A/N: Major thanks to Narsil for her awesome beta-reading. She will again claim that she didn't change much, but again I beg to differ. You're awesome. So, without further ado…Let the games begin…
"Erik?"
Clarice Starling, otherwise known as Cassandra Fell, La Duchesse de Londres, shifted the meal tray and the small paper-wrapped package she held as she raised her other hand to knock upon the door again. "Erik, may I come in?"
The door swung open immediately, as if startled by her touch. The room was lit by the lone low-burning lamp upon the desk.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she thought she could make out a shape in the corner slightly darker than the other shadows. She spoke to the shape. "Erik?"
She saw the shape make a quick movement upon the armchair it was sitting in, as if it were concealing something underneath the cushion. The flame in the lamp flickered. "Good afternoon." The voice was raspy from disuse, and for a moment, Clarice froze, remembering another voice: metallic and harsh and unbearably beautiful.
She shook herself. "I see that you still keep track of the time. That is fortunate."
She heard the creak of wood through the darkness and she saw the armchair turn so that its back was facing her. "Erik?"
The voice cracked like dry leaves. "Please, I do not want to impose upon you and your husband any more than I have already. Leave me be."
Clarice sighed. Still as difficult as ever. "I have not asked anything of you the entire time you have stayed here. I am asking you now to turn around and speak to me out of common courtesy."
"You do not know what you are asking."
"Erik, we've been through this before." No response. She changed her tone of voice. "Erik."
The armchair creaked as its occupant turned back around. He kept his head low so that the golden glow of the lamp did not disperse the shadow surrounding his face. Hunched over the desk, he looked like a dying man.
Clarice looked at him for a moment and then took two steps forward, stopping at the edge of the desk. Softly, she set the silver tray down upon the wooden surface. A simple luncheon lay upon it. The figure did not move. Clarice placed the paper-wrapped object she held in her right hand down next to the tray and slid it towards him.
He stirred, a pale hand moved forward and lifted the top layer of paper away, drawing back immediately upon discovering the contents. The head came up and the ravaged face illuminated in the lamp's glow as the lips contorted in surprise.
"Where did you get this?" Erik demanded.
"Exactly where you left it."
Yellow eyes gleamed in the shadows as they darted towards the white mask. The hand did not reappear. "And you didn't tell me? I was sure that—."
"You never asked," she retorted. "How could I tell you when the only indication that you were alive for this past month was the way the food in front of your door kept disappearing?" She tried her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but could tell from the look on what passed for his face that she was not succeeding. She barged ahead. "In fact, you're still not. Do you want this back or not?"
Erik sent her a withering glare that even in his weakened state made the hairs of the back of Clarice's neck crawl. The hand came back into sight and began to reach for the mask.
"Hannibal is having guests for dinner tonight."
The statement came suddenly, and Erik looked up, his hand momentarily frozen in midair. "Truly?" he said finally, his lips curling in what could have been a smile. "Or in the more socially acceptable sense?"
"I see that you know of my husband's habits."
"One cannot know Hannibal if he is not aware of the doctor's less sociable side."
Clarice gazed at him solemnly, unsure of how to respond.
"How did you meet him?" Erik asked suddenly. The hand withdrew back into the shadows.
She hesitated, weighing her options. "Why should I tell you?"
"I have been staying in your home for a month; I have not betrayed you yet."
"That was pitiful. Especially for you, Erik. I expected better."
"Very well. I have not forgotten that night in the cellars, when you invaded my home. You held a light to my face then and gazed upon me as if it were your right. One invasion of privacy deserves another."
She stayed silent. And then an expression that might have been amusement crossed her face. "Fair enough," she said curtly. She sat down in the chair across the table from him. "You are aware that Hannibal was imprisoned for the murder of nine of his patients?"
"Yes, he was arrested right before the summer of '66, I believe."
"Correct. And as he had served the sweetbreads of his victims to dinner guests, he was a…popular specimen among the rest of the medical community during his incarceration. There was no shortage of people staring at him, questioning him, or experimenting on him." An expression of terrible anger flashed across Erik's eyes and she noted it silently before continuing. "They learned nothing, of course, and Hannibal Lecter remained the most stubborn, enigmatic, and terrifying figure of post-war America. Naturally, he had not been the only killer operating during those chaotic times. The police discovered a new murderer in their midst: one that killed young women and skinned them before depositing them into the nearest river. They had no leads."
"And how did you get involved?"
She smiled grimly. "It takes one to know one. The local police were at their wit's end, so they contacted us. The Pinkerton Agency sent me to question Lecter, to find out if he knew anything about this new killer. So I went to the prison, armed with nothing more than a questionnaire and a stubborn spirit."
"And I suppose you made quite an impression."
"Well, he certainly wasn't impressed by the questionnaire."
"Why did he help you?"
She shrugged. "Because it amused him to do so at first. He was in prison for life. He was bored."
"And then the dark angel fell in love with the young starling." The boldness of the statement surprised even himself as Clarice looked up at him in astonishment.
"Hannibal is no angel," she scoffed at last. "He has never pretended to be either."
Erik winced. "Touché."
"For the life of a young girl I had never met, I sold my secrets, my failures, and my most painful memories to the doctor's morbid curiosity. Was it worth it?" She shrugged. "It seemed so at the time. With Dr. Lecter's help, I tracked down the murderer and killed him. This"— her hand touched the black smudge on her right cheek, feeling the hard grains embedded in her skin—"was the reminder he left."
"We call that 'courage'," Erik said.
He was rewarded with a small smile. "Few people recognize it anymore. And the ones that do…" she trailed off and then shrugged. "Suffice it to say, the irony is sickening."
"The Agency drove you out from jealousy?"
"Oh no, they wanted nothing more than to keep me after that. Nothing better than a big name to hide behind. They had big plans to display me and use me and let me take their falls. I said thanks but no thanks."
"Wait just a moment. How did you manage to join the Agency in the first place? I doubt they would be actively hiring women."
"Well, that's a topic for another day, isn't it?" Clarice smiled sweetly. She coughed and shifted in her chair. "The guests, Erik…"
"Yes?"
"The vicomte de Chagny is taking dinner with us tonight."
"You said guests."
She gave him an exasperated look. "I trust your intelligence enough not to spell it out for you."
Erik scoffed even as his fists began clenching and unclenching in his lap. They were under the table, where she could not see them. "What an eventful life they must be having, to not call upon their closest friends for nearly a month."
She weighed her next words carefully before deciding that saying it one way rather than another would make no difference. "They aren't married."
Erik stood up so suddenly that she shrank back in her chair. He walked over to the wall, his whole body trembling. He leaned both palms against the wall and let his head hang between his arms. "And just why are you telling me—" His veneer broke and he whirled around. "Why not?"
She stood. "How should I know? As you said, they haven't called on us in a month. But should you choose to join us for dinner…you know what to do."
"Ah yes, that is a simple, sneaky trick, isn't it? It does befit a wraith like me." Almost immediately Erik sighed and lowered his head, refusing to meet her eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I do not mean to be ungrateful." He fidgeted, uncomfortable. "Thank you for returning my mask. It means—"
"—Everything?"
He turned and glared at her, daring her to question, to threaten what he lived for. "Yes."
She snorted. "No, it doesn't. Not here, at least."
Erik touched his mask with barely controlled fingers and then slammed his fist into the top of the desk, some of the frustration and bewilderment that had gathered over the past month finally escaping his rigid, controlled frame. "How—how can the two of you stand to look at my face so easily? All my life—not a single person could—and then you in the cellars, you didn't even flinch, and Hannibal—I almost forgot the mask was missing." He looked up into her bemused face. "I'm not asking you to scream at me, it's just—How am I different now, that it is so easy to look at such ugliness?"
Clarice looked at him as she would a small child who didn't understand why people in Australia didn't walk around upside-down. "My father was a policeman," she said slowly, choosing her words with care. " He had the bad fortune of surprising two burglars who didn't want to go to prison. They shot him twice: once in the head, once right above the heart. Somehow he found his way home to die in my arms. I kissed his shattered skull as he drew his last breath. I was eight years old."
She paused until the tickling sensation behind her eyes ceased. "That was not ugliness. Ugliness was the town he gave his life for taking back his badge because it cost them seven dollars. It's being blamed by an incompetent agency for the death of your best friend. Or being used as expendable bait for the most dangerous killer in the America without your knowledge." She smiled wryly as she looked at him once more. "Compared to that, your face is hardly my greatest fear. Not everyone is afraid of you, Erik. Not even some that you thought were." She shrugged. "Wear the mask if you wish, if you are convinced that you would die without it. But I must say that you've been doing admirably for the past month without it."
Erik had ducked his head again, allowing the shadows of the room to creep across his face like a living mask. "You speak very freely today, duchess," he said.
"That would be because you are the only person in this house who doesn't act like I'm talking to a brick wall."
"And I thought you enjoyed my company."
"I enjoy all my company. If I didn't, I would have nothing to do with them."
"Your husband is remarkably indulgent about letting you choose your own companions."
"Who is speaking freely now?" she asked with a sly smile. "We have both been through far too much together. Did you think he would feel threatened by you staying with us?" Clarice smirked, but beneath her sarcasm, Erik heard something brittle in her voice. "Just as there is nothing conventional about our story, he knows that nothing conventional can threaten us." She smiled grimly. "Nothing but he himself."
"But—"
"See you at dinner, Erik." She turned to go, smoothing out the folds of her dress, her hand lingering at her waist. She walked out of the door without looking back, leaving the Phantom alone once more.
After a few minutes, he reached forward and took the sandwich from the tray. The mask lay untouched upon the desk. He nibbled at the bread, and for the first time in a long time, he remembered the taste of food.
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"What do you suppose young Mary was thinking when she wrote her ghost story?"
"What?" Clarice asked incredulously, propriety forgotten as Christine spoke for the first time that evening. Dinner had been an utter and complete failure. She and Hannibal had sat together on one side and the young couple had sat right across from them. The empty ends of the long table stretched off on both sides like the edges of a cliff, with the four of them huddled together with the awkwardness of strangers at the center for safety.
No one knew of what to speak. No one wanted to speak of what they wanted to know. And always there was the knowledge of who was listening…imagining his agonized waiting for a word, for anything that would let him know that Christine was actually there.
The food had turned to ashes in her mouth and after the waiter took away their untouched desserts, Raoul had mentioned casually, his words piercing the silence like a gunshot, whether Dr. Lecter would enjoy some after-dinner conversation in his study. Without missing a beat, Clarice had suggested that Christine might like to see the library to pass the time as the men bantered.
They went their separate ways, and now Christine was thumbing through an original 1818 edition of Frankenstein, and Clarice had nothing to do but watch.
"What do you mean?" she said at last.
Christine flipped to a page in the middle of the novel and read. "'Behold the sorrow born of dreams…' What could have made her think of such sadness? She shared a cabin with Lord Byron and her future husband Percy Shelley. She was the daughter of literary legends. She was 17 years old." She crossed over to a leather armchair and sat down heavily, leafing slowly through the pages. "I used to wonder how someone so young could already understand such sorrow."
Clarice remained silent, unsure of what to say, and unwilling to interrupt this strange confession.
Christine put the book down in her lap and sat back in the chair. She looked towards the library entrance. "They are talking about me, are they not?"
"They are worried," Clarice said softly. "As am I. He loves you tremendously, my dear."
The young woman bit her lip. "I can't help them," she whispered. "They would never understand. I still don't understand myself why he…" she trailed off, shaking her head, the faraway look returning to her eyes as she lifted the book in her hands again.
Clarice had not specified who "he" was. The singer's immediate response confirmed her suspicions and she sighed. It was not over, and it would never be over.
But for now Christine was engrossed in the novel, riveted by the tale of the most miserable man on earth. She did not look as if she would mind if Clarice slipped out, unnoticed.
The Duchess de Londres closed the door softly behind her, and, after glancing about to make sure no one would see, raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
-----------------
Erik whirled around like a guilty child as the door flew open and Clarice Starling entered the room without knocking. She noted with disappointment that he was wearing the mask once more. It was the porcelain side of his face that was turned toward her now, so she couldn't see his jaw clench as she moved to stand right beside him, pressing her ear against the far side of the vent. He could see each individual lash on her wide, eager eyes.
He could hardly speak from the shock. "Madam, what—?"
"Shhhh," she said, obviously not noticing his discomfort. Through the vent she could hear Raoul's voice say, "Monsieur, I'm not sure how to say this."
Dr. Lecter: "You may speak freely, monsieur. There is no one here but us."
He knew they were listening. Clarice frowned a bit at this realization but quickly snapped back to attention as Raoul's voice floated up through the vent.
Raoul: "I—well, I'm sure you know now why I have come."
Dr. Lecter: "I do not like to assume, monsieur."
Raoul: "Christine, monsieur. You must notice her…condition."
Guided by premonition, Clarice looked up from her place next to the wall to see Erik begin to tremble, his hands opening and closing into fists. She fought a sudden urge to put her hand on his arm. Gradually, he calmed as the voices continued to speak, his curiosity overriding other embedded emotions.
Raoul: "She never smiles. She speaks, but of trivial commonplace things. She cries herself awake from her bad dreams. Sometimes I don't recognize her anymore and…I suppose there is no easy way of saying it. I did a bad thing, monsieur. A very bad thing. And now I wish to make amends."
If Dr. Lecter was affected in any manner by Raoul's description, his voice did not betray it but that he seemed to pause a little bit longer than normal before he spoke.
Dr. Lecter: "Tell me, Raoul. What makes you trust your dearest love to my care?"
Raoul: "I…you are a doctor, monsieur. And I consider you my friend. If I am mistaken, I would prefer to know right now."
Dr. Lecter: "Ah, there will be no need of that. I just want to be sure, that you know what you are asking. By giving your fiancée treatment, you will publicly admit that there is something abnormal about her. People will talk. You will be ostracized."
Raoul: "She's not my fiancée. And I would prefer that no one knew of this arrangement. Though I would care nothing for their rejection anyway. Christine is all that matters. She has…no one left. I will not leave her now."
Dr. Lecter: "Then I believe you have just hired my services."
Erik started, the pressure of the emotional dagger that had just plunged so cruelly into his chest gone just as suddenly as she saw Clarice jerk back from the vent. The look on her face nearly frightened him. In her eyes was the same furious, unhinged look that he recognized from his days in Persia. It was what he saw when he forced himself to look into a mirror after providing the most recent amusing death for the khanum. He would have rather not remembered.
"How dare he? After what…How fucking dare he?"
Erik was pretty confident that he knew to what she was referring, but for what reasons he could only guess.
"I'll kill him," Clarice continued. "I'll kill him myself."
"The way that…Christine is right now. I don't believe that it could hurt."
Clarice whirled upon him, her hands already trembling from emotion. "Erik, please believe that I know him far better than you ever will. He…" she sighed, her hands falling down by her sides. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should not be taking this out on you. It's been a difficult day for you and that is mostly my fault. I will leave you in peace now."
She turned to go. Erik reached out and caught her arm.
She froze. Her eyes darted downwards in a jerky, unrefined plunge and the world narrowed to the feel of his hand. The sensation of it through the fabric of her dress was like ice wrapped in the finest velvet: a bone-chilling lightness.
"No Clarice, I…I thank you. For everything," Erik said. He looked into her eyes, genuine emotion in the unmasked portion of his face. A long moment passed and then he suddenly seemed to notice. He muttered unintelligibly before lowering his hand…his fingers brushing ever so lightly against her waist before falling away. As she watched, the hand curled itself into a trembling fist. Erik looked down, no longer meeting her gaze, and turned away.
She blinked. Infinite possible reactions screamed through her mind and she felt as if confusion would burst through her skull. Making an inarticulate sound in her throat, she turned and stumbled out of the room, closing the door noisily behind her.
Erik did not move as he heard the noise of her footsteps die away. Silence reigned. Dr. Lecter and the vicomte had finished speaking downstairs. He waited at least half an hour more before finally uncurling his right fist, spreading his long fingers in a star-shaped pattern.
He gently uncrumpled the scrap of paper resting on his palm and smoothed it out. The words upon it had been written recently and the ink was slightly smudged from being pressed against the waistband of her dress. He smiled beneath the mask as he turned up the oil lamp and began to read.