And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
-Revelation 7:8
the pale horse
She was serene before him, beautiful in her restless sleep. He watched her eyelids flutter at the crack of thunder, then close tight again, as if to disavow the interruption of her solitude. Her hand clenched into a fist, curling up from the floor to be pressed tightly against her chest. There was a shudder of breath that escaped her lips as she did so, and he was curious.
He pushes himself half out of the old recliner, hearing the springs give a groan of protest. There was another shudder and he peered closer at her, trying to discern. Her fist clenched and unclenched, and a sob finally escaped her parted lips. Dr. Lecter was fully out of his chair and by her side in time to see the first tears spring forth.
There was a flash of indecision, the first he could remember experiencing in quite a long time. As quick as it had come, it was gone. He bent his head to her cheek, bringing her head gently up to meet his lips with a hand tangled in her hair. With profound gentleness he kissed away the tears that were now streaming down her cheek. Against his face he felt the flutter of her eyelashes, the long moment when her arms began to twine around him. A flash of lightning permeated the scene, and their eyes met.
Thunder shook the house to its foundations just as the contact shook Clarice. With sudden strength she shoved Hannibal backwards off the couch, watching as he slammed ungracefully into the glass-topped coffee table. She backpedaled on the couch, pushing over the arm behind her and finding footing on the carpet. A wild voice in her head screamed at her to run, to flee and to alert the authorities to his presence.
Help! There's a cannibal in my house!
To her amazement Clarice was shaking as she found her balance and looked up to where her intruder was rising in a small shower of shattered glass. He looked at one palm, cut deep across the middle, and pulled a long sliver of glass from it. Clarice winced as he held the object up for examination, turning it in the weak light from the windows as if examining a precious jewel. She managed a breath, and his eyes settled on hers. They were black in the lack of light in the room, black pits with crimson highlights that reminded her of the stories of fire and brimstone she'd heard when she was young. There was an odd hunger in those eyes.
He was stepping from the wreckage of the coffee table, moving slowly towards her. Random tinkles of glass followed in his wake. His cut hand was cupped, pooling the blood until it was full to overflowing and small drops began to spill over to fall from his hand. Clarice watched the blood as it fell, following gravity's course and staining her carpet. The thought occurred to her struck her as odd. Blood was notoriously hard to get out of things, especially white carpet. There was an urge to scream 'Now look what you've done!' at him. By that time he was standing before her, less than a foot from her. His eyes were redder now that he was closer and Clarice felt an urge to draw back. She had never been afraid of him when he was in the dungeon, not like this.
He closed the distance even further and Clarice felt the scent of fresh blood pushing its way inside her nostrils. Perhaps because of her alcohol consumption the smell nauseated her. Before he could take another step she turned and ran, heading down the hall in a headlong rush. She made it to the bathroom before anything happened, and threw herself on her knees before the toilet. As she retched she had the feeling that she looked prone, praying before some ancient goddess' altar. After the last of the dry heaves she levered herself up, hands resting on the toilet seat. Turning to the sink she ran water in it, bending her head to the faucet's stream and rinsing her mouth. Clarice hadn't realized how parched her mouth had become until the water touched it and seemed to be immediately absorbed. She gulped greedily, until she remembered there was someone else she needed to attend to.
Clarice stepped from the bathroom, wiping her arm across her mouth, looking about for the wanted man that had invaded her home. How long had he been there before she awoke to find him? She was an FBI agent, her house wasn't the one that was supposed to get broken into. She came back down the hallway to fid him emerging from the kitchen, a hand towel wrapped around his injured hand. He was silent, as silent as he had ever been in the course of their acquaintance. Clarice was surprised to hear her own voice in the darkness.
"You said you'd never call on me again." It disgusted Clarice that there was a tinge of fear in her voice, making it slightly higher than normal. It also came out in little more than a whisper, she sounded like a wounded child. He stopped his forward moment and looked at her, bringing his eyes up from his hand.
"Some promises need to be broken, Special Agent Starling."
She snorted. She couldn't help it, this man, telling her about promises that must be broken. Before she could say anything he spoke again.
"You yourself made a false promise, all those years ago in the dungeon. You promised me books and trees, a trip to the Hoof and Mouth Animal Research Center. I suppose you could call this tit for tat."
There was a small, tight smile on his lips as he said this and Clarice glared. She had done that because Crawford told her to, and now he was turning it against her. She held her silence close, waiting for his next move.
He again came towards her, closing the distance as Clarice pressed herself against the folding door of the closet. She felt the knob press hard into the small of her back. If she could get into the closet, she could find her salvation there. Her fingers splayed out across the wood, finding the edge and slipping in there, ready to pull the door open. He approached like a lion, watching his prey, having now trapped it. Clarice wondering if he could smell the fear on her.
He stopped at a respectable distance from her, tilting his head as he held his hands in front of him. So still. "I trust you received my letter." A bland statement, not a question she was meant to answer. Her fingers wedged themselves further into the crack. "And I trust you shared it with your colleagues at the FBI. I'm sure Crawford truly enjoyed it." There was a predatory smile crossing his face, prompting a reaction from Clarice.
"You did that just to get a rise out of him, Dr. Lecter."
"Did I?" feigned innocence and he took a step forward, crossing the line of civilities.
"Yes, you did." She could feel the backside of the door with her fingertips now. Splinters bit into her flesh but she ignored the pinpricks of pain. "I'm sure you have other diversions in life, Dr. Lecter. Why come here just to see if I received your letter?"
A chuckle. "Agent Starling, you truly believe I came here only for that? You're more naïve than I remember you to be."
She drew a shuddering breath as she felt her courage run straight out of her. "Then what do you want?"
Swiftly he came to her, grasping her shoulder with his one good hand and pressing her back against the door. She couldn't tear her eyes from his as his head dipped, and his lips captured hers. Clarice could feel and hear the blood rush in her ears, felt her body respond to the kiss, pressing forward against him. Even as she did, her hand was tugging on the door, and she heard the creak of the hinges as she did so. All she needed was a few inches…
And she had it. She never broke the kiss as her hand snaked back inside the gloom of the closet, immediately seeking what se was after. The grip felt rough and heavy in her hand, the skate tape rubbing roughly against her palm. The gun was always loaded and the hammer cocked. She remembered the Felicina Fish Market, being asked if she always went around with her gun cocked. Yes, she did, and there was a reason why.
She brought the .45 out the slim opening, careful not to bang it on either wall or wood. He was beginning to lessen the kiss now, pulling back ever so slightly. Clarice blinked, and felt a sudden pain as she brought the gun up. Before she could decide not to, she had pressed it into the doctor's abdomen, the sudden pressure causing his eyes to fly open and burn into hers.
Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes as she looked at him, her lips moving soundlessly.
"Clarice," his voice was soft, without any of the metallic rasp she was accustomed to hearing. "Clarice, are you sure this is what you want to do? Is it really my death you seek?"
Clarice bit her now quivering lip, the tears streaming freely. It was a hundred times worse to be forced into this position than it had been in any of her nightmares. She barely shook her head, closing her eyes against the stinging tears.
"Its the only way." She whispered. Her chin dropped to her chest, but her gun never wavered.
His voice equally as quiet as he offered an alternative to her solution. "You could put me in a cell, Clarice. Lock me away from the light of day with the other monsters."
Loose strands of coppery auburn hair swung about her face as she shook it hard. "You and I both know I can't do that." Clarice took a breath as if to continue, but then clamped her mouth shut. She couldn't say that to him, she couldn't voice her thoughts on that. Breaking the sacrament she had made to herself.
And you're not a monster, Dr. Lecter…
Dr. Lecter nodded gravely, as if accepting her reasoning. "My freedom, then, Clarice? You could offer me my freedom."
This brought her eyes up to his and he could see a great pain burning there. "You know I can't do that, Dr. Lecter."
"Now is not the time for moralities, Clarice."
She couldn't lock him away, she couldn't free him, and the only acceptable solution she could think of would surely haunt them both forever. Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she closed her eyes. God, this was going to be painful, for both of them.
"I have to do this Doctor."
Silence boomed in the darkness momentarily before the reverberation of the gunshot shook them both and the hall around them.
"Clarice!"
*~*~*~*