Moveable feast. They were the words on Dr. Lecter's mind on the days following Starling's departure. Their annual meetings were not a moveable feast, but it was never to be very far from one. Easter, for seven years, would dance around their trysts-possibly, though unlikely, to converge on Easter itself. It had come late this year, with Good Friday falling on the evening he'd taken her and initiated this…covenant. He had only ever made one other, but he did not care to think of that, now. He had arrived in Austria just in time to watch the tentative orgy of the senses which follows the end of Lent. Always an excellent excuse for locals to tuck into their brunch of cold cuts and sweet breads. He was not entirely disappointed to have missed Easter in Vienna, though he would have liked to see the Easter fires lit on the night before. He enjoyed knowing the fires had been lit, with or without him, while he had torn Clarice Starling.

Better than the willow twigs, pagan fires and painted eggs was the OsterKlang series of concerts and operas at the Theater an der Wien. It was a musical highlight he would not be missing. On the evening of his arrival, he walked with an umbrella tucked into his underarm and his top coat unbuttoned. It was cold, but not too cold for a walk, nor had it begun to rain. Taking Freyung to the Farmer's Market, he passed a mural in front of the Scots Church depicting the story of the Biblical Easter. Christ in blue and red, hunches under the weight of the cross, the traditional geometric halo around his and Mary's head. He pauses, looking at it. Above the wall is the church spire looming, the face of the church obscured by the height of the wall, which is draped in garlands. His own shadow, long in the low, equinoctial sun, appears to loom behind Christ amongst the capering goats, crags and brush. He walked on.

He had yet to acquire a permanent residence, or even an acceptable temporary one. He had booked two weeks at a B&B next to the Scots Church; in the event that Starling broke her word upon returning to the real world, he did not want to be detected by…what had she called it? Ah, yes. My dorsal fin. My ornery poet. My little doxy. He turned away from the images his mind offered him, memories of all five senses. He would not think of that, now. He would not indulge until he felt reasonably free from danger. That would take some time. So this was to be his Lent. Though it would certainly not be lasting for forty days, No! His mind seemed to hiss. Not that long, but not now. To the market.

In the following weeks, he made many outings, but was careful not to exceed the limits of a middle-class tourist, and paid in cash often. He frequented the excellent meat and cheese shop Schober, a mere nine minute walk from his quarters. Sometimes he would go to the public library to use their computers, but the interior and the quality of their selection was atrocious. He refused to sit in the ghastly canary chairs, and would stand instead, his head bent. He often had to go quickly then to the Austrian National Library in order to purge himself of the public library.

It is the largest library in Austria, boasting more than twelve million items in its various collections and four museums. Its architecture and aesthetic is very palatable to Dr. Lecter. In the Prunksaal, the central structure, Dr. Lecter enjoys walking among the monastery books and marble sculptures. The hall is divided after the original list of the books; by 'good' and 'evil'. He finds himself often in the center of the hall, gazing at the frescoed walls and dome. Emperor Charles VI glances at him over his marble shoulder as though in warning, one stiff arm slightly raised as though to say, 'Halt. Come no further.' It is not permitted to peruse the books, only to ogle some of them on display in wooden show cabinets. It is easier to not think of her, here.

It was at the imperial library that he met Ernst Wagner. Wagner had recently reached tenure as the vice rector at the University of Vienna. They had first spoken in regard to a recent controversy involving two bishops who had denounced the governor and his political party for favoring birth control and divorce. Wagner openly opposed the bishops, who had since started their own rival Catholic party. While standing at the imposing foot of the warning emperor, Wagner told Dr. Lecter this:

"As a historian, I believed it to violate the tradition of Church and State separation."

"What about as a politician?" Dr. Lecter asked.

"Ah, I predicted that there wasn't enough strength in Catholic ranks to create a meaningful platform. The failure of the bishop's party will be disastrous."

"And as a theologian?"

Wagner took a moment to gaze up at the frescoed dome, his eyebrows raised, his thin, friendly mouth smiling a bit. Dr. Lecter could see the white fuzz of an aging man on the folds of his ears in the chiaroscuro museum lights. He was still looking up when he began speaking, again. "I believe that the Church must always condemn injustice in the light of the Gospel, but never has the right to speak in favor of a specific political party."

"I'll only ask one more. What about as a man?"

Wagner looked back at Dr. Lecter at that and laughed. "I think divorce and birth control are nobody's business but those involved. "

"An unusual position for a canonist. What did they do with you?"

"Oh, they threw me out," he explained, with the casual gesture of a hand.

Dr. Lecter tisked with his lips pursed and a slow shake of his head. "And right after you made tenure. A shame. What will you do with yourself now, former vice-rector Herr Wagner?"

"I think now is the time to analyze my own functions as an educator. Listen, I'm headed to the Trattoria for a cappuccino, do you want to join me?"

"Tratorria. It is close, I'll give it that, but that's all it gets."

"Is that so?" Wagner asked, with a laugh. "Do you know of a better place, then?"

Dr. Lecter smiled and invited Wagner with an arm to walk with him. "Stick with me. At the very least, in the arena of food and drink, I will never steer you wrong."

It was summer when he purchased a permanent home under the name John Boucher. It was an old alias, but his documents were still good. He spent only a few weeks with certain renovations; it was an old house and there were certain walls he found unnecessary, and cut off the flow of the space. Furnishing the home did not take long, as it came furnished and many of the original pieces were to his liking, particularly the upstairs study which was left nearly untouched. It was a Gothic, high-vaulted chamber which naturally appealed to the monster. Having spent many years confined, Dr. Lecter savored any opportunity to spread himself out. There was a desk in the study which notably pleased him. The desk stood on fluked oak legs, and carved lions heads and acanthus leaves on the drawer fronts. When sitting at the desk, the fireplace was at his back and flanked by three-door bookcases. Their deep cornices sat above glazed doors and flanked by pilasters carved with more lions, and figural masks. To his right, when he sat at the desk, was a gossip bench beneath the window. To his left, the doors to the study which were purchased from a chapel in Belgium. Above the desk was a prayer sculpture of a hooded maiden; her head bowed in reverence over her rosary and resin-casted tears fall from her closed eyes.

The first person to be invited to Dr. Lecter's new home was Ernst Wagner and his professed ladylove, Rita Steiner. Naturally, the woman was half Wagner's age. At one time, it would have been easier for Dr. Lecter to be amused by such a common precept. She was attractive enough, with dark hair and eyes, both of which she knew how to use. Her smile bothered him slightly; she had lopsided dimples which did nothing for her upturned nose. By and large the picture made sense as a whole, but any one feature on its own was left wanting. She sat next to Wagner at Lecter's dining room table while he served them seared sea scallops with lemon-herb beurre blanc.

The next time he served dinner, he decided it called for something hardier and turned to The Joy of Cooking. He chose beef braciole. He had always admired the Italian art of stuffing meat with meat. This time, in addition to Wagner and Steiner was Mizzi Dresler, a woman Dr. Lecter had met through Wagner. She was an emeritus professor of his former university, and a medical historian and gender studies scholar. While she often found herself having to focus on the latter subject, the former alienating those less informed, Dr. Lecter enjoyed a number of discussions with her regarding the histories of medical practices. She knew a good deal about medieval medicine. In fact, she knew more than Dr. Lecter, himself.

Also at his table was her grandson, David Dresler, a philologist. He was the youngest at the table, but held his own. Dr. Lecter was fascinated to see how much he could undercut and chide him without Mizzi's interference. She did not once intervene. He found her to be cold and fairly bright. He could not help but look at the nape of her neck at one point as he stood behind her, leaning forward slightly in order to refill her wine glass. The skin there was fragile and he was certain that beneath the depths of her gown there would be a patch of down there, and he thought of Tagine of Mazzi with apricots. Then he thought of Starling and quickly dove back into the conversation.

Across the table from Wagner and the Dreslers were Léonie and Joseph Strobl, the two primary patrons of Musikverein. They were currently inviting him to the Vienna Philharmonic Ball. Léonie's lips were stained a lovely shade of purple and he watched her lick them as she looked at him, before continuing.

"Once a year during 'Fasching', the Musikverein is transformed from a venerated concert auditorium into a ballroom. The Golden Hall is decorated with floral arrangements and the seats on the main level are removed to form the dance floor. It really is something you cannot miss, Herr Doctor."

"It certainly is worth attending at least once," said Wagner, nodding to himself. He looked up at Dr. Lecter. "But once is enough," he said.

"Oh, Ernst," Léonie said with a roll of her eyes and a furtive glance at her husband. She looked at Dr. Lecter. "Don't listen to him, he's pursuing the life of a hermit."

"Solitude is fine, unless you need someone to tell you it's fine," countered David. Wagner laughed the laugh of a curmudgeonly old man; soft but heavy with stiff, bobbing shoulders and a gravely throat.

"Quotes are useful to impress upon those lesser minds, your assumed intellectual superiority. But quotes cut down and widdled for your own purposes is the petty, quibbling work of a neophyte," said Dr. Lecter, his voice no less cutting at a calm, low volume. David's smile faded away and he glanced at his grandmother for support, but she laughed, riotously. It was better she had, because it was upon this mood the rest of the company succeeded in pressing on. Dr. Lecter looked at David, who was beginning to have trouble keeping his irritation hidden.

"But you're not wrong to defend his solitude," Dr. Lecter continued. He took a sip of his wine, and no one attempted to hijack the floor while he did so. "Solitude is worth protecting," he continued. "Herr Wagner is a philosopher and a scholar. He has his books to keep him company, and there is no superior method for avoiding life."

"Here, here," said Joseph, and the others raised their glasses, smirking or grimacing.

At the door, Léonie offered her hand to Dr. Lecter and was disappointed, though not surprised, when he did not kiss it.

"If you decide to attend the Philharmonic Ball, do tell me. You can sit with Joseph and I, and our assistant, Étienne ." Then, in a more confidential tone," you should enjoy her company. She's French, from Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, I believe. Certainly you would enjoy speaking French with someone."

Dr. Lecter smiled broadly at her and placed his hand gingerly on top of hers, which still clung to his other. "Certainly, Frau. Thank you for coming."

Wagner stayed behind, even after Steiner had gone. They sat across from one another in the downstairs study in oxblood club chairs. The fire was winding down and their glasses of sherry were nearly empty. Wagner was slumping and sulking at the embers.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, lately," he said, without looking away from the fire. "I find myself irritable at the most absurd moments. The other day, Rita suggested I write a book, and for an instant," he paused to glance at Dr. Lecter and raise a pointed finger," just an instant, mind you, I wanted to hit her."

In the following moments of silence, he glanced again at Dr. Lecter to gauge his level of disgust with him. He found none, and settled back in his chair.

"I would never strike her," he said, giving an abrupt shake of his head. "I've never wanted to strike a woman before. What was that?"

"Your strong suit is in academia. You've spent the better part of your life focused on two or three things, and you know them well. Now you're unsure of whether they were things worth knowing at all. You're afraid you've wasted your life and you feel impotent. Rita's attempt to help you stung all the worse."

"It's more than that. I don't know how serious Rita even is with me. She's younger, she knows she has options. I suspect she is seeing someone else."

"Did you establish monogamy?"

"No, but isn't it usually implied?"

"Not anymore."

"You're probably right. And I can't even blame her. What can I offer her now that younger men could not? She doesn't want someone whose peak is through; she wants hope for the future. She wants a damned adventure. I only want to smoke and read. I'm useless to her and she'll figure it out."

"There's no bigger schoolgirl in spirit than a cynic, Herr Wagner. Quit sniveling in my house."

Wagner eyed him and waved a hand, "Yes, okay. Fine. If not a cynic, then what do you suggest?"

"What is it you want, Herr Wagner?"

"I've wanted so many things. I am not used to wanting only one, and it feels like dying all on its own. I want Rita."

The beats of quiet that followed eventually led Wagner to look at Dr. Lecter, and found him leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He wore a muted smile behind his fingers, interlaced at his lips. At length, he tucked his hands beneath his chin. "Would you like me to help you?"

Wagner frowned and tilted his head. "Could you?"

"I could try."

Wagner nodded at the fire, as though seeking its approval.

"Yes. Herr Baucher. I would be honored to have your assistance."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "Then you will have it."

It was on a gray, overcast Sunday afternoon that Dr. Lecter's thoughts began to return to Clarice Starling, again and again. He had been doing some shopping when he first found himself thinking of her. He had to willfully put her out of his mind in order to remain vigilant and present. A flock of birds took flight as he walked across a street, and two women looked after him for a moment when he passed them. His features were darkened as he walked home, deep in thought.

Later, when it was getting dark, he found himself at his desk. He didn't take the seat, but loomed over it, his shadow hovering over the blank stationary. He touched the pen with his fingertips. The stationary, which he had bought weeks beforehand, was purchased directly from the specialized papermaker, Gmund. Since the era of Goethe, Dr. Lecter reflected, the written word has reigned supreme. Germany has maintained an unrivalled reputation for penmanship, and so the art of papermaking has not died. What one writes is paramount, but what one chooses to write on mattered, too.

He ran his palm across the paper, barely touching it. The paper is ergonomically streamlined, and embedded with mohair, accounting for its lustrous finish. Quality paper, he thought, is highly tactile and evocative. Yes, what one chooses to write on mattered, at least to Dr. Lecter.

Still, he didn't sit, and he didn't write to her. He decided it was too soon to open communication, having been only three months. She needed time to separate them more than space. She needed to commune with her selves, to reorient. He would write to her when it was time. Until then, he would have to nourish himself with his memories. His tottering lover may not be ready to hear from him, but he could think of her at his leisure, now.

Outside, four carriatides hold the stone balcony above their heads, and Dr. Lecter stood above them in the center, his hands coming to rest along the edge. Behind him, three lion heads in relief decorate the wall, each fixed in an eternal bellow. The clouds had receded enough he could nearly see the moon. He watched the sky until, finally, it partially came into view. It was only an illumined sliver, but it stayed exposed for many long minutes, before it was obscured, once again.

Dr. Lecter thought of Starling's body in relief, where she lay beneath his sheets. He had let her rest for a little while after the initial break. He had not done it quickly, and their recent activities merited an interlude. He had been sitting with his back against the headboard, her feet near his right side. She lay turned away from him at first, holding herself. Only one of her calves and part of her foot were visible. He looked at her skin intently, at the slope where knee met thigh before disappearing into the caverns of the sheets. He looked at the pinky underside of her foot, at her toes. Then he touched her toes and she startled. He came forward with a hand on her hip, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He watched her watching him as he moved closer and she lay frozen with the shocked, trance-like surrender of an animal in the jaws of another. He nudged her over and her skin whispered beneath the sheets. When he smoothed her hair with both his hands, she sat up, and they looked at one another.

"I'm sorry for the profanity," she said quietly, in the semi dark.

"You were entitled," he answered. She looked down where his hand rested on her thigh, watched his thumb stroking her. When she looked back up:

"Tell me something."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything," she answered, looking away.

What a beautiful thing, that. She had served him an opportunity to sting her on a silver platter. Tell me something, she had said. Anything. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to hear her own voice, too. He'd torn her, and she'd let him, and she'd enjoyed it, and now the endorphins were dropping, the oxytocin rising, and she was feeling lonesome and fearful. She moved her arms to cover her breasts, and he watched to see if she would cry. She did not. What a beautiful thing that had been.

"Tell me what you're feeling," he'd said.

"I feel," she paused, gathering herself,"sick."

"Ummm. Show me where it hurts, Clarice."

She'd looked at him sharply, a flicker of anger and betrayal on her face.

"I mean it," he said. "Show me."

She trailed a hand from her heart to her navel. "It actually…hurts."

"I know, my little doxy. That's because your body has released a large amount of oxytocin that tells you your body is safe with me; it tells you to desire affection and intimacy with me. But your mind tells you the opposite. That conflict would be very painful."

He took her shoulders and pulled her forward until she nodded her head into his chest. "But don't worry. During these unions I may tease you, tear you and torment you, but I will not allow you to do those things to yourself, by leaving you alone with your own inquisition. Not for longer than you can take. I'll always know how much you can take. If you're ever unsure of what you can count on, at any moment, count on that. When you are here with me, you are mine. And I take care of what is mine, and I never give my possessions more than they can take. Do I lie, Clarice?"

She had hummed into his shoulder, before straightening up to look at him." I believe there's much hearsay about that." She wore a small, strange smile. "Probably instigated by you. You've lied, of course you've lied. But in my personal experience, not much. Not directly. Only once, that I recall. Not about me. Never about me."

Dr. Lecter took a single second to access his memory palace to recall the lie. She wasn't wrong. He had told her that he'd suspected that Raspail's lover had died in a banal asphyxiation transaction. He hadn't decided how he would give her Jame Gumb, yet. Fair enough. He commended her with a bow, as he stood in the foyer of his mind palace. The skull at his feet reminded him of more than death.

A nod to death, a nod to Starling, hmmmmm. She was entirely correct. He had much to do with how others perceived him. He was the creator of his own myth. No one had ever noticed that, and for just a moment, he was mesmerized by her discernment.

"Then listen to this: Between the faith of your mind and the faith of your body, your body happens to be correct. It is safe with me. You are safe with me."

They were looking at one another when the trace of a frown appeared on her face and she looked down. Her hand was on his, and she was squeezing his thumb. When she let go abruptly, as though she'd realized a spider was on her skin, he grabbed her and lay down on his back, pulling her on top of him. She'd initially reacted with resistance, but having been placed above him, she seemed to hesitate. She held herself up on her elbows, on either side of him. She was nearly flush with him, all but one stray leg, and he felt her toes wriggle beneath his leg for warmth. He smiled at her and caressed her arms, his chin raised.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Did you lick your fingers for the shock value or because you wanted to?"

"If I wanted to shock you, you wouldn't have to ask."

She'd chewed her lip a moment and looked away. "There are some things…"

"Yes?"

"Some things I will never understand."

"About me or about everything else?"

She smiled at that. "Both."

"That's alright. You don't need to understand everything about me. What's important is that you understand how it made you feel and why."

"How it made me feel to watch you licking my blood off of your fingers?"

"Yes."

"It was gross, Hannibal."

"Ummm, that wasn't a feeling, was it? How did it make you feel? Did it make you feel gross? Did it make you feel gross to watch me taste you?"

She had to look away, and he let her. She shook her head. "No."

"How did it make you feel?"

She pinched the sheets between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the fabric back and forth, back and forth. Then, very quietly: "It made me feel like a goddess."

He hadn't felt that required a response. Instead, he pulled her closer and smelled her hair until it was all he could smell. His hands moved over her body of their own accord, and he closed his eyes when she made little sounds. Her skin was warm and soft and very much awake. In time, she was unconsciously moving against him. He didn't moan, but his exhales became heavy. Then he could take no more, and had to pull her head up to see her face. She didn't stop moving against him, and he gripped her by the sides. She knew what she was doing, he could see that in her face. She knew what she was doing, and she knew what it was doing to him. Clarice Starling knew what she could do to him, and in the quiet semi-dark, their eyes fixed on one another, she used him and he let her. It was the first time he questioned who belonged to whom.

Notes:

David misquotes Honoré de Balzac

Dr. Lecter quotes Muriel Barbery (I quote her in Lily too, sorry. I just love that line.)

The smut version has been posted on AO3. I'll be updating it when I update, here. My name on AO3 is JustineBishop. Thank you for giving me the feedback, it certainly pushed me to make that happen. I certainly hope it doesn't disappoint!

If it takes awhile for another update, don't give up on the story or hate me.

Thanks again, and enjoy.