He entered the living room carrying a tea service on a tray, which he gently lowered to the table before the couch.
"I hope you'll forgive the substitution of tea for coffee, Clarice. The caffeine at this hour would only exacerbate your poor sleeping habits."
She quirked an eyebrow at him as she accepted the cup and saucer he held out.
"First my eating habits, now my sleeping habits, Doctor? Is there anything about me you do approve of?"
Something flashed deep in his eyes.
"Many things, Clarice." He skirted the edge of the table and took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, angling his body inward toward her own. There was nothing between them now, yet the width of the center cushion seemed a vast expanse in her mind. "That is, of course, what you might term the 'short' answer."
She could feel the uptick in her heart rate but couldn't put a name to the mix of fear and excitement causing it. The feeling only increased as he studied her form, his eyes lingering briefly on the shoes lying casually discarded before the couch.
"Are you quite comfortable, Clarice?"
There was no good answer to that, she feared. Yes would be a lie; no would be misleading. Neither would suit. She wriggled slightly to sit up more, pressing her lower back into the corner of the couch.
"I'm ready to talk, Doctor, if that's what you're asking. I'll even stipulate that you have clearly done your utmost to put me at ease since I arrived home this evening."
"Hardly my utmost, Clarice," he murmured, and she flushed. The words hung in the air for a moment until he continued in a normal conversational tone. "Very well, then. Shall I repeat the question, or are you prepared to venture a long answer now?"
Repeat the question that had circled round in her brain and directed her dreams for the last three months? Ridiculous. She couldn't stop hearing it if she tried.
Even the intonation was pitch-perfect in her memory. Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?
"I have some questions first," she hedged. "For clarification."
"Ask, Clarice. In this, at least, I am yours to command."
A stray thought asked just how many areas there were in which he was hers to command, but she refused to be distracted.
She leaned forward and laid the saucer and cup on the table untouched.
"Have you ever wanted to harm me, Doctor? To kill me?"
"Did you know, Clarice, that a black changshan, not entirely unlike what you're wearing now, is appropriate burial attire in China?"
Her anger rose, instinct crying out for her to attack the threat head-on. The rapid-fire rage response was nearly over her tongue and through her lips before she bit down on instinct and marshaled her thoughts.
Dr. Lecter didn't wave careless threats in her direction; there was something he wanted her to see. So, not a simple death, then. Something else. A symbolic death? A metaphoric death. Death wasn't merely the cessation of life; it was also...
"The end," she murmured. "Is something ending here tonight, Doctor? This is ... the end of what has gone before. And the start..."
"Of something new, perhaps," he confirmed, his voice as hushed as hers had been. It might have been approval at her own mastering of her temper that brightened his eyes.
She nodded.
"But you won't be getting away with leaving questions unanswered, Doctor."
"Are you certain you don't already know the answer to your question, Clarice?" Even in the low light, his gaze pierced her. "Ah, I see that you do."
"I need to hear you say it."
"Fair enough. No, I have never wanted to cause you harm, Clarice. Can you say the same?"
Was that subtle mockery in his voice? No, she decided, as he spoke again; it was full-on amusement tempered by courtesy and the doctor's own reserved nature.
"Snow globes, butter knives, candlesticks … you seemed quite determined to do me injury that night."
"All of which you easily turned aside, Doctor."
"You're avoiding the issue, Clarice."
True, she thought, and grimaced.
"I behaved badly. I wanted something very much, but I didn't know what it was or how to ask for it. I wouldn't … allow myself to do so."
"And now? Has that changed?"
"I know what I want, Doctor. And I don't want to lose it. But I haven't worked out how to ask for it yet."
"What is it you believe will happen if you ask for what you want, Clarice?"
"I don't know. I might get it. I might not get it."
"And are both of those options equally terrifying?"
The discussion had picked up a dizzying speed, as though she were back sprinting to the finish on the obstacle course at Quantico. Her lungs heaved.
"I don't … maybe. Sometimes. What I have is … familiar. The outcome of asking is … unknowable."
"You would rather stick with what you know, Clarice? Eight hours a day of mindless drudgery in a windowless box, serving no purpose, being of no help to yourself or anyone else, accomplishing nothing? Coming home to an empty house, desperate to escape, and running, always running, your feet pounding on the concrete and still unable to drown out the voice of your dying soul? Is that the … familiar … life to which you would cling?"
She felt hounded, driven as he pressed the attack in the sneering tone that set her teeth on edge and fired her temper. He knew her routines. She should have picked up on it earlier from his comment on her eating habits. Jesus, her sleeping habits, too. Had he been prowling around inside her house again while she slept? For how long? That kind of knowledge didn't come from a day or two of casual observation to be certain the FBI wasn't watching her house; that was long-term surveillance.
"How long have you been watching me, Doctor?" It was a struggle to maintain an even tone; it angered her more that she couldn't quite manage it.
"Irrelevant," he snapped. "Answer the question, Clarice."
She itched to get up, to stalk and pace, channeling her rage into fuel for her body, but she knew he would see it for what it was – another way to hide, to run away from emotion. Physical exhaustion was a weapon she often wielded against herself. She slipped her hand over the arm of the couch and dug her fingers into the fabric instead.
"No. I'm not a puppet you can pick up and play with when it suits you, Doctor."
"Yet you're content to remain the puppet of your beloved Eff Bee Eye."
Was she vibrating with the tension? Her muscles were primed for explosive force. It was a dangerous situation when his response to her movement might be more predator than man. She turned her head, slowly, and stared across the room, silently counting. She reached fifty before she was willing to attempt a reply.
"We're digressing, Doctor."
"You're deflecting, Special Agent Starling."
Oh, it hurt to hear her title from his lips. After the hours of talking and teasing – she could have that, couldn't she? If she only worked up the courage to ask for it. If he wasn't merely playing games. – the contempt in his voice shocked her into stillness.
Never forget what he is.
She blinked, and he sighed softly.
"Finish your questions, Clarice. Or tell me to go, if that is your wish."
Go? No, that wasn't her wish at all. Was that … sadness in his voice? Resignation, maybe. She considered the questions she had wanted to ask - Would you truly stop simply because I asked? Are you in love with me, Doctor? - and felt a twinge of guilt. She had promised him the long answer, and now she was holding it hostage until he satisfied her curiosity. The oddity was that he was letting her. That alone should have been answer enough.
"No … no more questions, Doctor. I owe you an answer. Just … listen, OK?"
"Of course, Clarice."
"Right. OK." She untucked her feet and stood up, pacing to the wall and back before belatedly checking his expression. "Sorry. I, uh, it's just…."
He smoothly filled in the gap.
"Movement aids your thought process. It's fine, Clarice. You needn't apologize to me for being wholly yourself."
She stared at him.
"Yes, that, exactly. That's what…. No, I should start from the beginning."
She took a breath and began, unconsciously falling into the rhythms and inflections she had used for many years when laying out the specifics of an operation to agents under her command.
"There are several things to consider in your question, Doctor.
"First, am I to take it seriously at all? A hypothetical question raised for your own amusement is hardly worth responding to in a serious fashion. But since we cannot proceed from that angle, I must presume that you do, in fact, seek a serious answer.
"Second, if I were to ask you to stop, would you do so? Would I want you to? Third, do I believe that you love me? Fourth, am I prepared to accept, rather than reject, that love, assuming it exists at all?"
She ticked each question off on her fingers as she paced.
"If we posit that such a situation exists in which the question would come up at all, then the real question becomes this: Would I, knowing that you love me, shamelessly attempt to manipulate you into being something other than what you are? Would I ask you to make yourself vulnerable, to risk your freedom and your life, and possibly mine as well, to demonstrate some sort of moral superiority?
"I used to think that the badge made us different. But you were right about the FBI, Doctor. It doesn't serve order. It's full of thousands of individuals who serve their own agendas, whatever they are. Some of them genuinely believe they're doing the right thing, but there are plenty who lie and cheat and steal. People I'd be less comfortable entertaining in my home than the killer who's so far inside my guard that I can't even see him anymore.
"I've studied your victims, Doctor. You follow a more rigorous moral code than hotshot agents who can't wait to make a name for themselves taking down drug dealers. You're a man of reason and caution – and no, I never believed that insanity bullshit – and you're meticulous. You can be vicious when cornered, and you've no qualms about taking advantage of others' stupidity and greed when it benefits you, but you don't make me fear for the lambs, Doctor. You would never snatch a child off the street and slit her throat on a lark."
She finally stopped pacing to face him.
"No, Doctor, I would use neither myself as a lure nor your emotions as a weapon to let me put you on a leash. I suspect you already keep yourself on a far tighter leash than I ever could."
His face remained impassive for a long minute before his eyes slid shut and he hummed in appreciation.
"Thank you, my dear, for your honesty and your courage."
She wasn't certain what else she had expected. That he would go, now that he had his answer? That he would declare his intentions? That he would laugh at her presumption and end her life? She watched him, uncertain, frozen in her living room until his eyes opened and he spoke again.
"If you'll permit me one question?"
She nodded.
"What if I were to say those words to you, Clarice?"
"If you were to … you want me to stop, Doctor?" She frowned, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I follow."
"It's killing you slowly, Clarice, your Eff Bee Eye. If it's your death you seek, tell me now and I will make it quick and painless."
"You've already said you don't want me dead, Doctor. You promised not to harm me."
"No, Clarice. I said I did not want to harm you. For myself, I have no desire to do so. It would, in fact, pain me - yes, pain. Do you think I don't feel it, Clarice? I assure you I do, and have done, as I've watched you struggle these last few months."
She moved forward, groping for the arm of the couch with one hand until she could sink back into her seat.
"You never left, did you." It wasn't a question; she knew. He had been watching over her for months. Stalking her – and, oh, how her mind shied from using that word. Was there something wrong with her, that what concerned her was his safety and not her own? "You stayed close, despite the danger, despite the investigation."
"The agents currently on the case are no danger to me, Clarice. They are predictable, following preselected pathways laid out for them in manuals. They are not investigators; they have no gift for intuition."
That had never been her problem, not with him, and it was a flash of such insight that prompted her next words.
"I'm the dangerous element in your life. The unpredictable one."
"Yes."
"But you want me there anyway."
"Yes."
She laughed bitterly, then.
"Your courage puts mine to shame, Doctor. At least you can admit to wanting what you fear."
"It would please me if you could as well, my dear, but you've come further than I expected in such a short time. It's quite freeing to say the words, even if only to oneself."
"No ... no. I won't take the easy way out, Doctor. I need ... I need..."
"What do you need, Clarice?" His face was open to her, his voice soft and low. He was coaxing her out of hiding, and she was letting him.
"I need to face what I am. What I want. I need to be honest with us both. It was never you at all, was it? It's me. I'm the one who needs to stop. I'm killing us both because I won't let go. I need to choose."
"Yes."
Her eyes flicked to his.
"You don't know which way I'll jump, do you."
"I'm not certain even you know the answer to that conundrum, Clarice."