Title: Back in Baltimore – Chapter 7
Author: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)
Genre: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal
Category: Drama
Rating: PG-13
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 SEVEN
He slides from her with a shuddery sigh, and Clarice lifts her hand to gently wipe the tears away with the side of her thumb. A fine layer of perspiration covers her body, and she is breathing rather heavily. Even so, she remains silent, as she had been through their intimacy.
Dr. Lecter stands from the bed, bends to retrieve his pants. He, too, is quiet, his actions businesslike. Though she isn't crying now, Starling feels hot tears stinging her eyelids. She blinks them away quickly, before he notices.
"You cannot stay, Clarice."
Her eyes snap up to meet his, ignoring the hurt in his stare, focusing only on her own flash of pain. She holds his gaze for nearly a full, silent minute, before looking away again. Starling does not speak, nor does she nod, giving no indication that she has heard him. She does not bother to ask why; she already knows. Using her elbows, she pushes herself up from the mattress, swinging her legs around to stand.
"…where's my stuff?"
He gestures with a lift of his chin to the chair by the dresser. Her clothes are folded neatly, and she collects them, dressing quickly. In a dully thudding, dizzying moment, Clarice feels filthy, sick. The dampness on her inner thighs is drying and no longer sticky. She bites her lip hard, and closes her eyes for a moment until the nausea passes.
She leaves without another word to him, though there is much she longs to say. The rest of the apartment is dark and silent: the recording of the Variations has run its course and he did not bother resetting it. She fumbles along the wall, blind, in the direction of the door, escaping into the dimly illuminated hallway, down the scuffed and dirty stairs.
Her initial breath of 'fresh' Baltimore air, no matter how polluted it must actually be, is beyond refreshing. She takes deep, almost desperate pants, filling her lungs until she is sure they'll expand beyond their limit.
She reaches the curb, and her stomach betrays her, lurching upward. Starling doubles over, wrapping an arm around her abdomen, the other hand holding her hair back as she vomits into the gutter. She hasn't eaten since the shared meal of Chinese takeout, which doesn't taste much worse the second time around.
She lets go of her hair, it swings forward to frame her face again. Her fingers splay atop the fire hydrant at her side, bracing herself for the dry heaves that rattle her petite frame, gasping for oxygen again when body finally stills.
The grocery across the street, with its florescent lighting, seems to glow like a heavenly refuge, beckoning her closer. She crosses, not even having to dodge cars, and pays for an overpriced bottled water, mainly in quarters. She catches a glimpse of herself, blurry and reflected in the empty front window, and is startled to see what resemblance she bears to a cop show's rape victim.
-x-
Kay Howard is at home by herself, though decidedly unbothered by the lack of company. She hasn't had a date in nearly a year; her evenings are spent primarily working on stubborn case files to keep up with her perfect clearance rate. The squad room's Board proudly displays evidence of her drive to succeed: she has closed every homicide thrown in her direction.
Tonight, however, she is watching television. Nothing particularly outstanding, so she channel-surfs idly, half-reclining on her battered sofa, a pillow propped under her lower back. There is a knock on the door, and she hastens to answer it, slightly confused. She hasn't had a visitor for a longer time than she has lacked romance.
It is Clarice Starling. The agent looks disheveled, her usually flawless complexion now a horrid combination of flushed and pale.
"Starling?" The redhead is no longer puzzled, but definitely concerned. The other woman's eyes brim with unshed tears.
"It wasn't the way it is in the novels," Starling murmurs, and her face crumples.
Kay opens her arms, allowing Clarice to stumble forward. Her hands place against the younger woman's upper back, palms skimming the fabric-covered surface in soothing, calming circles. She knows what the paperbacks make romance to be. Girls who read them hungrily believe that men will touch them gently, touch their face, their breasts, with soft, relaxing strokes. That men will hold them, panting and spent, as the dawn's vivid hues streak across the sky, erasing the stars with the mere passage of time.
"Jesus, honey," the sergeant murmurs, embracing her friend, "Don't you know it never is?"