It is a Friday evening, and Clarice Starling is running down the paths of the woods. October in Arlington is lovely; the weather has not yet left the summer temperatures, and the air still feels balmy yet cool.

The day at the office had been particularly excruciating. Pearsall, who had remained Clarice's supervisor through the entirety of her fall from grace at the Bureau, had left an even larger pile of papers and assignments than normal sitting on her desk, waiting to greet her that morning. As Clarice sat working all day, she wondered whether her place at the FBI was really worth all of the degrading assignments and dirty looks that she received in the office. She couldn't help becoming bitter and resentful of her situation. Where the hell has all the meaning and importance in my life gone? Out the God-damned window, that's where, she thought, as she shuffled papers around and prepared to head home for the day.

Now Clarice ran from all of her pain and regret in the solace of the quiet woods. But she was noticing that lately it was becoming increasingly difficult to find any sort of peace at all. Of course, there was her trouble and discontentment at work that could not be ignored. She felt that she was losing herself. For her, the FBI had always defined who she was, and now that her career had been reduced to something insignificant, she too felt as if she had somehow become worthless.

But something else plagued and pulled at her. Clarice had not slept soundly since that ill-fated night on the Chesapeake, when she had last parted with Dr. Lecter. The image of Paul Krendler consuming his own brain, although he was her greatest enemy, still managed to bring tears to her eyes and a grinding feeling to her stomach. But what staggered her the most was Lecter. What had passed between Hannibal Lecter and herself had emotionally overwhelmed her, comforted her, and burned her deeply, all at the same time.

Clarice remembered the barn at the Verger Estate. The smell of the pigs mixed with mud and summer air still singed her nostrils whenever she recalled that night. And then there was Dr. Lecter. The fact that she was unable to allow Mason to murder Lecter deeply disturbed her. She desperately tried to convince herself that any respectable agent, or human being for that matter, would have rushed into that barn as well and would have saved him from being tortured to death. What she had done was a result of her unwavering sense of right and wrong.

But the "reunion" with Dr. Lecter had come almost as a relief to her. Finally, here was the man who she had stalked and hunted for the past year, who she had so desperately wanted to find but hoped that she never would. Lecter, on one hand, was Clarice's greatest nemesis. She felt that her entire relationship with him had brought her more pain and resentment from others than anything else. Their obvious connection had stunted her career's growth and hampered her future with the Bureau. He was the constant burden in her life; the demon who had managed to crawl into her mind and hibernate there, rearing his ugly head in her thoughts more often then she would have cared to admit.

On the other hand, Clarice could not ignore the undeniable comfort that Lecter brought her, much to her dismay and disgust. The terrible bond that had been forged between them so many years ago seemed to have only deepened over time. He had left his brand on her, and what was worse: they both knew it. He was the only person who had ever truly seen who she was and had understood her, and maybe even respected her. The letters, advice, and attention that he gave her helped to fill the void of human compassion in her life. Clarice had always been an agent, first and foremost. But a part of her was kicking and screaming for personal respect and empathy. Clarice was only human with basic human needs, but because she repressed and denied these needs, she was entirely alone. She refused to accept that she needed anyone else, and always put the Bureau ahead of herself. Dr. Lecter gave her the praise and empathy that she so desperately craved. She was both angered and terrified at the thought that the only person in the world who remotely cared for her was a cannibalistic murderer of eleven (or so that the Bureau knew of, anyway).

She had always questioned Dr. Lecter's feelings towards her. She knew that she generally interested and amused him. After listening to her taped conversations with him from Baltimore years ago, she remembered how he had toyed and played with her, testing her and developing an interest in who she was. But the night on the Chesapeake had left her dazed and confused. What struck her the most was that Lecter had saved her from death at the Verger Estate, from the pigs in the barn. Clarice knew that Lecter would never kill her himself, simply because he said he would not, and she knew he wouldn't lie; the Doctor despised dishonesty. There was the possibility that he was returning the favor, since Clarice had saved him from the grasps of Mason's plans for revenge. But then, after saving her, he had actually taken the time to care for her and treat her wounds with the utmost attention. He organized an entire dinner for her and had even "disposed" of Paul Krendler because he knew that her morals prevented her from ever doing so herself. He told her that she didn't need the FBI to realize what potential and strength she possessed; that all she needed was a mirror to remind herself of her incorruptible morals, and what it was about her that set her above the rest.

The dinner left her beyond confused. She felt so conflicted; here was the man who knew her better than anyone and could be brutally honest about her shortcomings. On the other hand, she had never felt so admired or respected by someone. And then there were those haunting words:

"Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me 'Stop - If you loved me, you'd stop' ?"

Clarice had always thought that Lecter's strange feelings of affection towards her were just a mere infatuation. However, all of the facts led her to believe otherwise: the dinner in her honor, the kind words he said about her incorruptibility, and now this hint that the feelings between them amounted to love - it was all just too much to take.

And then he kissed her.

Clarice had trembled under his touch. The intoxicating smell of his cologne and the feeling of his body pressing into hers didn't disgust her as much as she would have thought it would; on the contrary, actually. As if on instinct, Clarice had taken the cuffs and trapped him, remaining true to her duties as she felt she had to. But was it her duties that compelled her to keep him from leaving, or was it something else?

They both knew neither one would give in and forfeit the twisted little game they had created. What happened next made her stomach turn, as she remembered what he did. Unwilling to give up his freedom under any circumstances, Dr. Lecter chopped off his own thumb, instead of harming Clarice. It was obvious to them both then that he, a murderer, could not and would never be able to hurt her. The knowledge of this produced a wave of emotion that climbed up and down her spine.

And once again, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had eluded the clutches of the FBI and was long gone. And Clarice was furious that she had allowed him to escape; his arrest would have been her one shot at redemption with the FBI. She hadn't even used her gun against him. Dr. Lecter had even left it sitting on the table in the hall in plain sight, as if daring her to use it. Yet she hadn't. While Dr. Lecter could never harm Clarice, she in turn would also never be able to harm him. It had become glaringly obvious that their feelings towards each other were more than just a mutual respect. The thought was more than she could bear.

So now, Clarice ran. She ran from her loneliness, her doomed career, her denial and her suppressed feelings that would never find release. And she ran from the memory of the only man who ever made her feel like her life made sense at all. But she quickly shook those thoughts out of her head; the ideas that her father had drilled into her as being right and wrong were too deeply ingrained in her.

Yet in the fall foliage, two bright eyes clung to the figure of Clarice Starling in the distance, following her image as she sprinted down the silent paths of the woods. Hannibal Lecter watched her run, and decided that perhaps it would soon be time to pay Starling another long-anticipated visit.