Title: Back in Baltimore – Chapter 6
Author: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)
Genre: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal
Category: Drama
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: stardustsavant@hotmail.com
Archive?: Sure.
Summary: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.
Author's Notes: Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04.
BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER SIX
When Starling manages to open her eyes, she has the vague floating sensation of one who has just emerged from a dream, or perhaps is still experiencing it. She shifts, intending to rub at her eyes, but cannot seem to move her hands.
Her gaze lifts, back arching to peer upward at her wrists: secured with scarves to the bedposts. She tugs gingerly, and the fabric gives a little, but not very much. There is a faint, almost stale smell of smoke, and she wrinkles her nose at the scent.
"Hello, Clarice."
She tenses visibly, flattening her body against the mattress, looking down again. She is naked, and wonders why that was not the first thing she noticed. A wave of utter humiliation courses through her, bringing a vivid crimson hue to her flatteringly pronounced cheekbones.
He is sitting there, as she somehow knew he would be, a cigarette filter smoldering in an ashtray set beside his chair. She has always adored the way he speaks her name: that velvet-rich tone with the slight slur on the last syllable, commanding her attention immediately as if he owns her name. And therefore, owns her, as well.
"Doctor," she manages as a return greeting, pleased to note that even in this sort of situation, she retains her manners.
A faint smile curls over his thin lips, and he stands slowly, uncoiling from his position of repose. "Did you sleep well?" His tone is mocking, and obviously so. The period of slumber was hardly a choice.
"Yes, sir." She catches a faint wolfish glimmer in those startlingly maroon eyes, and she is overcome with a nauseating sense of dread. "You're not going to…eat me, are you?"
The older man's brow lifts in amusement. He shakes his head. "No, my little Starling. Not unless you ask."
The innuendo is not subtle and Clarice blushes again. For a moment, she had forgotten who it was that she dealt with. Vowing to choose her words more carefully now, she nods a bit, biting at her lip nervously.
For all her anxiety, she is less frightened than, by all rights, she should be. Any sane person would tremble with fear if alone in an apartment with such a violent, grotesque serial murderer, but she feels an underlying sense of calm. The thought that she might be deranged is seriously considered for a moment or two.
He has not yet touched her. She is as sure of it as she is of her own name, and the thought is immensely comforting. Dr. Lecter has sat across from her, observing her in an exposed, oblivious state and he refrained from taking advantage of the situation.
"Why are you here, Doctor?"
"How interesting," he replies, clasping his hands behind his back, "I feel as though I ought to be asking you the very same. This is, after all, my home."
"You know what I meant," she replies, feeling the faintest twinge of exasperation. "Why here? Europe would be so much safer, sir, they wouldn't know nearly as much about you; we don't correspond regularly with the federal branches there.."
He waits for her to finish with the expression of a man who has known his reply from her first word and patiently awaits his chance to continue.
"I wished to be found, Clarice."
"You wanted to be caught?" Her eyes shine disbelievingly.
"No. To be found, Clarice, there is quite a difference."
"Why?"
In the moment of silence between the end of her inquiry and the beginning of his response, Clarice Starling wonders if she really wants an answer. He clears his throat.
"The first three hours of night were almost spent
The time that every star shines down on us
When Love appeared to me so suddenly
That I still shudder at the memory.
Joyous Love seemed to me, the while he held
My heart within his hands, and in his arms
My lady lay asleep wrapped in a veil.
He woke her then and trembling and obedient
She ate that burning heart out of his hand;
Weeping I saw him then depart from me."
She is silent as he finishes, voice and words seeming to linger, clinging desperately to the wood paneling of the room, the sheets, her earlobes.
"Sir?"
"Dante."
"Yes, sir, but…"
"But, what, Clarice?"
"What are you asking, Dr. Lecter?"
"Bring your hands down, Clarice." He avoids the question skillfully, and dutifully, Starling tugs with force, the scarves unwrapping from the bedposts. Her arms come to rest at her sides, and she watches as he moves forward, quick strides effortlessly carrying him to the edge of the bed. She repeats her query.
"What are you asking? What are you saying?"
He leans down, gaze locking with hers. While the lamp burns faithfully beside the ashtray on the end-table, she thinks with a frightening thrill that his eyes hold the only source of light in the room. Flecks of gold and silver, mingling with the aubergine iris, color so vivid it seems to swallow the pupil completely.
Dr. Lecter samples her fear the way he might sip at a glass of exquisite merlot. Finding it satisfactory, he speaks again, so close to her that his breath tickles across her lips.
"Devour my heart completely, Clarice, for you have already dined on half."
His mouth is on hers now, sending a flickering wave of terror and delight spiraling down the length of Starling's spine. Almost hating herself for it, she returns the kiss, one hand cradling the curve of his cheek, the other placed against the back of his neck.
His hands are on her, skimming over her flesh in practiced movements, as if learning every curve, every angle. Every nuance. Her heart is thudding frantically in her ears, and she has pushed with her elbows away from the mattress, forcing her frame flush against his.
And then, the contact has ceased. She hears the gentle clink of a belt, the airy sound of fabric falling from skin. When he touches her again, she realizes that he still wears his shirt and tie, which is almost amusing. He is frantic. Worst of all, so is she.
She arches again, and he meets her in it, sending a gasp of combined pleasure and pain tumbling from her lips. Clarice Starling is not a virgin, but she might as well be; it has been so long since that first and only time, fumbling in the backseat of a Cadillac in her date's unlit driveway.
She moves with him instinctively, opening her eyes just slightly to look up at him, almost wishing she had not. His own eyes are closed, beads of perspiration dotting his brow, mouth open a bit. He looks surprisingly vulnerable, and Clarice realizes just what a private moment she has caught him in.
It has been years since Dr. Lecter has possessed a woman in such a manner. He finds himself at the edge of self-restraint in mere minutes. Only then do his eyes open, lock with Starling's. She is fascinated by his stare, the color, the intensity, wanting in a sudden moment to crawl into his gaze. She cannot.
Her nails dig harshly into the fabric covering his shoulders as he rocks forward a final time. The sheet sticks damply to her back and it is over. She has not made a sound, though it was every bit as earth-shattering as depicted in the cheap romance novels she can sometimes confess to reading.
It is only when the salty drop reaches her lower lip and curious tongue that she realizes she is crying.