Trick of Fate
It was hot. It wasn't supposed to be this damn hot. The guidebooks Ardelia made them buy had said to expect temperate weather, sometimes even rain through the month of July. And if Ardelia were here, Clarice would have been bitching to her about it. But since Delia had gone and gotten herself shot in the leg a week before they were supposed to leave for their nonrefundable trip, Clarice Starling was touring Florence all by herself.
In some ways it was better that she was on her own here. Ardelia liked to plan and be organized, and Clarice was much happier just to wander and see where things led. The first day had been spent in a haze of jetlag, but since then, she'd had two wonderful days of visiting museums and churches and wandering along the Ponte Vecchio and eating pasta in outdoor restaurants and drinking wine and eating gelato and tiramisu until she was fit to burst. All of it on her own time, no one telling her to slow down with the espressos in the morning or with the wine in the evening. She flopped into bed in her hotel room full and a little drunk and very happy each night. It would have been a lot of fun to spend her forced vacation with her best friend in Italy, but being by herself had been wonderful in its own way.
But today the heat stepped in. Everything in Europe was in Celsius, so Clarice didn't really know exactly how hot it was, but she would guess it was well over ninety. The black denim pants and tshirts and sweaters she'd brought would have roasted her today. So she'd instead worn the dress she'd packed for a nice meal out on her final evening tomorrow to celebrate her trip. It would have to be worn a day early, and she'd probably sweat through the damn thing too much to try and wear it again tomorrow. But better sweat through a dress than die of heat stroke alone in a foreign country.
It was cooler with her legs bare, but she had to wear a light sweater because the dress was a halter that tied behind her neck, making her shoulders and arms and a large swath of her chest bare. She wanted to go to one of the grand cathedrals today, and they wouldn't let her in if she was too exposed. Goddamn priests. Well, it wasn't just the Catholics who were like that. Clarice could only imagine the stir that would be caused if anyone from the Lutheran home ever saw her dressed like this. They'd call her a scarlet woman and Clarice would say she was wearing blue and not red, and they'd probably smack her across her smart mouth for it.
Clarice Starling was a long way away from that Lutheran home in Bozeman. She was Special Agent Clarice Starling of the FBI, and she was on a vacation in Florence, Italy. Most of the people she grew up with wouldn't have even been able to find Florence on the map. And if it weren't for UVA and Quantico, she wouldn't have either.
It was Clarice's idea to go to Florence. Mapp loved the idea of Italy, but she'd wanted Rome with all the tourist stuff or Naples with the beaches or Milan with the fashion. Clarice wanted to go to Florence. She wouldn't say why, but she didn't need to. Ardelia knew why. Clarice knew she knew. The specter of it twinged every decision Clarice Starling ever made.
Jack Crawford had warned her not to let Hannibal Lecter into her head. She'd blown right by that warning, and for better or worse, he'd never left her. He was a part of everything she did. He was why she'd been sent on vacation, even.
Really, it was a suspension. It was Ardelia who was taking vacation time to go on the trip. Starling was, once again, on the wrong side of the brass. Crawford did what he could, but he was in Behavioral Science and Clarice wasn't under his control. She'd disobeyed direct orders and gone out on her own based on intel she'd collected from a wire she'd planted. They'd got their guy, but four people had been killed. Three bad guys and a local cop. Their target would've been in the wind if they'd waited to regroup and everyone knew it. But there went Starling, always doing what she thought was right, trusting her own instinct more than the chain of command. This might be the straw that broke the camel's back.
But after six years of being shuffled from department to department and never being given the opportunity to advance or a placement in Behavioral Science where she really wanted to be, Clarice was starting to think that it was time to wash her hands of the Bureau. They didn't want her. They'd be glad to see her go. Maybe not Ardelia or Mr. Crawford or John Brigham, but Paul Krendler and every other asshole buddy of his. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction, but god, when she was here in Florence, the petty victories against sexist pigs didn't really seem all that important.
Clarice took her time waking up and getting dressed and wandering around after having her breakfast at a café. The Italian breakfast of cured meats and savory cheeses on some crusty bread was a very appealing one to her. She lingered over an additional espresso and then made her way in a different direction, towards another part of town she had not yet explored.
There was an outdoor market in one of the large squares. She took her time gazing at the scarves and leather goods and tacky tourist trinkets that lined each stall. At some point, she'd find a souvenir to bring home to Ardelia. She'd probably get something for herself, too. Though in the back of her mind, Starling knew she'd just find some grappa to bring back so Mapp could get shitfaced and bemoan missing out on the trip.
In the midst of admiring a street artist's work, Clarice felt a tingle down the back of her spine. She looked up and around, trying to determine what had alerted her. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary, anything conspicuous or any sudden movements. Nothing to indicate there was any kind of threat to make her wary. But she was wary. She was on guard. Something was out there. Someone.
Hannibal Lecter saw Clarice stiffen and look up, but he did not move or react at all. If he tried to duck and hide, she would see him. He knew better. He just stayed where he was, sitting at the café and looking out across the piazza to where she stood looking at the work of some halfway talented artist on the street. Hannibal sipped his wine and smiled.
Clarice Starling was the last person he ever expected to find in Florence. He was quite certain she had never left the country before now. He liked to keep tabs on her, checking on her progress through the FBI as he checked on the information they had about him, ensuring they were at least two faces behind his current one. As a result, there was a chance that Agent Starling could look right at him and not recognize him. But that was unlikely. He flattered himself to believe that she would recognize him no matter what. He intended to watch her for a little while longer and, if he was satisfied with what he saw, he would determine whether or not she would recognize him.
She was clearly guarded as she walked away, glancing this way and that, her eyes scanning the piazza for any sign of any potential threat. He had known she would make a fine agent, though he also believed that she would be exquisite elsewhere in the world. He had seen firsthand the potential of her. The nice bag and the cheap shoes. She was a beautiful woman but without artifice. Artifice was not necessary in her, and her lack of interest in it was quite endearing, but she had the kind of intellect and unpolished elegance that, with a little effort and adornment, would lead her to magnificence. Hannibal had hoped to be able to see her again one day, to see her progress and, if he could manage it, to be the one to lead her to the magnificence he knew she could embody.
Hannibal paid and left the café without undue haste. Clarice was going towards Santa Croce, and he very much hoped to watch her experience it for what he imagined to be the first time. He himself spent many days there, in and among the delights inside that holy space.
As Clarice made her way up the steps to the church entrance, he admired the way her lean body moved in the dress she wore. He'd never seen her in a dress. Never seen her legs bare. She was certainly a sight to behold, a vision of compact power and grace. The slight sway of her hips moved the flowing skirt of her blue dress. Blue was a very pretty color on Clarice. He imagined that it would bring out the color in her eyes very nicely, and he planned to get close enough to be able to confirm that theory.
Inside the church, it was much cooler. Even with the crowds of tourists and their obnoxious flag-wielding guides, it was a welcome reprieve from the punishing summer heat outside. That was one of the marvelous things about churches. The masonry and marble chilled the air and the religious iconography silenced even the most vile heathens. The hush that fell over the crowds as they gazed at the feast of colors and decoration was a blessed gift. Those who entered the holy space did so with great reverence. It was what made churches pleasant places for Hannibal to enter. He had no pleasant thought or feeling for the Christian god nor for the Catholic Church as an institution, but the art was holy to him. Beauty was what he worshipped.
Clarice found her space well inside Santa Croce. She, like all those around her, was wide-eyed at all the wonder at every inch. This particular cathedral was one of his favorites. It housed no great masterworks, it had absolutely no cohesive design. Ordinarily the chaos of it would be displeasing to Hannibal. Santa Croce, however, had a magic of its own that brought all of its disparate parts into a strange discordant harmony. Inside Santa Croce were tombs and monuments to all the great Florentines of the past. Machiavelli's tomb was on one wall near Donatello. Donatello himself was laid to rest here beside tombs he had designed during his life. The great composer Gioachino Rossini was near the door. A monument to Leonardo da Vinci was nearby. Galileo's tomb further along the way. A massive monument to Dante Alighieri beside that.
The most impressive by far was the incredible tomb of Michelangelo Buonarroti. It was there, behind the rope line with the biggest crowd, that Hannibal found Clarice.
"It was designed by Giorgio Vasari, the most influential critic and art writer at the time. He's often credited as the first art historian in the Western world. I think Michelangelo himself would have done much better, but he would have appreciated the allegory," he said calmly.
Clarice gasped but tried to hide it. She did not want to draw attention to herself or to him, for which he was glad. This would, perhaps, work out as he had hoped.
"See there," he continued, pointing over her shoulder to the three female forms sculpted on the ornate stone sarcophagus. "The personifications of the three arts: painting, sculpting, and architecture. Michelangelo mastered all three, and Vasari has shown them here weeping for the loss of their master."
"You were always good at giving lessons, Doctor," Clarice replied. Her voice was even but Hannibal could feel her tense.
"Thank you, Clarice, I shall take that compliment well. You have always been a very good student. A pleasure to teach."
She did not respond. But he could see from his angle—slightly behind her to the left—that her eyes were darting around.
"I should like to speak with you in private. I know somewhere we could go to appreciate the splendor of the church without interruption," he offered.
Clarice nodded almost imperceptibly. Hannibal said nothing more. He turned and walked away. Clarice followed. Not too closely so anyone would notice. But he knew she was on his trail.
He led her to the back of the church where, in the far corner, there was a narrow passageway in the wall. After about three feet, it became a stone spiral staircase, twisting around and up to the second level. The corridor opened up to a balcony area. The walls were about waist-height and lined with columns. There were small chapel areas along the way. Hannibal stopped in one about halfway down. It was not so hidden that they could not see down into the church with the rows and rows of pews and the ever-present crowds murmuring softly to create din of humming through the air.
Hannibal waited behind a pillar for Clarice to walk past him, and when she did, he grabbed her arm and pinned her against the stone column where he had been concealed himself before her arrival. He put one hand tight across her mouth and held both her wrists in the other above her head. She yelped in surprise, but his swift movements muffled the sound. She struggled against his grip for a moment. And then she stilled. Her eyes were wide with fear.
He had been right. The blue dress did bring out the color of her eyes beautifully.
Clarice felt the panic well up inside her as she cursed herself for letting herself get into this position. She was unarmed and unprepared. She should have known better. Hadn't she come to Florence because of him? Well, of course she had. But she had come because it was a city that meant something to him, not because she thought she'd find him there. She hadn't wanted to find him.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. She had wanted to find him. To see him again. But she did not want to be the one to catch him. Her career had gotten way too tied up in Lecter. She hadn't even been a full-fledged agent when she met him, when he molded her mind to think the way she now thought. He'd helped her and trusted her in a way she had never anticipated. For that, she was indebted to him. He had shown her, in his way, of the gray areas of the world. He existed in the gray area. He was a brutal, monstrous killer. Yet he was intelligent and kind and courteous in a way that was antithetical to his identity as a monster. He had a sharp arrogance that bothered the hell out of most men who came into contact with him, though Clarice had found herself reluctantly dazzled by it at the time. Perhaps Hannibal Lecter thought of himself as better than everyone else because he truly was. Clarice didn't want to be the one to catch him because she knew she might not be able to take him into custody—not because she couldn't but because she didn't really want to. She had foreseen that she might be conflicted about seeing him again. She had been right about that.
He had been the one to find her. She realized now that she'd sensed his presence outside earlier. He must have seen her and followed her into the church. And then she had followed him like a moth to the flame. He'd caught her instead of the other way around. His hand on her mouth kept her quiet. His hand clutching her wrists above her head kept her still. He was damned strong, something that had always been said about him. Even with her combat training, she'd struggle to escape him like this. Clarice was stuck, and she knew it.
"I am going to let go of you now, Clarice, if you promise to be a good girl and not scream or run," he said. His voice was quiet, but she was close enough to him that she could hear him and feel the rumbling of his voice through his chest.
She nodded, agreeing to his conditions. He unhanded her and she immediately rubbed her wrists from where his grip had practically bruised her. But he did not step away from her. His body was only about an inch from hers. "I would think you'd know that I'm not the type to scream and run, Doctor Lecter," Clarice quipped.
"True," he agreed. "Though by now, I don't think you're much of a good girl, are you?"
There was something in his voice, something in the maroon glint of his eyes, something that shot through her right to her core. Heat pooled between her legs, and she shifted her thighs together unconsciously.
"Tell me, Clarice," he prompted, "did you come to Florence for me? To be close to me, to see the things I had drawn from my memory that you'd admired in my cell?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"What did you imagine would happen if I was here, if we met here in Florence? Would you take me down by yourself and return home the conquering hero?"
"I don't wanna take you down," Clarice confessed. Just as before, she found herself telling deep truths to him that she herself had not fully realized.
A small smile appeared on the doctor's lips. It was a sight that perhaps might scare some people. Most people, knowing who he was. But not Clarice. Besides, this face was different than the one she had met before. But she still knew him. She'd know him anywhere. That voice. Those eyes. And that small little smirk.
"Are you gonna take me down, Doctor?" she asked, curious for the fate he had in mind for her now.
He hummed. Pondering. Teasing. He shifted his stance, placing one of his knees right where hers were pressed together.
Clarice did not speak again. She didn't have anything to say. She waited for what he would do. She thought that, in a small way, she understood him. But she would ever presume to say that she knew what he was thinking or predict what he would now. For now, she would wait.
But Clarice did not have to wait for long. He moved, silent and quick like the elegant predator he was, burying one hand in her hair and bringing their lips crashing together. He kissed her with a passion she had only dreamed of. And she had dreamed of it. Of this. Her traitorous mind had planted in her this darkest of fantasies. It was better than she could have hoped.
His lips moved fervently on hers, and his tongue slipped inside her mouth without obstacle. Clarice found herself wrapping her arms around his body and pulling him closer to her. Their bodies were flush together as their kiss grew in its hunger. His free hand found her hip and slid up underneath her sweater to knead her breast beneath the dress. Clarice moaned quietly into his mouth as his palm roughly squeezed her, catching her hardened nipple against the fabric of the dress.
But before she could be too carried away, Clarice forced herself to turn her head away from him. He allowed her to, though his hand was still tightly fisted in her hair. "I thought you wanted to talk," Clarice said breathlessly.
"I don't think you want to talk to me just now," he fired back. His nose was against her cheek, his lips brushing reverently on her skin as his breath caused a warm, pleasing tingle.
Hannibal Lecter had always seen right through her. No one else ever seemed to see her or understand her, if any of them ever really tried. He knew what she wanted. She wanted him.
She turned her head to catch his lips again, and their passionate kiss was renewed. Clarice was utterly lost to him, mind and body. As he continued to kiss her, she briefly thought that she had been lost to him for a long time now. And now she was found.
Hannibal tore his lips off her so he could concentrate on what he was doing. He could feel her figure beneath the fabric of the cardigan she wore to lend modesty to the dress, and he knew what he wanted of her now. She had already been so willing, so giving. It emboldened him to press further. And so he pulled the cardigan off her shoulders, showing off the expanse of her chest and the bare hint of cleavage from her small breasts. He then yanked the fabric of the dress aside to expose her breasts. There was nothing else to cover her, only the dress. She did not need anything else, he imagined, and he was pleased to find no further obstacles. He bent his head to suckle her breast, to tease and pleasure her with his mouth.
Clarice gasped loudly as his teeth tugged at her nipple, interrupting his ministrations.
"Must be quiet, Clarice. Wouldn't want any of those priests to find us. Do you think they would throw us out in outrage? Or would they be titillated by the voyeurism?" he teased.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed him back against her breast. He nibbled lightly but sucked hard on her soft flesh. He would leave marks, he knew. He wanted to. He wanted her to bear the evidence of their time together on her skin for days.
As his mouth busied itself with the feast of her breasts, his free hand went up her skirt. Her thighs were smooth and a bit slick from sweat on the hot day. The lean muscle was hard and satisfying beneath his hand. He did not waste much time seeking out his goal, however. Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed the cotton of her underwear. He bit a little harder on her breast to punctuate the action.
"God," she groaned.
He smirked against her skin. An appropriate reaction in a church. She was pliant and responsive. And already there was a wet patch in her underwear. She was as turned on by the eroticism of what they were doing as he was. Hannibal's fingers traced her folds beneath the cotton and began stroking her with more purpose as he lifted his head to kiss her again, briefly. "You're like a rebellious teenager, aren't you? Getting a tattoo to piss off mommy and daddy. Only you haven't got a mommy and daddy, do you, Clarice? You're going to piss of the FBI by fucking me, aren't you?" he goaded. His words were muffled slightly, as his lips were still on hers as he spoke those words.
"Yes," she confirmed, speaking into his skin as he had to her. "But I've got other ways to get back at the FBI. I wouldn't let you fuck me if I didn't want it."
His fingers pushed her cotton underwear aside and touched her directly. "Do you want it?" he taunted.
Clarice's own hands were trembling and moving down his chest. She found his hardness and stroked him through his trousers, causing him to jerk his hips toward her with want. "I want you to fill me up with your cock, Doctor Lecter," she begged, stroking him still and kissing him messily.
"If circumstances were different, I'd do a lot more with that filthy mouth of yours," he said, panting now with overwhelming arousal.
"Quit stalling," she snapped. Her clever fingers undid his trousers and reached in to pull his erection out. She squeezed him greedily.
At the same time, Hannibal plunged two fingers roughly inside her, plunging his tongue in her mouth at the same time to keep her from crying out. Her inner walls fluttered around his fingers as he pumped in and out. His thumb rubbed her in time to his thrusts. She was trembling, balanced right on the edge. He kept kissing her and fucking her with his hand until she stiffened and pulled her face away to gasp as her climax crashed over her.
Clarice felt the overwhelming pleasure pulse through her whole body. Her knees would have given out on her if Hannibal had not been holding her still. He was unrelenting, and she struggled to keep from crying out.
His pace faltered only briefly, when he took his fingers out of her and held up her dress so he could replace those fingers with his cock. He was quite impressive for a man of smaller stature. He filled her up, just as she'd demanded from him. But once he was inside her up to the hilt, he stopped.
She searched his face and gyrated her hips, begging him to move, wondering why he wasn't. He'd said he would fuck her, and Hannibal Lecter was a man of his word.
"Patience," he chided, sensing her lack of it.
He took his fingers, slick and wet from making her come, and licked each one. He savored the flavor, and her eyes were glued to the erotic sight she was witnessing.
"I have wanted to taste you for a very long time. I'd have liked to do it straight from the source."
Clarice, delirious from orgasm and arousal, nearly told him she wanted him to do just that. She could imagine him sinking to his knees and positioning her above him so he could pleasure her with his mouth. Or if they were in a bed, she could sit on his face or have him between her legs as she draped her thighs over his shoulders. He would do well in any of those positions, she was sure. If he could kiss her like he had and if he could make just licking his fingers so erotic, he would definitely put that tongue to good use.
But such things were not possible. Not here and now, and probably not ever again. Those were awful thoughts to distract her from what was happening, worrying about what came next. Thankfully, Hannibal did not let her worry for long. He pulled out of her slowly until only the tip of him remained, and then he slammed himself back into her, hard and deep.
He set a frenzied pace from the start. Clarice had one leg hitched over his hip, and she held onto his shoulders to keep herself upright. His grip on her flesh was going to leave a bruise, but she liked it that way. The air was cold on her bared breasts, and her whole body felt the full force of his deep thrusts. He was fucking her properly now.
On and on he went. She didn't know how long. She lost all sense of time and reality. She could barely breathe. She only knew she had to remain quiet, and she was getting so close again. He had her balancing right on the knife edge. The tension coiled inside her and was nearly at breaking point. Clarice buried her face in his neck and bit down to keep from screaming as he made her come hard.
She may have blacked out for a moment, but she felt the rush of him empty himself inside her. He then slowed and stilled. They held each other still, leaning together and panting as hearts raced. She could have stayed forever in that moment of unreal, hazy pleasure.
Hannibal was still inside her when he turned his head to kiss her neck gently. His kissed moved up to her jaw and cheek until she turned her head and let him kiss her lips. The kisses were soft and comforting, their hunger having been very satisfied.
Clarice's mind began to return to her as she continued to kiss him. What had she done? What would she do now? What would they do? But as their kisses went on, as he went soft inside her body before slipping out and carefully put her leg down to balance her while he got his handkerchief to clean her up, Clarice found those worries leaving her mind as soon as they'd arrived.
It didn't matter what came next. All that mattered was this moment. That was where she would stay.