A/N: Sorry, guys, but in this- my first and only Lecter story- he dies. I eagerly anticipate your vehement criticism…
Disclaimer: No, Lecter and Starling are not my property, I just believe in equal opportunity…
Warning: Characterdeath and self-mutilation are mentioned in this story
Upon Slaying the Monster
Some days Clarice Starling longed for the dull monotony of the basement office she had been consigned to in the months following Dr Lecter's escape. The whispers behind her back, the snide comments uttered just within hearing range, alternately curious and vicious eyes boring into her back…that had been tolerable. The clear contempt her superiors held for her, the manner in which they demonstrated this disdain by banishing her to the innermost bowels of the Bureau building with nothing more than piles upon piles of trivial, meaningless paperwork designed to bore her out of her mind...she had gritted her teeth and persevered, for a lack of alternatives. The world did not treat the unemployed well, and she had to earn a living somehow. Better the devil she knew- and at least Clarice could gain the satisfaction of knowing that they hated her presence there as much as she hated supplying it. This way, both sides suffered rather than just her struggling to eke out a living on the streets.
She had feverishly pursued Hannibal throughout the days that had since passed, slogging through countless reports, combing through reports of investigations into murders that could possibly be attributed to his handiwork and raking through painful memories to compile a profile on the infamous cannibal. It was sadly lacking in detail, however, she simply did not- could not- understand him. What drove him, what motivated him, whether he was true evil's personification or still capable of being redeemed- and, most of all, what was his fascination with her? Clarice knew that things had gone too far for this zealous investigation to be termed anything other than obsession. It had become personal, ever since he wrecked her budding career with the FBI, but why did he reciprocate? Why did he send letters, taunting her with the knowledge that he was still out there, eluding capture, aggravating the sharp pain of her failure? How had she unwittingly, unwillingly, become one of the cornerstones of his existence?
Some nights she awoke with a start, gasping for air and clawing at her sheets, reaching for her gun, convinced that there was a presence in her room- his presence. The shadows had a way of moving, sliding so carefully around the edges of her vision in a manner so lifelike and stealthy, she whirled on them with a muffled oath. Curtains billowed as though in the breeze of an opened window, but when she darted to secure it, all was safely shut and bolted. Even the normal, habitual creaking of the floorboards possessed the capacity to startle her, sending adrenaline flooding through her veins as she tensed herself to deal with the threat…but none ever materialized. With all these false alarms, the adrenaline level pumping around her body must be reaching toxic levels. To say she missed Lecter would be an understatement.
She simultaneously craved and feared Hannibal Lecter. The craving was so strong, the need to see him, to level her accusations at him for ruining her life, to demand reparation…in a strange way, he had become both the figure that had torn her apart and the only one who could restore her to the entirety of her being, save her from the tatters of her career that consumed what little life she had left, make her whole again. And this was why she feared him. Clarice recognized how helplessly bound to him she had become, and it gnawed at her convictions, her faith in her own abilities, her independence, her freedom…she hated the monster who had enslaved her, with her helpless complicity, and turned that hatred upon herself for her own weakness in failing to break free.
Some days the desire to exorcise this demon set her blood boiling, left her a little unbalanced with the need to reassert her control over her life. Left to languish alone in the depths of her office, Clarice discovered how mesmerizing a little bloodletting of her own could be, the co-mingling of pain and triumph leaving her euphoric. While she dealt with the paperwork, feather light touches would brush over the healing scars on her arm and an absent-minded smile touched grim lips.
It was Lecter's misfortune that, late one night, he let himself into her house with the careless ease of a man who had traversed the same path so many times over the past few years and had escaped detection. Enacting the recurring nightly ritual of being jolted out of a restless sleep with the chilling certainty that a monster lurked in her room, Clarice had made her way to the adjoining bathroom to redress the bandages on her arm. It had been a particularly rough morning that day, with renewed harassment from higher-ups who were campaigning to wear her down and force a resignation. Her resulting breakdown had caused a more vicious ritual of self-harm, and the bandages were soaked through with blood by now. Absently placing her gun down at the sink, she paused from removing the bandages to wearily look up at the indistinct features of her face, obscured by the dark since she had shunned the light switch. Disbelief paralysed her for a moment as, behind her reflection, she saw a shadow detach itself from the background, move to her bed. Although Lecter reacted quickly as he drew closer and realized his error, that the rumpled blankets did not cover a slumbering agent, it was too little, too late. Acting on pure instinct, the rage engendered by years of despair and frustration, desperate to free herself from the shackles he had bound her with, Clarice seized her gun and turned on him. That was the one moment that changed everything.
Some days, sitting in her gilded cage, in the office for real FBI agents where she was now accepted, Clarice turned her gaze to the sky outside her window, reflecting on how her life had changed. There had been a rapid turnaround in her fortunes, hailed now as the hero agent who had taken down one of the most urgently sought-out serial killers, awarded medals and acclaim for her laudable achievement. All sly innuendo, the persecution, malicious glances that preceded spiteful gossip…it all dissipated in the frantic rush as agents vied to be associated with her, to bask in the glory of her triumph. She found it sickening, but satisfying- Clarice was wise enough to accept the rewards, to trade on her 'victory' in order to assure a better future.
Yet…her life was strangely empty now. Knowing that no matter how many reports she scanned, how frantically she pieced together vague witness accounts or insignificant investigation details, no matter where she travelled or how hard she searched- despite it all, he would not be there, prowling in the background, penning an enigmatic letter to revive her waning spirit, to give her drive and focus. He could not give her the emancipation she still now failed to acquire on her own. Strange that she had not foreseen the consequences of her actions, but in the heat of the moment, all thought of the future had been driven from her mind. Clarice had never considered how she was to continue living with his death on her conscience. Dr Lecter had seemed like no ordinary man, the thought of killing him, actually taking his life had seemed like such an impossible task to accomplish that- even as she had pulled the trigger- the thought that he might die was unimaginable. Horror had struck her as harsh reality intruded with the thud of his body hitting the floor, blood pooling around his inert figure. Who could save her now?
Some nights, the guilt and despair wrenched at her, driving her to seek absolution on the blade of a knife. Nothing could erase the image of his body, collapsed on her bedroom floor. Nothing could distort the last words Lecter had spoken to her as he lay there, dying.
"Clarice," he bid her come closer.
Deep in shock, she reached out to him with a hand that shook. Reflexes still sharp, he seized her wrist, pulling Clarice closer for inspection.
"What is this?" he asked, studying the scars that marred her delicate skin. "What are you doing to yourself, little starling?"
Only a shuddering breath escaped her.
"I do not like to see you hurt yourself, Clarice. If it were any outside party causing this, they would form the main course of my next meal. But for you to inflict this upon yourself…" he shook his head, tracing the pattern of her wounds, smearing the blood that sluggishly oozed out as she had not yet replaced the bandages.
She managed to pull herself together to say in disbelief, "How can you still bring yourself to care about my welfare? I've shot you!"
"You fascinate me, Clarice. You keep me guessing. Even once I think I've finally categorized you, figured out what makes you tick, you do something that confounds the profile. You intrigue me, and not many people do that, therefore I take an interest."
But he was no longer here. Now there truly was no one in the world that cared about her wellbeing. She had killed the one person who knew her inside out, understood her better than she could herself, and in doing so, Clarice had killed a part of her soul.
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A/N: Keeping in mind that this is the first time I've written in this category, and that I've been pretty irresponsible in that I haven't seen the movies in years and have never read the books, what do you think of this effort?