See Disclaimers on Chapter 1.
A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed! Gawsh, I'm really quite overwhelmed by the response to this story because when I started it, I had no idea anybody other than me and my two best friends (namely myself and I) were interested in reading it. Once again, thank you so very much.
This chappy contains butchered quotes and lyrics from Bloodhound Gang, Noel Gallagher (I'm seeing Oasis next week!) and the many lunatics I am sort of proud to call my friends. I meant to post this much sooner, but ran into some problems, so I've decided to incorporate chapter 3.2 into chapter 4. Here goes nuthin'.
**
The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it? Guy Pearce, MementoNew Orleans Police Department, corner of Conti and Royal Street. 1:15 p.m. Day 9.
St. John wasn't talking to her.
She'd tried calling him at home, on his mobile, stopped by his desk several times in four days. Still not a trace of hide, hair or even shadow of him. It was Monday, six days til' Sunday.
St. John was clearly doing his damndest to avoid her.
The only positive outcome of this – if in fact there had been any – was that it at least proved her latest theory to be accurate and indubitably correct. Absence apparently does not make the heart grow fonder. As if she didn't have enough problems in her life without that insufferable man's infantile tendencies towards throwing temper tantrums adding further complication to an already tricky tightrope-trotting stunt.
For the fifth time that day, she stood outside his cubicle, leaning against the partition in an attempt to compose her thoughts and delay the inevitable.
His head jerked up at the sound of her entrance and he stared blankly.
"Can I help you?"
What's this? He's actually being polite? Is sex the new obedience wonder drug?"Actually, yes. You wouldn't happen to know anyone by the name of Malcolm St. John, would you? He's about six-feet-two, brown hair, green eyes, snarky as hell? See, he's been avoiding me for the last two days after shagging me senseless and I haven't the foggiest idea why. Must be a male thing. Would you mind explaining that?"
He rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his desk with aggrandized serenity. "Spare me and get straight to the point." Like a charging bull, Clarice saw red.
"What the fuck is eating you, St. John?" she demanded; slamming both hands palm down on the tabletop and ready to beat the living daylights out of him. Was that a ghost of a smile she saw at the corner of his mouth?
"I believe you were, a few nights ago if I remember correctly." Starling felt her cheeks go up in flames in fond and more than delightful recollection of that particular manoeuvre.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you can still make bawdy jokes. Seems that's all you can do. What's wrong?" He didn't answer, merely drumming his fingers on one of the arms of his chair. "Are you avoiding me?" Still no answer. "If you're going to be a jackass, at least don't be a mute jackass. Fine," she sighed. "One tap for yes, two taps for no," Starling spoke to him very slowly as if dealing with a backwards infant, placing one of the pens littering his desktop in his hand and demonstrating with exaggerated patience. Tap. Tap. He blinked and threw the expensive, gold-plated Schaeffer at the wall in front of him, face twisted in barely controlled fury and frustration.
"Why did you leave," he growled under his breath, shoulders quivering in carefully leashed anger. Starling knew the power hidden in the muscles underneath that finely tailored shirt. She had in fact been subjected to it several times over the course of six hours a few nights ago, as he strained above her to reach the climactic (in more ways than one) point of their wordless but by no means noiseless discussion. The frisson of immodest reminiscence creeping up her spine left her struggling for coherent thought, broken only by the thought's motivator waving his oh-so-fine hand in front of her eyes. "Starling? Earth to Clarice? Starling?" Her head jerked back in response to her mind being dragged out of the gutter and back into reality.
"Er, sorry. Lost in space for a few, there."
Does my face look as hot as it feels, she wondered silently to herself.
"You look turned on," he said matter-of-factly. As sudden as it had appeared, the fury had gone out of his eyes to be replaced by unabashed appraisal.
Thank you, but that was a rhetorical question. Whatever happened to the days when men were unobservant pigs?
"I probably am." Starling winced involuntarily at the sound of her voice. She had been aiming for offhandedly careless, not unmistakeably aroused.
St. John grinned in self-possessed satisfaction, "My mother was right. It's the quiet ones you always have to watch out for."
"What else did she tell you?"
"Things. Clarice," he began hesitantly. "The other night, it wasn't just beer goggles, was it?"
"I thought that was only applicable to males."
"Must be a hybrid strain of it."
"Sure. That explains a lot."
"It probably wasn't."
"You're sure?"
She gave him a smile, as brilliant as the sun. "I'm positive."
"Are we alright, Clarice?"
"We're alright, St. John."
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, focusing his attention on the pen he held in his right hand.
"And apology, from you?" she cocked a sardonic brow.
He grinned gamely. "Enjoy it while it lasts, woman. Have you eaten lunch yet?"
"As a matter of fact, I haven't."
"Wanna go out?"
"Where?"
"Depends on what you're having."
"Well, I'm feeling rather generous, not to mention guilty right now, so I'm having whatever you're having."
"Excellent."
"Why's that?"
"Because I intend on having you for lunch," he leered rakishly at her before getting up and proceeding to tug at her slender wrist with his much larger hand. Laughing, she allowed herself to be hauled out of her chair and led out of his cubicle, oblivious to the incredulous and more than curious stares they had garnered from their colleagues.
**
Galatoire's, 209 Bourbon. 12:30 pm. Day 15
She had debated, she had deliberated, she had contemplated, but in the end, Starling decided to meet Lecter for lunch after all.
She was running late, having to deal with the unavoidable mountain of paperwork involving the Venci case. Malcolm had been conveniently kept occupied by a lead one of his sources had phoned in earlier that morning. However, he had been able to shout a dinner invitation to her before walking out the door. Knowing him, he had probably taken her bewildered silence as a yes.
So here she was, standing in the middle of a fancy restaurant filled with high-falutin' ha- ha's staring down the edge of their rhinoplastied noses at her lost expression, her choice in clothing (a simple pair of black slacks and blazer over a plain white shirt with a scarf looped around her collar for a bit of emphasis), her being all alone and the fact that, no matter how hard she would and could try, she would never really belong there with those society tarts in formal dining gowns and their brittle, boring spouses/lovers/fiancees/unnamed males that had an all-too-brief place in their monotonous lives.
She couldn't blame them. Starling had had to elbow her way past the long line of quiet, formally-dressed people that extended past the corner of the block. That in itself was not an unfamiliar sight as the cue of hungry residents and tourists was ever present on any day of the week save Mondays, when Galatoire's closed its famously snobbish doors to the public. And for the life of her, Starling could not understand what the big deal was with the place. With the absurd (in her own opinion) policy that refused to accept cheques and credit cards, dining there certainly was out of her price range. But hell, she never claimed to understand the rich anyway. Why can't these people make reservations instead of standing outside the muggy sun the whole afternoon, she mused to herself then remembered something St. John had casually told her a while back. The restaurant did not accept reservations. That had to be on of the stupidest things she had ever heard. Really, it was a miracle the place managed to survive with all its asinine rules and regulations.
Starling made her way up to the doorman, who, having given her a single cursory glance, was almost inclined to turn her away before she convinced him to change his mind. Starling smiled to herself as she tucked in the Lafayette Police Department badge she had flashed the surprised maitre d' into her right jacket pocket after the little man had twirled his pencil thin moustache at her and grudgingly let her in, immediately causing a cacophony of protests from the other patiently waiting patrons. Starling didn't blame them. If he hadn't let her in, she had the feeling she would have slugged the pompous jerk senseless.
She spared a fleeting glance at the ceiling fans with their dark wood blades lazily revolving above the mirror-panelled room and scanned the crowded bistro briefly before spotting him sitting at one of the corner tables, almost entirely hidden by the broad leaves of a potted palm.
He had apparently been waiting for some time, judging from the half-full glass of scotch sitting in front of him, the ice having shrunk to the size of a quarter. Lecter was quite the dapper figure in a beautifully cut three-piece black suit under which was a silvery shirt of a fine material Starling could not identify from where she was standing. A black silk tie and a diamond stickpin completed his attire, the jacket opened and the tie with its delicate patterns tucked into the vest underneath.
Starling noted that he chose his jewellery and accoutrements carefully and sparingly with only a simple gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. He had no wristwatch and was looking at a solid gold pocket watch in the palm of his right hand, the chain looped through the specially tailored slots in the vest. Starling cleared her throat to announce her presence and he quickly snapped it shut, flashing her a brief, irritated glance as he tucked the watch away. He stood up and like the gentleman that he was, helped her into her seat before resuming his. They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.
"You're late," he stated unequivocally in a tone that brooked no argument. "Is this another one of those deplorable habits you've picked up in the South, Officer Starling?" There was just the subtlest hint of emphasis on the word Officer, as if to remind her of her million-mile fall from grace, but it was enough to get her hackles up.
"For your information, doctor," she bit out. "I was delayed because of developments in the case I am currently working on. Forgive me if punctuality in this already unwanted meeting comes second to doing my job well." She relaxed. "That said, I'm sorry. In truth, I was too caught up with the paperwork to notice the time. Have I kept you waiting long?"
The corners of his mouth twitched in the briefest hint of a smile. "Long enough for me to begin to wonder if you hadn't reneged on our assignation."
"Reneged? Assignation?" she raised one eyebrow with a touch of humour. "You make lunch sound so Victorian and so. . ."
"Romantic?" he ventured with an arch grin.
"I was going to say illicit," she corrected. "But considering the difference in our. . . standings in the social roster, illegal might be a more apt adjective."
"Oh, you mean the fact that I am an expatriate member of high society while you to it were a near persona non grata more involved in the gritty, judicial aspect of the enforcement of laws?"
"If what you mean is that you're a cannibalistic mass murderer, wanted in three continents - never mind that you're rich as hell - and I'm the former FBI agent who was supposed to clap your sorry ass in jail, then I guess you're pretty damn right."
"Do say that a bit louder, Clarice. I don't think the people at the other table quite heard all of your charming imprecations."
She folded her arms and glared at him like a petulant child.
He sighed resignedly. "Why must you always insist on making things so difficult for the both of us?"
"Why must you always insist on making things so difficult for me?" she snarled back at him, not pacified in the least by his momentary acquiescence.
"Clarice," he began, but seemed to change his mind in mid-sentence and instead looked away. She placed a hand on his forearm, prompting him to meet her gaze.
"What is it," she asked gently. That spot of reluctance in the doctor's normally impeccable armour was enough to touch off some faint reminder in her mind that despite all evidence to the contrary, Hannibal Lecter was also a man. Imperfect as all men are, mortal as all men are. Sparks of something, an emotion perhaps that she could not ascertain were pinwheeling in the fathomless depths of maroon.
"You do know I would not force you into anything against your will, don't you?"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Whether you may or may not realise it, I could quite easily eliminate my competition. Do stop that," he said, waving off her suddenly icy glare with a careless movement of one elegantly formed hand. "You haven't let me finish. As I was saying, young St. John is but a mere pup in comparison to a man of my. . . capabilities," he amended before taking another sip of his scotch. "So you can stop waiting for Prince Charming, Clarice," he told her irritably. "Cinderella's already got him."
Starling sputtered in disbelief at his absurd analogy, giving Lecter sufficient time to continue with his deconstruction. "You've oft accused Agent Mapp of being more in love with the idea of being in love when you haven't been able to bring yourself to let go of your childish fantasies and foolish dreams of a perfect love."
"And what makes you the leading expert on that, Doctor Lecter? I wasn't aware that running from the law was conductive to long and lasting relationships."
"It can be a hindrance, I assure you. But nothing is impossible when you put your mind to it. Especially when the enticements are quite . . .persuasive."
Starling bristled. "So? Are you implying that you have a girl in every port?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you're quite beautiful when you're jealous?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferably arrogant?"
"There were one or two brave souls," he grinned wolfishly, hidden hints of mischief and secrets dancing behind those dark, dark eyes.
"And they were never heard from again. . ." Clarice trailed off, in manner of a world-class storyteller - a.k.a. resident rumour-spreader - relating a well-known and much-revised urban legend for the amusement of her throng of vapid classmates, eagerly hanging onto every word.
To her surprise, Dr. Lecter chuckled. "My, my. It seems that the little Starling has acquired a sense of humour. That is vastly relieving, my dear. I was beginning to worry about your state of mental health. Always good to have a bit of fun." She shot him a look that could incinerate ashes further.
"Well," he said, smiling brightly. "Shall we order?" he glanced up at one of the waiters who hurried over with a menu.
Starling nodded curtly and took the time to really notice her surroundings. The intimate, 140-seater restaurant had rearranged its seating to resemble a salon more than a dining area and groups of New Orleans' high society were spread evenly across the room's wicker chairs. Some of the same ladies who had given her the once-over earlier were now flitting from table to table, giving each other that inescapable society ritual of the air-kiss and exchanging banal conversations on a myriad of topics as well as the latest - and therefore the juiciest - bits of gossip and scandal.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the elusive Robert Delacroix," a decidedly female voice purred in their direction. Dr. Lecter looked up from his browsing the menu to address the red-clad body that came with the decidedly female voice with friendly yet slightly clipped tones.
"Hildegarde. A pleasure to see you, as always." Hildegarde gave him a sugary-sweet smile that left Starling wondering when and if ants would start raiding the place.
"Robert. You naughty, naughty man," she cooed. "Where have you been all this time and who is your charming companion?" Lecter blinked at her, slightly appalled. "Oh, go on, Robert. Do be a dear and introduce us," she blathered on, seemingly oblivious.
Dr. Lecter gave Clarice an exasperated look as he slowly stood and motioned for her to do the same. "Mrs. Hildegarde Illich, I would like to introduce you to my. . . acquaintance, Officer Clarice Starling of the Lafayette Police Department. Clarice, Hildegarde Illich. Her husband is Jonathan Illich, of Illich steel. I'm sure you've passed by one of their factories at the Riverfront at some point. Clarice is working on the Venci case and as a matter of fact, nearly forgot all about our lunch date," he glanced at her pointedly with just the littlest twist of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh dear. Terrible about what happened to poor Christian, don't you think?"
"Did you know him?" inquired Starling, trying her best to engage in polite chit-chat with the odious woman, all the time trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal Lecter looked ready to burst out laughing.
"Not so very well, I'm afraid. But I knew his mother, God rest her soul. He came from a very fine family, Christian did. Although," she sniffed disdainfully as if the deceased had left a bad stench in the air, "His choice in companions did leave something to be desired." Hildegarde Illich gracefully – which was quite a feat considering her stature, which more closely resembled that of a pachyderm than a human being – manoeuvred her adipose derriere into the seat that Dr. Lecter had previously vacated to which he narrowed his eyes in distaste yet merely stepped back to pluck an unused chair from the miraculously empty table nearest the potted palm that almost but not quite completely hid them from view.
Starling hesitantly sat down, glancing at Dr. Lecter - who had pulled up to the table - for encouragement, at which he merely nodded, assuring her that everything was going fine and that she had not quite made an ass of herself just yet.
"But enough about Christian. Lordy, we should let the dead have their rest." Her jocose laughter grated against Starling's ears and, from the slight shutdown in Doctor Lecter's appearance, his as well. "Tell me all about yourself, my dear. However did you and our dear Robert meet?"
She opened her mouth to tell the insufferable woman to go and shove 'their Dear Robert' up where the sun don't shine, but was forestalled by the doctor who had taken it upon himself to reply, no doubt sensing her pique. Trust the man to be only truly sensitive when it comes to safeguarding his interests. After all, it wouldn't exactly do to have his lunch companion suddenly blurt out to one of the biggest gossip queens this side of the Mississippi that they had made their acquaintance somewhere down the dark dungeon-like recesses of a Baltimore madhouse. Not to mention his face (or rather, former face, three surgeries and two continents back) was still prominently plastered onto the much-frequented website of her erstwhile employers.
She struggled to compose and answer to that without giving too much away, hoping that the deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression of surprise bordering on frantic thinking was not evident on her face. Starling had a very bad feeling that this Hildegarde Illich was a very good assessor of human reactions, a skill honed after spending a lifetime with liars, snobs and the plastic people who made up "her" class.
"Is something the matter, my dear?" Illich was looking down at her with not quite genuine concern and perhaps a little malice.
"I – uh, er . . ." Funny how speech tends to desert you at the most inopportune times.
"We met while she was working on another case, Hildegarde," Lecter cut in smoothly. "Officer Starling here required my services as a consultant for a murder she was investigating. Seemed that the suspect she was looking for was into collecting . . . trophies."
"Really? How odd. I've never heard of anybody collecting antique trophies."
"Well, now you have," Starling blurted out in an incongruously upbeat sing-songy tone of voice, before slapping her mouth with her right hand in a childish gesture to stop the onslaught of giggles that bubbled from the back of her throat.
Sighing, she settled back into the chair like and errant child and steeled herself for an afternoon of boredom.
Lecter smiled reassuringly at her. Starling was reminded of the crocodile in Disney's Peter Pan. Now she knew how poor Captain Hook felt whenever the green, tick-tocking bastard grinned at her.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
**
Starling's Apartment, Corner of Bourbon and Esplanade, 8:41 p.m. Day 15"Hello, it's Malcolm."
Clarice Starling smiled into the receiver, hitting Ctrl+S to save the file she was currently working on and reached upwards to interlock her fingers, stretching and leaning against the backrest of the gaslift computer chair. The pale blue glow from the monitor was reflected in the convex lenses of the pair of glasses perched on her nose.
"Mmm. Hello." The low, resonant voice at the other end chuckled.
"My, you sound tired. Rough day?"
"Could've been better," she replied, thinking back to her afternoon with the Doctor. The woman had been insufferable. Luckily, twenty minutes after Illich had sat down, she was distracted by one of her society cronies and thus had left Lecter and Starling to their own devices. She wasn't sure which was worse. "So, what's up, Cassanova?" Starling rotated her neck slowly, feeling the bones and muscles pop.
"I'm bored."
"You're always bored. Tell me something new. Surprise me."
"Well, I'm calling about dinner."
"Mmm. Sounds like fun. Do go on. Whatcha feel like doin'?"
"I feel like dancing. There's this great Jazz club near your place. I know the owner. Still want to keep a lonely devil company?"
"Depends. You wouldn't happen to know the lonely devil's name, would you?"
"Christ, lady. You're too sharp for me. Some other time, then."
"Alright," she said nonchalantly. A click at the other end then the steady hum of the dial tone. She replaced the cordless phone into its charger. Seconds later, it rang again. Starling grinned as she picked up the phone and hit the "talk" button. "Pick me up in twenty minutes, Diablo."
"Clarice?" A silken whisper, smooth as honey and twice as compelling snaked its way from the earpiece to her eardrums, short circuiting her already languorous brain cells. What happens to the fly once it gets caught in the honey? It dies.
"Dr. Lecter."
"Dare I hope that by your tone your opinion of me has improved? Although I would much rather prefer to be called Hannibal, it is perfectly fine with me should you wish to address me as Diablo. After all, there is always a first time for everything."
Uh . . . uh . . . oh, shit. Fuck, fuckety, fuck!!The telltale beep of call waiting alerted her from her state of automatic shutdown her cerebrum was experiencing at the moment. "Uh, Doctor, I'm afraid I have to put you on hold," Smooth, Starling, real smooth. They're gonna give you an award for that one. Without waiting for his reply, she quickly hit the line 2 button, forgetting in her semi-panicky confusion to divert Lecter's call.
"Gorgeous." Right caller this time. Unless Doctor Lecter had suddenly developed a talent for ventriloquism, there was no mistaking St. John's deep baritone purr.
"Um, hi?" She was aware of how stupid that sounded. Jesus, Starling. Twice in one day. Mama always said never to juggle. But damn, it's kinda fun.
Kinda.
"You, woman, definitely do not sound alright. Is something the matter?" Damn! How does he do that?
"You wouldn't happen to be psychic, would you? Because if you are, I hate psychics," she grumbled irately, sneaking a glance at the digital clock on top of the monitor. She'd kept the doctor waiting for half a minute, now.
St. John laughed. Oh, how she loved his laugh. That sound, deep and mellifluous, almost melodious, really yet still very distinctly male that was so different from the clear condescending scorn he dished out on other women on a regular basis. "I'm not psychic, then. And even if I were, I'd give it all up just to earn your approval. Wouldn't want you to hate me, Starling. It would be the catastrophe of my adult life."
"And what's the catastrophe of your teenage life?"
"Not meeting you," he retorted, quite seriously.
"Aww, you getting romantic on me, St. John? Don't tell me the Tin Man actually has a heart? Shock and horror."
"I'm crushed, do you hear? Deeply and completely hurt beyond belief," Starling could almost imagine him put his left hand over his heart as he always did when he made speeches like this. "Pick you up in half an hour. Be dressed and ready or else I'll come charging into that cramped little bedroom of yours and have my way with you, startling with nips on that wonderfully tight derriere. . . "
"Playboy."
"Flirt."
"Ass."
"Beautiful girl."
Starling arched a sardonic brow, struggling valiantly to keep the grin from her face as she was suddenly filled with the waffies, until she realised he had already hung up. Distractedly, she hit the line 1 button.
"Hello? Doctor Lecter? Hello?"
There was nobody there.
**
Waffies – warm and fuzzy feelings
Beer goggles – my best friend once told me that this referred to when a bloke drinks enough, any woman will start to look good to him.
I'm aware that "shagging" is a British, not an American term, but let's assume that Starling's been watching Austin Powers, shall we? Or did you really think she could spend that much time with St. John and not learn some new words? This chapter has not been proofread as my beta has somehow gone missing in action.