A doctor's examination had never felt so decadent as this, Clarice thought as she lay stretched out upon their bed, submitting to her husband's gentle attentions. Beneath his hands she was naked; he had not asked her to strip entirely, but she was in a winsome mood, and eager to tease him, and she did so like the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her now, the swell of her belly, the curve of her breast. There had been, from the very first, a certain frisson of electricity whenever he looked at her. In the beginning she had tried with all her might to ignore it, to remind herself that whatever interest he might display to the first woman who'd crossed his path in months, in years, even, she felt nothing for him but curiosity at having encountered such a deep and yet twisted mind. Time had proven her wrong, however, as Hannibal infiltrated her thoughts, buried himself beneath her skin, her pounding heart keeping time to the rhythm of his voice as he taunted her. In the end she had given in, as she knew now that she inevitably must; the choice that had been presented to her in the Chesapeake house had been laid before her feet the moment she first met Hannibal Lecter, and had spent the intervening years quietly waiting for the moment of her decision. It was a choice she had made with open eyes, and could not, would not ever regret.

He was, at that very moment, listening to the sound of their child's heartbeat, a cold stethoscope pressed to her tender skin, his eyes intent as he measured those delicate beats intently, on the lookout, as ever, for the first sign of danger. She had not known, back then, where this road would lead, how one meeting with Hannibal Lecter would lead to the end of her life and to her rebirth, to a beautiful house in Argentina, to decadent evenings spent coiling her body round his beneath silk bedsheets, to a morning like this one, watching him fondly while he listened to the baby, his baby, growing in her belly. She wouldn't have believed it, if anyone had told her so; marriage and babies had never been part of Clarice's plan for her life, and a serial killer with a penchant for eating his victims had never seemed a likely match for her. It's a funny old world, she thought. The girl she had been would not recognize the woman she had become, but perhaps that was as it should be.

"All is well," Hannibal proclaimed, lifting the stethoscope from her skin. It was what she had expected to hear; she felt quite fine, and the baby was moving beneath her skin, and she would not allow herself to consider the more unpleasant possibilities. It seemed to her that so long as the baby was moving, so long as Hannibal could hear his heartbeat, she ought to count herself satisfied, and save her worries for another day.

"Perhaps we should check on you," she said playfully, reaching for him. With one hand she deftly stole away his stethoscope, and with the other she caught hold of his hand, pulled him towards her. Hannibal smiled at her indulgently, stretched himself along her side and tucked his arms beneath his head, watched her in silence as she unfastened a few of his shirt buttons, businesslike despite her own nakedness. Carefully she donned the stethoscope herself, placed the little buds in her ears before pressing the cold metal to Hannibal's chest.

"What does it sound like, my darling?" he asked her. Hannibal had always encouraged her curiosity, and she imagined he would be the same once their little one entered the world, would encourage his son to explore and question even as he encouraged his wife to do the same.

"Like the sea," she said, closing her eyes as she listened, for the sound reminded her of nothing so much as the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the shore, steady and unchanging. There was a comfort to that sound, that reminder that Hannibal was with her, still, and always would be, his life tied to hers by bonds no man could break.

"What do you think? Will I live?"

"For a good many years yet." To seal her promise she moved, then, replaced the stethoscope with her lips and pressed a gentle kiss against his chest.

Hannibal gathered her into his arms, their little game forgotten for the moment, and she rested there, her head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, his hand roving gently over her side, down towards her belly.

"What shall we call this little one, then?" he asked. His heartbeat did not quicken, no happiness or excitement sufficient to change the steady beat at the very center of him. His pulse had always been steady, even in the midst of a kill; perhaps that was why, Clarice thought, age did not seem to affect him as it did other men. His heart had not known the strain that lesser men endured, for it remained, always, steady.

"I don't know," she confessed. She'd thought about it, a time or two, what name they might give to their son, but none of them sounded right. Hannibal had a grand name, a strong name, a name that struck fear in the hearts of those who heard it, a name torn from the pages of ancient heraldry. It was a heavy legacy for a child to bear; their son could not be a Mitch or a Billy. Perhaps Jack, she'd thought a time or two. A reminder, for both her and for Hannibal, of how they had met, a legacy of strength, a man she'd once admired, though both strength and admiration had faded for Jack Crawford in the end.

"I should like to call her Mischa, if you'll agree," Hannibal said carefully.

Something unpleasant twisted low in Clarice's belly; she'd been wondering for weeks now if this was where Hannibal had been heading all along, if this were the true reason he seemed so certain that the baby must be a girl. There had been a time when he had sought to erase Clarice completely, and replace her with Mischa, her body no more than a vehicle for the rebirth of his beloved sister. Did he think their baby, with no history, no memory, no past, a more suitable vessel for Mischa? The thought was an appalling one to Clarice; American individualism had been bred too deeply into her bones for her to accept the erasure of one spirit in favor of another. And besides, she thought, had Hannibal not dedicated much of their time in the Chesapeake house to helping Clarice let go of the memories of her father, to set aside her grief and her anger, to accept his loss and move forward from it in peace? Why should Clarice learn to let go of her grief, when Hannibal would not consent to do the same? Perhaps he only meant the name as an homage, perhaps he had no such fantastical designs, but Clarice knew her husband, and she knew that his every action was instigated by thoughtful purpose.

"I'm not sure that's wise," she told him, her words as carefully chosen, as calmly delivered as his own had been. "We're trying to hide, and choosing that name might be a red flag. And besides, aren't we...aren't we making a fresh start, here? The three of us, making a new life for ourselves?"

He rolled out from beneath her as she spoke, rose to his feet and began to pace the length of the room, and Clarice sat up in the bed, fear and indignation biting at her.

"The teacup will not ever be made whole, Hannibal." His expression as she spoke those words was one of irritation; he was not raging at her, but he was not best pleased with her answer.

"It can be restored, repaired-"

"You may glue the pieces back together but the fractures will always be made visible. It would be something new, and weaker than it ever had been before."

Surely, she thought, he knew that. All that was left of Mischa was a memory, an ancient memory, now, the memory of a man who loved her, but not the girl's own memories themselves. All he could make for himself was a shadow of what once had been.

"I thought we'd been through this," she added, reminding him of the decision he had reached so long before, to embrace Clarice herself and set aside his thoughts of Mischa.

"I decided that you were not an appropriate vessel. Your spirit was too strong, and I...I was too intrigued by you to lose you."

"Are you not intrigued by our baby? Are you not curious to see what sort of person he'll be, half you, and half me, and yet entirely separate? Does that not interest you at all?" Her voice might have slipped into desperation there at the end, but she simply had to make him see sense. Without direction from her conscious mind her hands drifted down to cradle the swell of her belly, holding their child close even now, wondering if the day might soon come when she would have to choose between the man she loved and the child who had not yet come to be. It was an impossible choice, two separate loves at war with one another, and she did not know, yet, which path she might take. She could only hope that Hannibal would not ever force her to choose, for she knew the choice, whatever it might be, would be the end of her. Of all of them.

"You think it will be a boy," Hannibal said. Why he chose that, of all the things she'd said, to respond to Clarice wasn't sure.

"I do."

"Because of Evelda Drumgo?" He asked, and she glared at him, wondering how he had come to read her mind. "Because you stole one boy's mother, and now wish to be a mother to another, to right an old wrong? Are you really so different from me?"

"It isn't the same, Hannibal, and you know it." She wished like hell she wasn't naked, now; she felt defenseless, somehow, sitting in front of him with nothing to shield her from his piercing gaze.

"It appears we are at an impasse, then," he said grimly. "The decision is out of our hands, no matter what we wish. Time will tell which of us is right, and which of us will have to live with our grievances."

"No," Clarice said then. There was hurt in his eyes; she could see his grief, even from a distance. Perhaps he felt that their disagreement had damaged the bonds of affection between them, left him alone with his memories, his goals disdained by the one he loved. A strange feeling for Hannibal, no doubt, who had not loved anyone since Mischa, as far as Clarice was aware. Perhaps he thought that she would gloat, or be smug in her relief should the child be a boy, should his dreams for Mischa never come to be. Whatever the reason, she could see that he was wounded, and she would not have him hurt, not by her own hand. Ponderously she rose from the bed, crossed their room naked and quiet to reach for his hand.

"It isn't about right or wrong, Hannibal," she said. "Neither of us can afford to live in the past. We have to look to the future, now. The teacup will not be made whole, but we have been given a new one. We can protect it, and this one will not shatter."

He smiled at her, sadly, as if she were the child, as if her answer was simple, or naive, but he did not disagree with her. He simply tightened his hold on her hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Perhaps you're right after all, my Starling," he said, but neither of them believed him.