew the answer given to intuition. He was unaccustomed to being told with the same prudence that he was wrong, and furthermore, knowing that the allegation was not without merit. Over time, he had perfected his methods and his reasoning to the point of minimal, if any, moments of supreme recklessness. His thoroughness had enabled him to pass the most severe scrutiny in the unlikely event that he found himself in the wrong. To reprimand himself was punishment enough, though the passage was usually fluent and never scrupulously distressing. The analysis of his own floundering blunder served in the efforts of fruitfulness, thus allowing him to prevent the miscalculation from repeating itself.

Insufferable was the notion that he was caught in error. Intolerable was the knowledge that someone else was right.

All women want the men they love to go after them. I can guarantee you, she might be angry if you don't listen to her, but she will never forgive you if you do.

He wondered where she was right now. Wondered she was packing for the impending move to New York, spending this time with Pilcher or perhaps sharing a heartfelt farewell with Ardelia Mapp. He wondered if she felt any stirrings of second thoughts, and immediately knew the answer. No, Clarice Starling was pumped with the taste of her conviction.

It was expected with all that had passed.

The oncoming weeks were not going to be easy. Dr. Lecter liked to think himself immune to any form of change. When she entered his life, conforming his schedule to fit around her lessons had been entirely too simplistic, the teachings themselves much too much fun for conventional education.

Days ahead loomed in embryonic tedium. Not only with the promise of her absence, but also with the one-dimensional knowledge that besides cherishing her radiating personality, her smiles, her frowns, her ups and downs, he had grown…accustomed to her face. Like breathing out and breathing in. That wasn't to say things would not progress. After all, he was superlatively autonomous and content before they met. He could surely be that way again.

Nevertheless, aside from that which he would miss the most, he was habituated to waking up to her looks, to hearing her voice. To seeing her face everyday. To be near her, in general.

Dr. Lecter attempted to picture her a few years down the road, the happy wife—heaven forbid—of Noble Pilcher. What an infantile idea. He knew that the suggestion today was made only at his expense, to get such a rise out of him. However, with his importunate presence, Pilcher might possess the ability to break through that impenetrable wall as Dr. Lecter himself had so many months earlier. For, as Starling said so dynamically, he wasn't lacking the courage to proclaim his love to the world at the top of his lungs. Such altruism was reckless and clumsy, but she deserved it. She deserved to be so openly adored, even if it was a man whose incessant presence annoyed her beyond the brink of durability.

Even so, he told himself, such a union was doomed before a vow was even taken. Starling simply wasn't the marrying type, and in any case, she would not want someone who she could control with such inclusive dictation. A good fight was what she craved. Someone who drove her utterly and completely out of her wits before scooping her off her feet.

New York…what awaited for her there? A job that would eventually become as routine as sacking groceries at the supermarket? Teaching the same practices, the same basics, the same patterns semester after semester; she would tire herself out. Starling needed excitement in her life, not the dull predictability he had endured before she entered his.

There was some lasting reassurance. If she could walk away from Quantico now, Dr. Lecter knew she would never return to the career she once pursued. The career that would have ultimately destroyed her, and instead her developed insight allowed her to escape before her devotion became overly intractable.

Another odd confluence of bittersweet comforts occurred to him as he crossed the walk, approaching the manor. While Pilcher's affections were at the time being sincere, he would eventually lose interest and leave her for some social-climbing heiress. A whelp like that could not be kept locked in a web of obsession for too long before someone else tickled his fancy. Men at his age were always whispering sweet nothings while looking clandestinely in another direction. After all, his attraction and so-called love at this level of acquaintance could be nothing more than associated infatuation. How well did Pilcher know her exactly? Well enough to know what made her happy? What made her fluster? What sort of food she preferred, her partiality of bottled water to tapped? What movies she had once named as her favorite? Her rather obsessive love for old school rock'n'roll? Her aversion to televangelists that matched his own and the heavenly sound of her rich laugh as they strolled in public, poking fun at some obnoxious hat crowning a poor soul's head.

He toyed with the scenario of an impending return to his care. How poignant it would be, after she realized the miserable state of being her life was in, when she hammered on his door in search of some sanctuary. Nursing her back to the state of her old fiery self would be a rich delight. After all, he was a most reasonable man. Stubborn to a fault, yes, but reasonable.

Goodbye, Dr. Lecter. You will not be seeing me again.

With a sigh, he placed his coat and umbrella against the coat rack and paused heavily near the door. The inside of the manor was morose and depressing. While the air traced the light scent of the area she had occupied, her vibrant force was indisputably gone. What a dismal sight. A vast emptiness bore inside him.

Then he was tracing the house, peering into rooms they had occupied together. The parlor, the dining room, the kitchen, the study. Places of their discussions, past lessons, laughs, frowns, sideways looks and leers. The window Barney always perched at when searing with discomfort. All empty chambers now, barren and rueful.

Perhaps this wouldn't be as easy as he liked to think.

But I can get along without you. Don't you think I can't, she had said. And so she could. He would love her for no less.

The house was occupied still. Mrs. Pearce was undoubtedly lounging about—making a bed or cleaning a window or doing something to pass the time. And while he did not expect him to stay much longer, Barney still called the place home. However, soon it would be desolate to all but himself. An unoccupied structure filled with things and furniture.

He knew this was not what he wanted.

Dr. Lecter eyed the gramophone beside his desk and recalled her suggestion. With loafing slowness, he approached, considered, and finally switched the machine on.

It was the record of their first meeting. He did not recall even taping it, and left it to the assumption that Barney, in his growing discomfort, had fiddled idly with the machinery in some method of taking his mind far and away. Whatever the case was, he was glad. With a submissive though dreary smile, Dr. Lecter took a seat in one of the two chairs adjacent to his desk. The background was filled with airy static in accordance with the unreliability of most recording devices. Though the conversation had long ago engraved itself deeply in his memory palace, he found himself implicitly eager to hear the demo.

Her voice struck him first, the quiet though resolute determination embedded in that accent that rang of the Virginian hills.

"I'll be oldest in my class with just as much if not more discrimination. Last night, you said you could have me coached in ways to avoid that. To avoid all that bullshit. I'm here to take you up on that, if the offer still stands."

Then his voice, equally stanch though perhaps a bit more humored. "You took a jesting statement from a stranger so seriously? Things really must be awful. Why, tell me, should I help you?"

Indignant rebuttal. He fondly sketched the look of appalled offense tacitly splayed across her face and grinned to himself. "A jest?" she repeated in embarrassed transgression. "A fucking jest?"

"Certainly, though perhaps structured with slightly more becoming language. After all, Clarice, it is the twentieth century. What sort of devious creature would make such an odiously self-beneficial offer to a young woman he has never before met?"

"You did, last I checked."

Dr. Lecter's smile thinned and a small chuckle wedged passed his lips. "That's my girl," he mused.

And, of course, the uniformly calculating structure of his retort. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what he would miss the most. The playful banter, the delicious exchanges, the narrow looks that always suggested something more. It was difficult to say. He would miss many things. "Very interesting," his voice retorted. "What do you say, my friend? Do we invite her in or escort her to the front door?"

Dear Barney. Another chuckle erupted from his throat. "Leave me out of this! I want no part!"

A calm collected sense from his then-protégée as she soothed her temper. Her features were just as alive to him as though she were standing in the doorway. "Fine. Fine. You don't wanna help me? I understand. It must be so much more interesting for you to make surface observations of unsuspecting bar customers. You don't have to bother with in-depth analysis. This would be a challenge."

"I have patients, mind you. Patients who pay me a commendable amount to help them sort through various issues. Why should I invest time in you? It will be a costly affair, and I haven't the hours to waste. And it will take every bit of six months." Empty excuses complete with further reminders of what awaited him now. His thoughts then were so detached from what currently plagued him. Though he intended to take Starling under his guidance since the minute she entered the door, he had never foreseen an outcome such as this.

"I'm not so hopeless!" she cried over the gramophone. Indeed she was not. She was built stronger than any before her, even if she did not realize it herself.

Of course, he had seen that then, too. Toying with her was always a pleasure. A joy he would not once forfeit. "Oh? Then why are you here? Turning to a man you met only once before, in a common hostelry, no less."

A thoughtful pause. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're not superior to a baboon in heat."

Barney's recorded laughter was in no comparison to that which escaped the doctor now. Rich and authentic, though sad and empty rumbles of melodic mirth. Another aspect he would miss; her quick wit that consisted of seemingly random insults. Once at the end of such an offense, it was difficult to decide whether to be affronted or amused. As the conversation on tape continued, he stood wearily and shut it off, allowing the manor to once again fall silent.

He wanted to believe it was her cue to come parading through the doorway, bags in hand, succumbing her obduracy and conceding to throw the towel in first. However, before the musing could even die to the odds of probability, he knew such would never occur. No, Starling had far too much self-respect to retract her assessment.

The only way he would erase this consistent strain was to admit his fault and go after her.

And go to her he would. It occurred to him bluntly, hitting him with an avalanche of cold force. Such restraint was useless, for he knew what he wanted. Reprimanding himself would not ease the growing hole of emptiness. He needed her here, and with her own confession, he knew it was where she wanted to be.

It was difficult to speculate Starling's course of action from the Pennsylvania House. He doubted seriously that she would have scheduled a flight out of town prior to their conversation. Given how much time that had passed, it would be cutting it much too fine. Perhaps she intended to stay a few days yet, get her affairs together, and say her goodbyes.

Risking any such possibility was not on his agenda. Dr. Lecter knew that Ardelia Mapp would know her friend's timetable, how long she intended to stay and what flight she had booked or would imminently book. With nothing of his usual restraint, the doctor hurried to his desk and located the phone. He had no conventional use for an address book, having always committed every given number to memory.

After a few rings, the loud-mouthed roommate answered. "Yello?"

Dr. Lecter fought a flinch. "Ardelia Mapp, I presume?"

"Yeah, who is this?" With as much said, it was obvious she was not in the market for explanations. "Listen, I'm happy with my long distance plan and I'm already ten minutes passed my lunch break. I don't have time to sit through a sales pitch."

"This is Hannibal Lecter," he announced quickly, unaccustomed to such forwardness, but wanting to catch her before she hung up. Indeed, a long silence sounded on the other end, cold and foreboding. "I am calling to inquire if you have seen Clarice recently? I need to—"

The volcano brewing on the other line exploded, requiring little provocation or prompting. It was not wholly unexpected. "Listen, Buddy," she hissed. "I don't know how many times you or your little cronies need to call before you can take a fucking hint. I told Barry or whatever his name was that I hadn't—"

"Lying is an unspeakably ugly trait, as is discourtesy. I have seen Clarice today and she relayed the events following her leave this morning in full. It is essential that I reach her."

Mapp laughed disbelievingly, apparently finding no discomfiture at being caught in her lie. "You're a class act! Just leave the poor girl alone. Haven't you done enough damage? It's bad enough you—"

"Ms. Mapp, I really have no interest in your opinion. Your disposition in the sketch of my character is primitive at best, and I cannot afford to dally with such foolishness." There was a stunned silence ringing from the other end from someone whom he figured was rarely without a speech prepared, however poorly drafted and designed. "I called to find Clarice. Is she there?"

A few more seconds of staggered nothingness before Mapp stuttered and found her voice. "If she was, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you."

He sighed tryingly, his temper flustering to dangerous heights. "Would you at least tell her I called?"

"Hell to the no! It's bad enough you've brainwashed her into walking away from her real future, but now she's moving to fucking New York because she…" An equally tiresome pause echoed on the other line. "Well, I hope you're happy."

"I—"

"Why the bloody hell'd you call me, anyway? Did you really think it'd do any good?"

Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed. "My purposes concern myself and Clarice."

"Just fucking TELL ME and maybe I'll fucking TELL HER."

That was it. He had her. The roommate was curious.

"Tell her," he said slowly. "Tell her that I called to make amends."

"Amends?"

"To make things right."

Another indignant scoff, though this one not entirely as obstinate. "Make things right? After what you did? I'm sorry to break it to you, Doc, but you really, really don't deserve her."

To hear those words leave anyone's lips—especially someone was impertinent as Ardelia Mapp—and understand its validity was nearly unbearable. Tightly, his eyes fell closed in silent acknowledgement. A second passed and he nodded to himself, moving away from the desk slowly. "I understand that," he divulged. "However, I need her. And I do not need anything."

It seemed today was the day for professing to everyone except the one person to whom he needed to profess.

There was a long, stunned pause. When Mapp spoke again, her voice was a hundred degrees cooler than before, temperate and calm. "Damn," she said admiringly. "I gotta hand it to you…you are good."

"Have you seen Clarice? I will not ask again." Not so. He would ask a thousand times if need be.

Evidently, such an admittance was just what Mapp required to cooperate. "She just left here with some guy. Norbert or…" On short-term memory, she really was horrible with names. "She called that guy that Crawford told her to and was hired on the spot. She had her things packed—the things she needs immediately—her flight is in a couple hours."

"Is Noble going with her?"

"No. Well, I think he wants to. Starling told him she wants to go alone. He was going to take her to the airport and then we're going up in a week or so to take her the rest of her things." Mapp paused in thought. "If you hurry, you might catch her before she gets there. I mean seriously—they just left two minutes ago for the bus stop by St. Augustine."

"My thanks."

Mapp was in the process of wishing him good luck when he clicked the phone off, having no time for such pleasantries. Without wasting a beat, he made a quick move for the door, seized his coat and umbrella off the stand in the entryway, and smoothly made his exit.


* * *



The weather was appropriate. Not even three in the afternoon and the sky was overcast, dreary, with thunder rumbling lightly in the distance. Ordinarily, she enjoyed rainy days. It was a consistency that had remained with her throughout both experiences. As a trainee, a light shower enabled a prolonged jog, nature cooling her off before she could break into a sweat. She never minded, rather welcomed the splashes of mud that anointed her clothing; her tomboy roots allowed her to regard scuffles with fond appreciation. However, it was the mornings in bed she enjoyed most. Lying on a cozy mattress and listening to the light splatters on the roof, watching drops of water slide lazily down the window.

The rain in Spain—

No! That was over now. This was not the time to reflect.

It occurred to Starling that rainwater was not as generous to her wardrobe as it was once upon a time ago, and while she toyed with digging her umbrella out of the mound of clothing that was her suitcase, she realized she didn't care what became of her attire. After all she had seen today, the outfit felt tainted with association. Her discussion with Dr. Lecter echoed mercilessly in her subconscious. With as many times as she replayed what passed, she could think of nothing that would have alleviated the situation.

Her piece was spoken; the closure she required under her fingers. So why did she feel incomplete?

Pilcher stood loyally by her side, his previously content character dismayed by her impending departure, but seemingly satisfied to have this last hour or so. While she would always be grateful for his enthusiastic goodwill, Starling knew she would not miss his company. The only person she would miss was Ardelia.

And…

It was useless to deny the inward churnings of dread. Putting as much space between herself and Dr. Lecter was the wisest thing she could do, but rationality did not excuse that it made her head ache and her skin grow numb with ominously dark presentiment.

Faced now with change made her resent the courageous words spoken no more than an hour before. There was no doubt in her mind that she could do this and succeed, but she did question her desires. Starling had only been to New York once on a holiday weekend with Mapp. It seemed ages ago, but she recalled liking the city. Never had she planned on living there.

Pilcher nudged her slightly, directing her eyes to the approaching bus. The very sight of it made her body clamp defensively, as though she was about to be hogtied and thrown in the back. "You have everything you need?" he asked solicitously.

"Yes." She felt she should say more, but words were lodged unmovable in her throat, clogged by a force she tried but could not deny.

"And you will call when you get there?"

"I'll call Ardelia." There was no point in masking her intentions. Starling had no design to phone Pilcher and waste hours talking when her time was better otherwise occupied. If she needed a favor from his uncle's friend, she would then call Mrs. Rosencranz. Likewise, Mapp was on strict alert not to give her number out to anyone unless okayed or alternatively instructed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you to the airport?" he asked somberly, voice stinging with the heat of rejection.

She shook her head. "No, no. This is definitely something that I need to do by myself."

The bus came to a screeching halt beside the curb and the doors squeaked open with definitive emphasis. Starling drew in a trembling breath, wondering if the cold was more accredited to the rain or what she was leaving behind. It was impossible that a mere twenty-four hours earlier she was just beginning the preparations for the White House extravaganza. The ordeal in itself seemed so long ago. Vast and distant. So much could change in a day. In an hour.

At that moment she was very gratified for the rain. Starling wasn't to the brink of tears, but anything now had the power to push her over the edge.

The bus driver leered unappreciatively at her luggage, but she did not dignify the sideways glare with one of her own. Instead, she quietly asked Pilcher to help her with the two bags (hardly an inconvenience) on board as she collected herself and prepared for the leave.

It wasn't healthy to stall like this when she was supposedly doing the right thing.

"I feel like it's goodbye," she muttered in light confession when Pilcher returned to her side. She hadn't wholly intended to make such a declaration, but similarly made no attempt to take it back.

"Don't say that!" Pilcher gasped. "You'll visit, won't you?"

To that, she offered a non-telling smile. She had no purpose to convey her alternate intentions only to fluster and upset him. However, she suspected her look betrayed it all. There was no desire to ever return, furthermore, no feasible way she could given the circumstances of her leave. These dreaded fearful thoughts were the homecoming she would endure time and time again if she forced herself to visit. No. A new start, this new start entailed leaving everything behind.

"Hey lady!" the bus-driver snapped irritably. "We don't have all day!"

A mild rush of irritation shimmied up her spine, but she understood. This consistent standstill was getting her nowhere.

It was when she moved away and gave the butch woman an indulgent nod that she saw him. And time suspended; the caged silence of a dying animal's final heartbeat. The shivers rippling across her skin intensified, and when she gained her breath it escaped as some strangled cry, as though the sight itself pained her.

He stood against the rain, a gray scene, umbrella propped securely in hand. It was apparent that he had been there for some time. Though he stood a good distance away, it seemed he could always catch her eyes, reveal what no other could see in his, and possess her spirit even when consoled with sweltering determination. Her will betrayed her. Starling bit her lip, her mind screaming at her to turn and get on the bus, to forever ride away from him, from this place that was growing more and more difficult to leave. However, her feet could not be persuaded. The sounds echoing around—the perturbed growls of the bus-driver, the roar of the motor, the splatter of rain against the sidewalk, even things as corporeal as Pilcher tapping her shoulder—melted into one voice before ultimately drowning into nonbeing. She saw nothing but him.

What was he doing here? Starling swallowed a harsh lump, her wobbly legs reluctantly taking a step forward. And again and again until she was far away from Pilcher, ignoring his confused voice, tuning out the agitated horn of the bus. Her skin numbed to the cold rainwater, her hair plastering in a wet mass to her forehead. Every breath she drew was long and bewildered, the smallest shimmer of what she dared identify as a ray of unsuspecting hope bustling up her spine.

He probably just came to return your Beatles CD.

It was perfectly evident when she stood before him, only separated by a foot or so of wet pavement, that that was his furthest intention. Only once before had she been at the receiving end of that gaze, that look that could not deny her anything. However, as the rest of him, his eyes were still ambiguous to her. They masked something heavily as though burdened, and yet still regarded her with yielding surrender.

They always picked the most unlikely places for these confrontations, and this clearly was no exception. Whether it be in the White House, in the company of a former but genial ex-girlfriend, learning the secrets to etiquette or washing horse droppings off forever-ruined shoes, they never failed to find time to conveniently distract themselves to the others company. Even now when she was leaving the city, and more accurately, leaving him.

When at last she found her voice, Starling was startled to hear the uncertainty about it, but maintained herself. "What are you doing here?"

His first words refused to reveal his intentions, instead aired with the expected elusiveness that he always made a point to deliver. Instead, he used his free hand to wave her closer. "Come here, Clarice. You'll catch your death."

"I'm perfectly comfortable where I am, thank you." There was no way she was going to get that close to him, not with their past conversation lingering in not even its second hour of existence, not when she was minutes from walking away. Again, an inward pounding urged her to turn and run back to the bus, but she could not. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

Dr. Lecter smiled slightly, his eyes twinkling in a manner that was all too familiar. Even now it made her fluster. Now with everything that had passed, every pleasantry, every look and exchange, the argument of that afternoon, even with the spine-tingling kiss they had shared. It was inconceivable and ached of familiarity.

"I have been thinking," he mused thoughtfully, his tone still distant in accordance of his infamous strain of euphemisms in place of explicable reasoning. "About you and New York, since you mentioned it this afternoon."

"Yes?"

"Well, Clarice, with as well as I wish you, I don't believe you will find much success in Manhattan." There was a familiar element dancing in his eyes. She had seen it too many times before. "After all, its citizens do not uphold the reputation for housing the most enviable contacts."

Disbelievingly, her eyebrows arched. "You came here to warn me I might get offended by some big city slander? Do you not think that I can manage without you there holding my hand? You weren't there in the twenty-six years preceding our arrangement, and I dealt with plenty then. With all due respect, Dr. Lecter, I don't have time for this. I have a plane to catch."

With either amazing durability or amazing egotism, he smiled at that, as though her departure was something trivial, a matter ready for discussion, open for debate. "You are very frank, Clarice." It was all he said. There was an air of decorum tied to the end of his tone.

"Is that all you came to say? I don't have time for this. I—"

When she started to move away, his free hand jumped out like a snake, grabbing her forearm and dragging her back a foot, not quite under the massive umbrella, but close enough. His warm breath tickled her cold face.

"You know me better than that," he scolded lightly, grip not loosening.

"Do I?" Starling fired back with straining challenge. "Really, Doctor, this is ridiculous. I told you everything I needed to say. Either get to the point or let me be." Demonstratively, she turned to motion to the bus, but it was gone. Her bags were situated near a desolately abandoned Noble Pilcher.

The next bus would not arrive for at least twenty minutes, and while she tried to summon irritation, there was none to speak of.

"It appears you missed your ride," the doctor murmured.

"There will be another." With growing desperation she turned back to him, fight draining from her eyes. It was useless battling with the man—the outcome was consistently the same. In some manner, she always managed to emerge the one dazed and bruised, contrite and baffled. "What are you doing here? I told you—"

"I know what you told me."

"So why are you here? How are you here? Who—"

"I phoned Ms. Mapp," Dr. Lecter replied, the firm grasp on her arm loosening slightly, the skin against hers becoming light and feathery. "She told me where I could find you."

Starling blinked skeptically. "Ardelia?" she repeated in disbelief. "Ardelia told you where I was?" When he nodded, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. "So much for being a loyal friend."

"Oh, she was quite loyal." Incredibly, Dr. Lecter chuckled. "And most unflatteringly blunt in her rather low opinion of me. She made it perfectly evident that I was not held in high esteem and that—"

"Why did you call Ardelia?"

"To find you."

She swallowed hard, subconsciously taking a step forward. "Why…why did you…"

There was a long pause, and the doctor made no move to answer until he was certain he held her unwavering gaze. When he spoke again, her heart stopped. "I had to stop you from leaving." There he paused to study her reaction. When her expression blanked and words vacated her body, he continued. "I would not advise you to be angry with Ms. Mapp," he said nonchalantly. "She went to great lengths not to tell me where you were, and exactly how much time I had before I lost you."

The lump in her throat was impressively now the size of a tennis ball. "Why did she tell you?" she asked, voice barely a whisper. Was it possible to move closer when both feet were planted firmly on the ground? Somehow, she felt herself swaying nearer; she knew he was not moving. "If her opinion of you is as you say, and her loyalty to me—"

"I called to tell you something," Dr. Lecter said urgently. "Or rather, to ask you to meet me before you left. Such exchanges are really quite odious to share over the phone. I must say now that I am glad things progressed as they did. You would not have met me, I think, given the grounds of our last exchange. Would you have, Clarice? Do you think?"

She read in his gaze that he knew the answer, and shivered at the realization that she did as well. Thus, she ignored the inquiry, untouched by the need to vindicate healing battle scars. "What did you want to say?"

Starling was surprised when he discarded his own question in answer for hers. Perhaps it was knowing that he was easing off very thin ice and felt a slip would cause it to crack under his feet. The troubled feeling settled with her that she was helping him to safety, hand coiled protectively around his arm.

Something flickered in his eyes before he spoke, and she felt another rush. "I want to tell you what you already know, though need to hear." He sighed, though did not break his gaze from hers. "I said last night that I have been a selfish being all my life, and could not afford to allow myself to grow clumsy. Both statements were true, and I stand by them now. My life before you entered it was tedious and empty, which you observed from the very first. I was accustomed to order with little regards to the cavity of human feeling. You presence aligned many windows, and likewise, I fear your absence will cause them to shatter." There was another pause, though brief. "Your roommate told me that I do not deserve you, and I acknowledge that. I did not deserve the six months of contentment I received while doing so little, and I do not deserve you now, especially with all I have made you tolerate. And regardless of your decision, you need to hear it at least once from me, rather than Rachel or Barney. I love you, Clarice. I love you, and I want you with me. I always have, I have just been too stubborn to admit it."

The declaration should not have surprised her as it did, but her breath stopped short in her throat, and her mouth seemed to dry. Her eyes began to water with what she knew were tears. Rainwater tapped lightly on the umbrella above her head, her body almost completely under its protective sheath. If she could have summoned words, she would not know how to begin or what to say. So she merely nodded, held his gaze for as long as she could before tearing away and fixing on her shoes.

"I suppose the question now is…" he murmured soothingly, hand instinctively tightening on her arm once more. "Clarice, can you love a fool?"

Her words revived to haunt her, and yet they did not make her ache has they had before. Instead, Starling emitted what sounded to her ears like a half-mad, half-startled quip of mirth, though she was in no laughing mood. Fleetingly, her options lined for her in a fashion similar to the windows he described. An awaiting occupation in New York, her last link to the old life, what she had known and valued before this. It seemed so far away, the idle hopes of someone she did not know. The principles were hers, yes, but with such different intentions that she could not fathom ever speaking them, hearing or feeling them. Believing them at all.

Before her was the most cultured, witty, elegant man she had ever known, sacrificially on his knees. The only person to really know her, and love her for no less. A great deal contradictory notions bundled inside her warring conscious. He had caused her grief, wounded her beyond human capability, made her fluster, annoyed her, agitated her, but always understood her. And here he was, after her in the direct minutes preceding her leave in the hopes that he could persuade her to stay, to take back everything and fill the void with neglected words, what should have been spoken long ago.

However, despite her rawest inward desires, Starling was tempted to decline. She wanted to make him ache in the manner she had, yearned to see the disappointed regret shroud the gaze of unmovable confidence, make his lips burn with hers and withdraw just as quickly in the tormenting fashion he had the night before. And yet, even with her logic and earning of justification, she could not. Despite knowledge and foreboding, anything he said or did would always be forgiven. In the end it was inevitable. No matter how she tried, she loved him too. Loved him for his infuriating buoyancy and equally compelling sense of intuition. Anything else, any other offer, would never satisfy her.

"Well," she said at last, voice quaky and face damp with the tears she only now realized were skating down her cheeks. Nevertheless, fortitude also aligned her tone, along with the taste of full conviction. "You did say you would take me to Italy someday. I reckon that's a place I'd like to see, and I suppose it would be difficult to arrange if I move to New York." She smiled lightly. "All that besides, there are…things…I'm not quite willing to leave behind."

Perhaps she was cheating her away out of her own teary confession with words that were, by in large, meaningless. Nonconformity pushed her to take the path less traveled, and she knew he would expect no less. Societal expectations had no place in this relationship.

The look in his eyes was one of changing seasons. At first ablaze with conception, the earnings of his longstanding silence, and then cloaked with the brilliance of rekindled fervor. For a fleeing instant, it looked as though he did know how to react, his own understanding suffering the comprehension of favorable tidings. However, the expression was brief, and Dr. Lecter was left to convey his delight in a moment of muted splendor. The grip on her arm became fierce and commanding, pulling her against him as his mouth covered hers. Initially soft and still exploratory, Starling could not help releasing her long repressed zeal, prompted now with the promise of the future, the security of her standing, the knowledge that everything would at last be all right. It escaped her in the form of urgency, a soft moan, outmatched by the answering rumble that shuddered correspondingly through his body. As boundaries were pushed asunder, the ferocity of his touch intensified, denying her nothing. It was familiar and new all at once, the taste of the past and future now lacking the aged uncertainty. So much had changed since the night before. It felt as though a thousand years had passed.

There would be plenty of time for the latter. With slow reluctance, Starling pulled away, maintaining herself in his hold a minute longer. The grip on her arm released finally, coiling around her to gently caress the small of her back. His lips touched her forehead whispered her name once.

Slowly, not wanting to compromise her position—lest it all fade away, she cleared her throat and muttered, "So what now?"

"We should leave," he replied just as softly, mouth not still in exploration. A quick brush over her cheek and her chin before he pulled away completely, eyes still blazing. "Barney has spent the majority of the afternoon attempting to locate you."

"Poor Barney." She laughed slightly, turning to where her luggage was seated still. It did not surprise her that Pilcher had finally abandoned his faithful post, rather encouraged a second chuckle to ripple through her system. "We have made him put up with a lot, haven't we? Where will he go now?" The question left her before she could consider. Perhaps she was being presumptuous that he would leave at all, though it had always seemed like an unspoken understanding.

"An apartment, most likely. He is several months delayed in acquiring the nursing job I originally promised him." Dr. Lecter fell into pace beside her to assist her with her belongings. In the distance, another bus was rolling to the stop, but she barely glanced at it. The Bentley was parked on the other side of the street, and in their sudden hurry to get out of the rain, no more words were exchanged until secured inside.

Then an aching air of reverberation attacked her, as though returning home from an outing in which she was supposed to learn some lesson on protocol. Starling felt herself shiver inside, but similarly dismissed the notion when she met his understanding eyes and smiled.

No. The lessons were behind them. From the comforting tug at his lips, she was assured that while he would not trade those months for anything, he was just as relieved as she that they were over. Over, and yet here she was. Still at his side—the only place where it felt like home.

"So what's on the agenda for tonight?" she asked casually, lounging comfortably in the seat.

The flippant attitude in the air was a pleasant relief. After an afternoon of such intensity, it felt like taking a breath of fresh air, the heavy block that had burdened her lungs lifting at last. Similarly, it reassured her that no matter how their relationship changed, for better or worse, he would not conform and change with it. Neither would she. "I hear the symphony is performing an assortment of works by baroque composers."

"How about a movie?"

He smiled amiably. "If you absolutely insist, Clarice. There is one I have been intending to see for quite some. It has received wonderful reviews, and I believe is in the current Oscar race for best foreign film. Surely you have heard of it. It's—"

Starling's eyes widened in protest, trying hard to ignore the amused smirk crossing his face. "I'll pick."

It was luck that a stoplight stood in the way of further progression. Dr. Lecter turned to deliver an especially cryptic though equally playful glare, to which she returned with full force. In the end, there could be no winners; both conceding in a simultaneous defeat as attentions were drawn back to traffic. The need for conversation dwindled, words far too maladroit to trust. Sometimes silence was the perfect median. It conveyed what needed, and managed to omit the unnecessary, or too undeveloped for release.

Though silence could grow tiresome with too much strain.

Something told Starling there would be a fair combination of silence, of words, of lengthy conversations, of reverses and exchanges. Plenty of moments shared to a particularly moving piece of music, or a sip of fine wine. There would also undoubtedly be arguments, whether in the aggressive or playful context, disagreements on evening plans, restaurant suggestions, little things that made life as it was. However, she likewise knew nothing in the brink of normality had or could ever emerge from this relationship. Whatever awaited their future, it was evident that it was going to be, at the very least, well worth the wait.

It was also comforting to know that while they moved forward together, some things, the most important things, would never change.