A/N: Thank you to everyone who's supporting and reviewing this story. I'm glad all of you are enjoying it!

Apologies on the late update. I actually had a taste of a social life this week. I know. Stop the damn press.

Disclaimer: Look to the Prologue for it.

Chapter 3: Calm Before the Storm

Dying embers fell from the lit cigarette between her fingers. Clarice watched with mild interest as the fading dot of light hit the ground without protest. The ash had already accepted its fate. Destined to be stomped on by uncaring shoes. A thought might be spared by the owners out of sheer annoyance but nothing more.

On occasion, a rebel would arise. A single piece refusing to go out. Defiantly hanging on. Glaring up at the world as gleaming auburn turned to crimson red. One side of her lips tipped up. The inanimate crumb of garbage held a tiny bit of respect from her.

Good. Nice to see my standards haven't dropped.

An eye roll accompanied her next drag. Her shift in position caused the stack of case files to spill even further out of her bag. One of them nudged her thigh but Clarice didn't give it any attention. She couldn't be bothered with more disappointment. Nothing in those files would tell her anything she didn't already know.

No cannibalistic serial killer to play with her mind even though he knew every-fucking-thing she needed in order to solve the goddamn case. Held information over her head for no reason than to constantly remind her he was the smartest person in the room. That didn't even include all the other shit he had pulled over the years.

God, what a narcissistic asshole.

There was no DNA because of course not. Like a damned ghost poofed in, killed people, and left without a trace. Not exactly surprising. Her life was Murphy's Law's bitch. Why would the fates start being kind now?

Clarice wanted to be frustrated but, God, she was far too tired to give a damn.

The low vibrations on her nightstand early yesterday morning did not wake her. No, sleep had not come to her that night —huge shock. Whether that was a blessing or a curse was beyond her. Those damned screaming lambs had devolved to an irritating drone in the back of her mind. Any amount of silence in her life brought them out. Like a bizarre case of mental tinnitus. A dull hum reminding her who she was and where she came from.

No no no no. Her nightmares had only become more creative. Chesapeake Bay was a primary source of inspiration for her unconscious brain. The first year of them had been so horrifying, she had a borderline mental break at one point. But apparently an increase in cynicism and a decrease in damns given equaled less Lecter-filled dreams. A fantastic discovery she had made after passing out from a few too many beers. Her assigned therapist didn't like it but even she couldn't deny the results.

No, it was really only one part of the entire ordeal that truly haunted her. The only one she couldn't blame Lecter at all for. Just a single second. A heart beat. A blink of an eye. Yet, in her nightmares, it would last for hours.

That one moment of hesitation. Of consideration.

Yes, Clarice had been tempted by his offer. Oh, so very tempted. More than she would willingly admit, even to herself. It would've been so easy to give in to what he wanted. To fall into the bottomless abyss with him. Forgo everything she had been to be with him.

But Clarice refused to be the lamb that trusted the butcher.

The moment of weakness passed. Her stubborn reply sealed her fate. His eyes became unreadable pits. Sirens shrilled closer. Silver cleaver. A reflexive scream. Lots of blood.

Darkness.

Months upon months of therapy followed that incident. It became clear after year two that they had no real intention to let her back into the FBI. Probably for the best, considering. As much as Clarice wanted to be mad, she couldn't. There were too many eyes on her and the FBI wanted out of the spotlight. She was damaged goods. A liability. A loose string needing to be snipped off.

However, about a year later, a 911 call came in about a strange smell coming from a suburban home. That call led to the discovery of a dead family of three. None of that was terribly out of the ordinary. National new networks didn't even bat an eye. Only upon realizing that the father had met a strikingly similar fate to one of Lecter's victims did the world do a double-take.

Next thing Clarice knew, she had been cleared for active duty.

Apparently, her mental health took a backseat when she was needed. Good to know the FBI had their priorities in order. They had clearly learned so much since Will Graham.

It was around four when her Mustang rolled up to the scene. An early morning rain was better than a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, being soaking wet would not mix well with an active crime scene. Armed with an umbrella, a thermos, and a lacking damn, she walked over to the yellow tape. No need to flash a badge. The whole damn country knew her face.

Vaseline was no longer necessary for her. The putrid smell of death stopped bothering her a while ago. She scanned the inside area. Agents talking to local officials. Techs gathering evidence. A few other agents were gathered in a small group discussing theories.

No one was trying to calm down family members.

Anger and sorrow pooled into her chest, replacing the emptiness her attempt at apathy. A tired sigh left her lips. Dammit.

It wasn't as though she didn't know why she was called in. She just didn't want it to be true.

Her fears were confirmed as she made her way around the house. Same as the others. A father, a mother, and a son. Clearly not Lecter's work but the father, once again, was killed in a similar manner to one of the Chesapeake Ripper's victims. Lecter's precise, surgical cuts were replaced with hatred-filled gashes. The mother and son were murdered in a vastly different way. So different, it could be mistaken for two separate killers. Almost apologetic, especially in comparison to the father. Quick deaths. Always facing away from the killer.

No emotion was allowed to display itself on Clarice's face as she stared at the mother and son. Three drops of blood connected the two. Like Orion's belt.

She had watched as they took away all the evidence while she sipped on her coffee. Their efforts were fruitless, however. The techs would find nothing. With the amount of gore present, one would think at least some type of DNA might be left behind. Nope. Not a chance.

Clarice really hated clever criminals.

"I thought you said you were quitting those damn things?"

A small smile curved on her lips as she lifted her eyes to Ardelia standing before her. Hands crossed over her chest. Bottom lip jutting out enough to be noticeable. Trying her damnedest to look stern.

"Well, I was." Clarice turned her gaze to the still lit cigarette, rolling it between her fingertips. "But if I'm chock full of cancer, he can't eat me, now, can he?" With raised brows, she brought it to her lips and took another long drag.

Lecter wouldn't eat her even if she didn't have cancer. It would be rude and 'don't be rude' was one of maybe two rules that guided that asshole's life. Though he definitely wouldn't like her new smell. Perhaps she could bottle cigarette smoke and sell it as Lecter propellant.

Now there's an idea.

The reward for her behavior was an eye roll. "Gimme that." The cigarette was plucked from her lips and thrown on the ground. Ardelia's boot crushed the remains before Clarice could say a word.

She stared at the crushed paper and ash before lifting up a half-serious narrowed gaze. "You owe me money for that."

A snort. "Like hell I do."

A scoff. "Do you know how expensive those damn things are?"

"Yeah, I do. Which is yet another reason why you shouldn't smoke." Ardelia sighed. "Lord knows we get paid shit."

Genuine laughter bubbled up. She had a hard time recalling the last time she'd laughed. Apparently Clarice wasn't the only one who thought that. "Well, that's a sound I didn't think I'd hear again. Over a shit joke, too. If I would've known that'd do it, I'd have broken out that damn pun book an ex of mine got me."

Disbelief covered her features. "You're not serious." Where the hell were you keeping this gem, huh?

Ardelia nodded with a grimace. "Oh, yeah." She moved the bag of manilla folders to the ground in a less than graceful manner and plopped down next to her. "Three year anniversary and he thought that was a good idea. I was sitting across from him, thinking he was going to propose. Worst part is, he did propose a couple weeks later. To his current wife."

There was a pause as Clarice absorbed that last bit of information. "Damn." She shook her head. "Jesus Christ, that's brutal."

"Mmhmm."

The two friends fell into silence. There was no awkwardness to be found as they sat there enjoying the tranquility. A nearby tree shaded the bench they were on and that combined with a light breeze created the perfect temperature. Ardelia's shoulder pressed against hers in a comforting way. Her best friend had a tendency to know exactly what she needed without saying a word.

She had been hesitant to tell her anything about Chesapeake Bay. It wasn't as though Clarice didn't trust her. She didn't want to burden her friend with what happened. However, after a shit day, her walls came crashing down around her and out came the story in a blubbering, chaotic mess. Clarice had predicted several reactions but not a single one was understanding and acceptance. Ardelia was a goddamn saint. Their friendship not only withstood all the shit Lecter put her through, but came out even stronger. If they weren't sisters before, they were now.

She's a fucking gift from God.

Clarice let her eyes drift shut. The fresh air did wonders for her. Her mood was elevated thanks to Ardelia and her mind was finally clear.

Huh. Is this what true peace is? It's been so long—

"Starling!"

Well, that was nice while it lasted. All four and a half seconds of it. Might be a new record.

Wait.

Was that the voice of Jack Crawford?

Her eyes shot open.

Unless her sight was also lying to her, that was, in fact, Jack Crawford.

…Out of his office.

Her lips curved downward into a frown.

What the hell was he doing outside the BAU?

No. Wrong question.

Why the hell was he outside the BAU?

As the gangly man ran —Holy shit who knew the old man still had it in him?— over to Clarice, her eyes flittered over his features. A cold chill ran up her spine at that look.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

That expression was a familiar cocktail. Fear. Anxiety. Concern.

So much more fear.

Fear directed at her specifically.

Fuck.

Clarice's stomach twisted into a giant knot. Ardelia's hand gripped hers as she too realized the only possible answer to the question in their minds.

Lecter was back.

A/N: I know, I know. It's short.

Sorry about that. Next one will be longer.

Any feedback is appreciated!

Ta ta,

Dreamiest Nightmare