With the child safely tucked up in bed once more, Hannibal Lecter sat on the sofa beside Clarice, pouring her another measure of whiskey.

"When did you find out?" he enquired, handing her the glass.

She took it. "Find out what, Doctor?"

"About the pregnancy."

Clarice shrugged. "Two or so months after that night, I guess."

"I'm curious, Clarice, as to how you explained it away?" he asked with a smirk.

His amusement irritated her and she knocked back the whole measure of whiskey before giving him her deadpan response.

"I told them the truth, Doctor Lecter – that we fucked up against the fridge, handcuffed together."

"Very eloquent," Hannibal said softly, moving to take the glass from her again. "Now, why don't we try the truth?"

She maintained her grip on the tumbler as he tried to pry it from her.

"Give me the glass, Clarice."

"Don't patronise me, you son of a bitch."

His eyes flashed dangerously as he tried once again to remove it from her grasp.

"The glass, Clarice. There's a good girl."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a goddamned child!" Clarice snapped, strengthening her hold on the glass – holding on as tight as she could to prevent him from taking it, purely out of principle and nothing more.

And then it smashed.

The tumbler shattered into a million pieces, several of which embedded themselves into her palms. The blood was instant and very, very red.

A brief moment of silence passed between them before the Doctor sighed, standing and disappearing from the room, only to return several moments later with a first aid box and a dustpan.

All Clarice could do was watch as he swept away the glass, before turning his attention to her hands. Slowly, meticulously he used a small pair of tweezers to removes the shards, before cleaning up the wounds and bandaging her hands with the contents of the first aid box.

The Doctor held her hands in his for a moment to inspect his work, before his eyes moved up to meet hers. She returned his gaze, somewhat sheepishly.

"If you do not wish to be treated like a child," he began softly. "Then you would do well not to act like one, Agent Starling. Are you in pain?"

"A little," she mumbled, glancing down at her hands.

"Given the sedative still in your system, it would not be prudent of me to administer any further drugs by way of pain relief. However, there was a mild numbing agent in the antiseptic cream which should kick in momentarily," he told her.

She murmured her thanks, sitting further back into the cushions of the sofa again and he returned to his position beside her.

"You are most welcome. Now then, where were we?" he pondered. "Ah, yes. That's right – you were about to tell me how you explained your predicament to your superiors at the Bureau."

"One night stand," she shrugged.

"You worked throughout the pregnancy?" he asked.

"Pretty much. Desk duties, mostly."

He arched a brow. "Thrilling, no?"

"To tell you the truth Doctor, I figured I was pretty lucky to have a job at all considerin' I disobeyed orders going after you at the Verger Estate," Clarice told him.

"And you remain grateful? Tell me, Clarice, is this the career you dreamed of when you started out in Quantico all those years ago? Pushing papers and staking out petty criminals in dead-end towns, taking any little posting you're given as long as you keep moving?" he asked, studying her face. "The FBI hasn't given you a career, Special Agent Starling. It's given you the life of a nomad and a fractured relationship with your illegitimate child. Does that concern you?"

"I never wanted to be a mother, Doctor Lecter."

"That's not what I asked Clarice. But if that is so, what possessed you to raise the child? Was it, perhaps, the desire to have something that belonged to you – and you alone – for the first time in your life? Or perhaps your moral compass, its needle stuck pointing towards doing the right thing?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me about the birth. Were you alone?" he asked.

She nodded.

"And afterwards?"

Another nod.

"You know, some people say those first months with your child make up some of the most joyous of your life," the Doctor told her.

Clarice snorted.

"You disagree?"

"I don't know if you've ever spent time with a baby, Doctor, but they don't do an awful lot of things that bring joy," she told him. "They cry a lot, they never sleep and their conversation isn't up to much."

"All the same, the child's wit and propensity for sarcasm is refreshing," he noted. "When did you return to the FBI?"

"When she was 8 or 9 months old."

"Ah, a swift return. Tell me, was the maternity package not up to much? Or were you simply chomping at the bit to be back behind that desk?" Hannibal asked, his tone more than a little mocking.

Clarice exhaled, realising she would be unable to escape his persistent probing.

"I guess I just… wanted to get back to what I knew," she told him, examining her bandaged hands in an attempt to avoid contact. "I've never been real good at the whole mom thing."

"Why is that, do you think? Could it be the lack of example of a mother in your own childhood? The memories lacking, between those long shifts at the motel and her premature departure from this world?" he surmised.

"I don't know, Doctor. Maybe it was," Clarice said, resigning herself to being psycho-analysed at neatly 3 in the morning.

"And those au pairs that you hired, the ones that raised your child for you – that took your place… perhaps the reason for the distance between the two of you?" he continued. "Did you hope things might become easier as she grew?"

"They didn't."

"No? Did you ever wonder why you struggled to feel a connection with the child that you had carried inside of you? Why you lived as roommates, acquaintances?" he asked.

"No, I don't wonder. It's because of me," she said tiredly, ignoring the tears that had begun to seep from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. "Because I was never meant to have a child. Least of all yours."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes," – she didn't skip a beat.

"Why are you crying?" he asked.

"Because raising a kid is hard," she told him, softly. "It's been really fucking hard."

And you weren't there.

And with that, Clarice leaned into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder as the tears continued to fall.

For a moment, Hannibal Lecter remained stock still, experiencing a feeling that he was not altogether familiar with – he felt caught off guard.

Her hand caught his elbow.

Fucking do something.

Slowly, carefully, he moved his arms around her, gathering her closer.

Clarice burrowed her face further into the fabric of his dinner jacket, breathing in the scent of his cologne and wondering if it was the drugs or the drink that had inspired her to let her guard down.

She felt his head come to rest beside hers, some comforting words whispered in her ear, his lips nuzzling against her neck.

She knew she should be cuffing him – calling in the FBI. But she didn't.

Her head felt foggy again, and as her eyes stung from a combination of tears and exhaustion she allowed them to close.

As Clarice Starling drifted off into slumber, she was only vaguely aware of the soothing rhythm of Hannibal Lecter's hand stroking her hair.