AN: Did I set a record for longest time to update a fic? It's been years, I think. I haven't written anything in ages. I browsed this one and wanted to finish it. I edited the first chapter but nothing's changed, just more coherent now. Since I completely forgot where I was going with this the plot has changed, not that you guys knew what the plot was originally I suppose.

Clarice had never been a drinker. A glass of wine or a shot at the end of a rough day, sure, but growing up in her small town she had seen what heavy drinking could do to the washed up drunks and couldn't let herself fall that far.

But damn if she wasn't getting close.

She gulped down the last bit of whiskey and held the glass to her temple, the clinking ice cubes and her exasperated sigh the only sound in the dim room. How many nights had she sat here with staring at the slowly draining bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee table, swinging drunkenly between anger, apathy, resignation, and anger again?

Her life's work, that's what she'd given the Bureau. She wasn't old, of course, but every bit of her life so far had been working toward one end: Special Agent Clarice Starling. And here she sat, wallowing. She gave a soft, unhappy grunt as she set the glass on the table and filled it once more.

She had been sad for a time. She had killed a woman holding a baby. As necessary as it had been it was impossible for her to not care. She wasn't heartless. She had cried for what she had had to do and for John Brigham, lost in the raid. When the tears had stopped the anger came in their place. How dare they do this to her? She'd done everything right, everything by the book, just like she should have. It wasn't her fault the raid was botched but none of the men on the team had been slandered and censured. When she did well she got a pat on the back where others got promotions. When she did poorly she was fired while others were scolded.

Her anger turned inward as she nursed the drink. How stupid she had been with her ambition, her drive, her faith in the system. How foolish she was to think that she was capable of anything more than being used by the Bureau, to think that she was valued as an agent and not as simply a tool.

She'd been their tool since before she even was Special Agent Starling. They'd used her, told her she was giving a questionnaire then dangled her in front of Dr. Lecter like a toy he could play with if he helped them. She took a large swig from the glass and swirled the ice around, smiling ruefully, wondering if he'd seen this future for her. She imagined he had. He'd never hidden what he thought of the FBI, of Jack Crawford. She wouldn't hear it. Stupid Clarice, stupid naive Clarice. She gave a loud sigh as the resignation set in, as it always did. She'd made mistakes, been too hopeful and trusting, had faith that the FBI would do what was right. But there was nothing to be done for it now. Certainly nothing Jim Beam was going to do for her.

She pushed herself up and wobbled a bit, one arm out to steady herself as she took the bottle in hand and shuffled to the kitchen. Leaving the bottle on the counter she put a frozen chicken dinner in the oven. Sometimes Ardelia would cook for her; she'd done so more often since everything happened. Clarice knew she simply cared but she couldn't shake the feeling of beeing pitied whenever Ardelia was around. Ardelia had left on assignment two days ago and would be gone for at least a few days. At least frozen chicken didn't pity her.

Her nights of Jim Beam and meals for one were followed by days of job-searching. She'd contacted police departments, local and across the country. No one had need for a profiler, they shipped all that work to the BAU at the FBI. Did they just need an officer? Hell, a meter maid? No, there was no demand for a washed up FBI agent; no job for Clarice Starling, the FBI's Killing Machine. Clarice wondered how much longer she could pay rent before she took up her mother's mantle in place of her father's and began cleaning hotel rooms to keep frozen chicken on the table.

She was contemplating the bottle on the counter, considering pouring another glass, when the phone on the wall rang shrilly. Shit, I'm going to get a job callback and be drunk on the phone. Clarice stood straight and squared her shoulders, clearing her throat. She picked up the phone and carefully spoke as not to slur, "Starling."

The line was silent for a few moments and Clarice's anger returned. The "reporters" at the Tattler had spent a few weeks after the shoot out hounding her for a story but she thought they'd stopped and left her to her misery. She was about to tell whoever was on the other end where he could shove his column when the silence broke.

"Good evening, Clarice."

That was all, then silent waiting. No follow-up question. No introduction. No introduction was needed, Clarice would remember that voice until the day she died; that crisp, polite mannerism and low, slow tone with a cadence almost like a song without notes.

"Doctor Lecter," Clarice's knees felt weak, she wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or the shock. She steadied herself against the counter and instinctively looked around the kitchen before chiding herself for the foolish act. After a moment, "Good evening, Doctor."

"It sounds as though I may have caught you at a bad time, Clarice."

She cringed, screwing the cap onto the whiskey bottle and hoping she wasn't slurring that badly, "It's all bad times, Doctor Lecter." Her cringe became a grimace. Why had she told him that? Because he already knows. That's why he's calling now, to mock you when you are low. Just hang up the phone, Clarice. She didn't.

"More's the pity, though it's to be expected. I have followed your career with great interest, Clarice. Tell me, was the FBI everything you thought it would be?"

Fuck him. I'd rather talk to the Tattler than be taunted by him. Still she didn't hang up. Why? She couldn't say. "No," her voice was breathless and her knuckles were white where she gripped the countertop.

"No, I didn't think so."

When he paused she could hear his quiet breath and pictured him sitting at a window, overlooking an old city surrounded by paintings and sculptures and all sorts of fine things. She looked around her dingy kitchen again and wondered how he pictured her. She wondered if he'd ever eaten a frozen TV dinner. She didn't think so.

"Doctor Lecter, why are you calling me?" Being direct was good, he liked direct, didn't he? "You've been missing since Memphis. Why now? Why me?"

He tutted softly, "Clarice, I expect you think I am hoping to torment you but I think old Jacky-Boy and his FBI have done quite a job of that already, don't you agree?"

Clarice didn't know if he was playing a game or if she was just too drunk to follow along. She didn't have much patience for either. If her mind hadn't been so hazy she imagined she'd be apprehensive, perhaps even frightened, hearing him after all these years. But all she had was whiskey haze and burning chicken. She cradled the phone against her shoulder as she donned oven mitts and fetched her miserable little dinner.

"Clarice," Dr. Lecter began again, "I'm afraid my time is short. I hope to call on you again soon. Ta-ta, Clarice."

A soft click and the line was dead. Clarice felt like she should have thoughts, feelings, fears. But all she had was hunger and a headache as she put the phone back in its cradle. Whatever it meant, whatever he wanted was of no concern to tired, drunken Clarice as she sat at the table with her glass and her chicken.

Hannibal's hand lingered on the phone for a moment after he'd hung up. He'd hoped for a more responsive, more receptive Clarice. He knew she'd taken to drinking in the evenings, had seen her taking the empty bottles to the trash can beside the house and so he was not surprised at the slur in her speech. Her indifference unsettled him somewhat but made it clear the call would get him nowhere.

The Starling he'd knew in the dungeon of the asylum was assertive, yearning for approval, searching for answers. He'd expected she would at least ask him where he was, attempt to track him down. Had she changed so much, become so disillusioned? This would not do.

He shut the door of the phone booth jerkily behind him and climbed back into his sedan, his papers now carefully stacked in the seat beside him. Clarice's face smiled up from the cover of one of the issues, the photo from her FBI ID that the Tattler had pulled up to tastelessly line up next to Evelda Drumgo's corpse. His hand reached across and his fingers brushed the photo absently as he thought. He'd intended to take his time, to give Clarice time to acclimate to the idea of seeing him again, but he'd never imagined Starling would fall so far so fast. He had expected to return to the states to find a damaged Clarice, what he found was a Clarice that the world had broken into a thousand tiny pieces. This would not do.

He glanced at the small black and white photo of a young, hopeful Clarice under his fingers as he steered the car back toward Clarice's home.