Author's Note: In the words of Spike, "That's right.  I'm back, and I'm a bleedin' animal!  Yeah!"  Heh.  Well, not quite, but you get the picture.  My INTENSE apologies for the…oh god, what's it been?  Two months?  I assure everyone, I'm not dead.  Just very, very, VERY busy.

That being said…hope everyone remembers the story. 


Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister 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 Eight


There was an amused pause that seemed to stretch for hours. Starling knew her breaths couldn't be as loud as they sounded, but at the moment, she was sure they reflected far ways down the highway. A warning for approaching cars. Her unadjusted eyes pried at the darkness. Though there was no sound, she did not doubt his tangible presence flooding the household. Shivers sprouted across her skin and her extra sensory radar was shooting off the charts. And still there was nothing. Nothing but mocking silence.

It was the sort of silence that screamed.

"Doctor?" she whispered when impatience got the better of her.

A beat longer of considerate repose. Starling's inward tinglies jittered once more, as though screaming to run now and hope her ears were playing tricks on her.

That wouldn't do. As always, he sensed her debate. Read her thoughts, and finally found the decency to answer her. "Perhaps you were expecting someone else? Kathy Bates, perchance?"

Starling drew in another quaking breath, almost certain if she could see his eyes, she would see laughter behind them. Humor was never wasted with the doctor, and the present situation certainly offered its share. Predictably, her mind and will betrayed her, rendering her speechless. Stripped and barren. What was there possibly to say in such a situation? The weight of realization was crashing with momentous affect. Little by little.

There would be no leave tonight.

At last she found her voice, several attempts of reciprocated humor rising to mind before inevitable rejection. Dr. Lecter didn't appreciate segues. There was no way she could say something sensical in that regard. Her overworked, fatigued mind simply wouldn't allow it.

"Honestly, with the way my day's been going," she answered finally, "I probably should have seen this one hours in advance."

"Ah. Of course. Your prison transfer." The tone in his voice insinuated a connection of old pals—friends who spoke constantly with a run through of the day's events. She did not realize he had stepped forward until the cold front in front of her vanished, replaced suddenly with the radiating warmth of another body. Exhaustion again threatened to claim her. The consequences of the 'oh now what?' approach to life. "Tell me, did the mind-numbing Mr. McCallister give you much trouble?"

Yeah, he would think McCallister was boring. He wasn't the one who had to listen to his yapping all the way from Washington. The comment did little more than irritate her, her other senses drawn in by the sheath of fictitious habit. Still, she forced her mind to remain sharp. There was no suggestion that the peril of her situation had decreased or enhanced. Dr. Lecter wouldn't give any indications before he struck, if that was indeed his intention.

Best to answer him now. Being trapped in a cabin with a cannibal was bad enough. Being trapped with a testy cannibal commenced the issuance of your own death warrant.

"No trouble." Her voice was barely quaking, but she knew he would hear any indecision. "I'll admit he was a little annoying..." She hazarded a step forward, letting her thought trail. It was best to keep him talking until she found a light. Or her knife. Starling bit her lip. That thought was ridiculous. Even if she could get to the blade, she wouldn't be able to use it. The doctor could see her through the darkness and had the maddening ability to anticipate her every move.

"You may stop there," he said a second later, confirming her silent query. She froze at the arctic command in his voice. When she thought her heart would explode in her chest, she heard a relaxed chuckle. "I wouldn't want you to run into the coat rack."

The infuriating tease in his voice made her shrivel with familiarity. Her thoughts traveled again to the discarded blade, and her inner will collapsed with forthright understanding of her limited options. If she didn't try now, she wouldn't get another chance. Licking her lips, her wrist twitch, and she waited.

Then ran.

He was quick as a cat, directly in front of her before she had the chance to blink. Her arms were suddenly wrenched in a powerful grasp, and she struggled without thought. The tease in his voice only heightened her agitated fear, and she felt his rumbling chuckle against her stomach.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah," Dr. Lecter berated softly. "I much prefer you here where I can see you."

"Easy for you to say," she spat, speaking before she thought.

Another chortle. Good. The longer she kept him humored, the longer she kept herself alive. "My apologies, Officer Starling. My house, my rules."

Her skin tingled where he grasped her, images of a thousand forgotten nightmares (or were they dreams?) springing to mind without much persuasion. When her struggles subsided, he released her and stepped away, and again she was assaulted by a cold front of air.

"I must have the worst luck in history," she mumbled as she stepped back. The motion rose that she should attempt again, and was defeated without an argument. Fighting was useless, especially in this state. And at any rate, he would expect another attempt, not concession. Her mind was racing at full speed, mapping out survival options. Keep the madman amused and guessing. Don't want him bored with you.

"Oh come now, Clarice, you'll hurt my feelings. Are things really so grim? You are terribly far from home. I'd call this turn of luck rather convenient. Better someone you know than a complete stranger." The tease in his voice was hard to miss. She hesitated to think that he sounded different, but there was no denying it. Speaking to a man behind bars diverged greatly when compared to speaking to him after a release, or an escape, in this instance. She had training enough to notice.

"It depends on how you look at things, Doctor," Starling replied, backing up a step, then retracting. It was unwise to display any signs of intimidation. Dr. Lecter knew he could be frightening and required no outward assurance. Such knowledge already gave him an unfair advantage. With her, he was accustomed to gall and confidence, even if she appeared flustered and uncertain. It was how best he liked her. She was alive today for being herself, because the world was more interesting with her in it. There could be no signs of fear. Something told her there wasn't a need.

"Oh?"

"In comparison, I think I'd prefer a group of strangers to the likes of Paul Krendler." Honest to God's truth. If she had found Krendler in here, she would have hauled ass to the truck and frozen to death.

A chuckle of appreciation perturbed the air. Perverse and frightening, even more so than the feeling of normality that seared along with it. As though she were chatting with an old friend she had fallen out with after college. Starling shook her head fiercely, mind mapping ineffectual alternatives around him. She needed to get to that knife.

Yet she didn't move. Through the darkness, she had a vague conception of where he stood. He was discouragingly well concealed in the shadows. It seemed she could see everything else within convenient proximity save the cannibal in the middle of the room. She knew he was near—terribly near. And she didn't move.

A darkly amusing thought rose unwittingly to mind. I'm about to become a member of the Donner Party.

When he again broke the silence, Starling released the breath she had been holding and convinced herself to relax. There wasn't much else she could do, she realized with dreary logic. Another attempt at the discarded kitchen knife might be punished with the confiscation of an invaluable bodily organ, even if she knew that would likely be Lecter's last resort. A man of such ideals would think twice before lashing out toward a woman who made the world more interesting. Especially with the variety of whimsical conclusions this circumstance presented.

"I suppose, then, that we find ourselves at odds once more. What do you propose, Clarice? I, myself, never fancied stumbling across such a promising situation."

Starling bit her lip in contemplation. She still couldn't see him, and that was beginning to ebb her patience. Every time he spoke or allowed her to hear the few perceptible breaths he indulged, he seemed to be in a different location. At once very close, and again at the other side of the room.

It was only when she sighed in exasperation and dropped the protective pretense that she finally etched his outline from the darkness. He was standing not terribly far from her, allowing her room enough for comfort. What little light emanated into the room seemed to be drawn to the pupils of his eyes. She wondered how on earth it had taken her so long to see him.

"I'm stuck here," she decided anticlimactically.

"It would appear so."

"I'm stuck in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm with you."

"Your perception and recitation of the obvious is most astute, my dear." The tease in his tone made her fluster. She had heard that voice in too many contexts and it was beginning to make her head spin. "I take it this doesn't happen to you regularly?"

"Every day," Starling snickered, throwing her hands up in irritation. In the heat of things, she finally lost whatever grasp of control she had on her warring conscious and let it erupt. I knew it. I knew today had gone by far too smoothly to be a picture of my life. I mean, what were the odds that the transfer with so much riding on it would go over without a hitch? She grumbled and banished unhelpful thoughts away and allowed herself to ask the dreaded question. "So…what now?"

"I really cannot say, Clarice. Much of that is up to you. Under whatever circumstances, you have been willed my guest, and I will do everything to accommodate you until the weather dies." In semblance of truce, he showed open palms, red tint in his eyes glinting keenly at her. "You have my word—no harm will come to you while you are under this roof."

Starling knew he was speaking the truth. There was no need to question the sincerity or validation behind the doctor's given word. The same way she knew Crawford was going to have a hay-day when she didn't call him tomorrow afternoon. The same way she knew Mapp would start out the day by hitting her alarm clock until she slept in, because there was no Starling there to wake her. The same way she knew Dr. Lecter's idea of accommodations likely included fine wine and chamber music. She just knew.

That didn't clear anything up, though. There was still the very palpable issue that he was a convicted felon, infamous for his crimes. The sort of fellow that struck fear in the hearts of the pure while they tried desperately to conceive the darkness of his character didn't tickle their fancy in that horribly curious way. So they were going to make nice for however long they were stuck together. Then what? What happened once the snow cleared away? There was no way she could leave him here—let him continue in full disregard of the law she worked so hard to preserve. Similarly, doubts on her part would be detected immediately, and she would not question his ability to take her life if it meant evading a return to incarceration. Didn't bloody well matter how much he liked her…

There was no point in beating around the bush. "Then what?" Starling asked bluntly. "You know I can't just walk out of here once all is said and done, Doctor. I have a job to do."

"Actually, right now, you are on vacation," he reminded her. A quiver raced through her as he stepped forward. One step. Nothing more. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it, Clarice. I am more interested in getting settled for the evening."

"Settled?"

"For starters…" Then he was gone, pacing backward and drawing the knife finally off the floor, holding it up demonstratively, and she never saw it again. Where he kept it tucked, she didn't think to ask. "Secondly, I intend to rectify the growling in your stomach." Growling? She was answered with a sharp hunger pain. "And finally, sleeping arrangements. Not that I don't trust you, my dear, but—"

"I'm on the couch." Starling held her breath in grim realization that she had just interrupted Hannibal the Cannibal. Likely not the best tactical move. Still, there was no way she was putting him between herself and the front door. Again, when she expected anger, she received humor instead. Another sigh of relief coursed through her.

"Whatever you wish," Dr. Lecter replied nonchalantly.

A sudden flicker and the room brightened with abrupt luminosity. She blinked her surprise before her eyes came into focus and she saw him standing beside the lamp. The first good look in several years. He was nothing of the man she had seen in Memphis. Out of prison garb: dressed instead in evening clothes, casual but classy. The doctor did not react to her scrutiny. She received the dry impression that he had seen her in the light a few times to his advantage more over the past three years.

The look they shared crackled with intensity, and Starling felt herself freeze in a beat of suggestion. In the eyes of someone she had never truly expected to see again, she shivered—once again her dreams returning to haunt her. However, the moment did not last long. Dr. Lecter withdrew, grinning tightly to himself. "Please," he offered, "make yourself at home."

Then he retreated into the kitchen, presumably to cook. Starling released a breath and attempted to focus. He was gone was gone, and so was the knife, however briefly, along with every chance she had ever had for a slab of blessed normality. She stood in the middle of the living area dumbly, distraught with uneasiness.

Once more, the reality of her situation repeated, still not fully sinking in. The road to comprehension was long and wrought with denial.

I am snowed-in with Hannibal Lecter, and he's making me supper.

"No," she grumbled to herself. "My life isn't crazy."

Denial was bliss.



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