Circle 4: Greed
...Gaining still further on the dolesome shore which all the woe of the universe insacks…
Standing over Starling, Dr. Lecter steepled his hands at his lips. She lay on her back peacefully—complacently. Temporarily gone were her anxieties, fears, and inhibitions. She looked to Dr. Lecter like a flower ready for plucking, more than ever. He would not take what was not given. No. But what was given, he would greedily take.
The drugs he'd given her were not quite the same as the ones he'd given Mason Verger. That had been a popper with acid and some other methamphetamines. For Starling, he'd paired the popper with ecstasy. That way, the loss of inhibitions driven by euphoria would be paired with relaxation and mood elevation, instead of violence. He wanted her to face the feelings she was repressing, but he wanted her to do so without the fear and anxiety. He wanted to show her the pleasure she could have. The pleasure she deserved.
Her eyes opened halfway when she felt his weight on the bed. When she felt the warmth of a hand on her knee, she smiled.
"I like when you touch me," she murmured.
"I very much like to touch you. Clarice?"
She had turned her face away, wallowing in a daze of bliss.
"Clarice."
"Ummmm."
"How would you like me to touch you?"
She turned her face this way and that. Her feet pedaled beneath the sheets. "Umm-hmm. Umm-hmm," she nodded, and placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle, from some private joke.
Dr. Lecter smiled. "I need you to tell me, Clarice. I didn't hear you in your head."
She spread her arms out, stretched like a cat. "Here," she moaned, before chuckling again.
"Does that mean everywhere? You have to tell me. You have to tell me so I do only what you want."
She only licked her lips and yawned.
"Clarice, open your eyes."
She did. Her face turned to the side. "You look different."
"I'm sorry about that. It will fade in a little while. Clarice?"
"Yeah?"
"What's your favorite kind of food?"
"Stone-ground pancakes. No! Homemade dewberry cobbler."
"That's the truth, isn't it?"
"Umm-hmm."
"You wouldn't lie."
"No, no."
"Good. Let's try another." He moved her hair out of her face. "Tell me about a happy memory from adulthood."
She smiled. "First Christmas at Quantico. I'd just met Ardelia—that's my roommate. She knew I wasn't going anywhere—that I didn't have anywhere to go. I didn't cry about it or anything but I guess she knew, you know, I was little lonesome. She invited me home with her, but I couldn't do it. I just—Well, she had to go see her family but before she left, she went and bought me this grilled cheese maker I could use in our dorm. I told her I loved 'em when I was a kid. Made me think of home. Home was hard to think about sometimes, but grilled cheeses were easy, you know? We had gotten them a couple times once it got cold. So she got me that grilled cheese maker and we went to the store and bought all these ingredients so I could make the perfect grilled cheese when I was alone there for Christmas. I don't know how it didn't occur to me sooner that she'd be the best friend I ever had."
Dr. Lecter stroked her cheek. "Good. That's good. Ready for another?"
"Yeah!" She clapped her hands.
"What's the best memory you have with me?"
"Right now."
"That's because of the drugs. What about before now?"
She chewed her lip. "Oh! I know! There was this moment last year. After we took turns hurting each other. We were exhausted and I'd been torturing your testicles. Remember?"
"Vividly."
"Well after, we went and curled up in front of the fire. You'd made a palette on the floor and I went to the bathroom. I came back and got into this nest you built for us. You opened up a big blanket and just tucked me in. And I was moving around, getting comfortable. I wanted to be on the other side of you, close to the fire, and I climbed over you. For just a second my hip was in front of your head and you just leaned right over and slurped me. It was kind of a kiss. I guess it was a kiss. But you just leaned over and put your lips and tongue on my hip, like you'd take a bite of an ice cream. You know how you do, with your lips and tongue."
"Yes..."
"It seemed to me at the time, like you loved me. I'm not sure why. It scared me but it also felt like the nest. Like this warm, safe place opened up for me, so happy to hold me inside. And then you did hold me. But I think about that ice cream bite on my hip, sometimes. Almost every day. It made me feel absolutely precious."
She smiled up at him when he kissed her forehead. "You are exactly that. Absolute. And precious."
She felt his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh. She didn't notice when his arm went under the sheets.
"Now," Dr. Lecter began. "Do you like that?"
"Yeah," she breathed.
"Tell me."
"I like it when you touch me there."
"Where?"
"My legs."
"Where?"
"Between my legs."
"Where?"
"Where nobody else touches."
"Ah." Dr. Lecter touched her waist. "And here?"
"Umm-hmm."
"Where do you want me to touch you, next?"
"Everywhere."
"When?"
"All of the time."
"Everywhere, all of the time, umm...Is that how you usually feel?"
"Not every minute of every day," she chuckled. "But yes. I wish you were touching me nearly all the time. I think about it."
"You do, do you?"
"Umm-hmm."
"And what do you want most of all? From me."
"Your mouth."
"In what manner do you want my mouth?"
"I want everything it can do. I want your mouth's words and smiles and kisses and ice cream bites. I want..."
"...Yes?"
"Your mouth can do things nothing else can. That no other mouths can."
"Tell me."
"It can tell me things..."
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me things I don't know. Make me realize things. Make connections. It can give me ways to heal. It can make me know myself better. It can play with me and make fun of me and thrill me and make me climax. Your mouth brings the world into color out of the black-and-white."
Dr. Lecter was particularly pleased that by this point, he saw some definitive integration of the various Starlings. They were seeming to come and go with ease and comfort. He lifted one of her legs out of the sheets. When she playfully put her foot on his face, he kissed it. "Would you like to be my ice cream now, Clarice?"
"Yes!"
"Where shall I take a bite?"
"There." She pointed to her toes where they wiggled on his shoulder, and giggled when she felt his mouth and tongue there.
"And?"
"There."
"Like that?"
"Yeeaaah..."
"And now?"
"Here."
Starling's head had reclined, and he helped himself to her throat. She threw her arms around his neck and sighed, long and deep.
"Is that all right? Do you like that?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Oh, yes, umm?" He helped himself to some more.
"Yes. I like those ice cream bites," she said, and curled her toes and combed her fingers into his hair. "How do I taste?" She asked, in a throatier, more womanly voice.
"Oh, you are far tastier than ice cream," he said, moving from her neck to her shoulder.
Dr. Lecter noticed his eyes had drifted closed in his reverie. He opened them again, right away. He wanted every sensory stimulated, every moment recorded for the purpose of his miserly consumption of it for the rest of time. He could only assume that, when it was all over, he would have only the memories to live off of for the remainder of his days. He would not think of that, now. He would think only of the smell of her hair, the taste of her skin, the image of her coral lips as she smiled and licked them and bit them. He would think only of the sound of her voice, the exact pitch of her giggle, compared with the lower inflection of her chuckle, compared still with the notes of her moans, her 'Aahs', her 'Umms', and her speaking voice, both childlike and womanly. And he would remember every word. Her every word would be filed away and locked up forever. Cellars in his mind strewn with the gold coins of her words, that would never again see the light of day.
"I want you," she whispered. He thought of a chest filled with the three precious jewels, these words.
"Say it again," he said, his chest feeling heavy and hot. His voice was not entirely his own, he thought. She didn't seem to notice.
"I want you. I want you."
"Who?" he encouraged, his dark sleek head bowing forward to taste her bellybutton, where he knew it tickled and made her smile and curl her toes.
"You, Hannibal."
"Say it," he hissed. Her hands in his hair were too tight but he did not care, only filed it away too, filed it all away for all time, for—
"I want you, Hannibal," she swallowed, her breathing heavy. He was unbuttoning her shirt, pausing to give her time to stop him but she didn't. Instead, her breath quickened and she licked her lips, swallowed and licked her lips again.
Her head craned up, she let out a long, ragged sigh. "Oh, God. Oh, my God. I want you so much," she said, her eyes tearing up as she looked up at the ceiling.
Her shirt open, his head over her face. "I want you too," he said. His own breath fast, his face ruddy.
"Tell me!"
"I want you, Clarice." His head bent again to taste her.
"Do you want me the most?" she asked.
"I want you more than anything," he whispered, sounding nearly resentful. "You're all I want."
"Gooood," she whispered, and wrapped her legs around him.
Dr. Lecter liked control. It wasn't necessarily for the purpose of gloating over others, but more out of necessity's sake. To do what he pleased as he roamed the earth, it was prudent to maintain control over the environment, others, and most importantly, himself. Maintaining control over himself had become a part of his nature a long time ago, and so it had become reflexive, rather than practiced. His body was not particularly sensitive, and it obeyed his mind with near-perfect dedication and discipline. Now, he had to contend with the fact that his body's insensitivity was the result of his own repressions. That it was possible for his body to not only respond normally to emotional stimuli, but to respond with intensity.
With that possibility, a new problem was presented. If his self-control had been learned while inhabiting an unnaturally insensitive body, would he have to re-learn self-discipline in this new, responsive body? And then he knew at once that it did not matter. If he needed to re-learn, he would do so. Re-learning would be absolutely necessary in order to possess Starling as wholly as possible, and so of course, he would re-learn without revolt or impatience. And as he contended with these thoughts, his mouth and hands had been wandering her skin for some time, and Starling spoke.
"Hannibal," she said, her hands becoming softer in his hair. His head came up.
"Yes?"
"I want you to go slower," she said.
Dr. Lecter found the slight trace of petulance in her voice to be charming, and he told her so.
She didn't say anything. She only looked up at him. He caught up with his breath, smoothed back his hair. She smiled. Dr. Lecter found he became lost in her smiles as easily as her skin. These smiles, they were for him, and so they belonged to him. They were coins in the cellar.
She sat up. Then, she leaned in and brushed her cheek on his, kissed his cheek. She leaned back to look up at him. Her arms around his neck, her happy, curious eyes...Bright coins he grabbed fast.
The tip of her pink tongue came from her mouth and gave him a friendly sort of lick, from bottom to upper lip. Dr. Lecter inhaled sharply and parted his lips. She looked up at him, back down at his lips, and gave him one, then two kisses. Her eyes half-open then, she gave a soft sigh into his mouth and licked him again. Dr. Lecter's unconsciously held breath came out sudden and trembling. With her hands on his collar she pulled him forward and he kissed her.
He kept it a fairly chaste kiss, as hers had been, but had to hold his appetite by the throat when her tongue peaked out on occasion to explore his lips, or just inside of them around his teeth. And then:
"Open your mouth," she whispered, and he obeyed at once.
She sighed again into his mouth, with her lips brushing his. Ordinarily, if a woman had unthinkingly exhaled into his mouth, it would have seemed rather clumsy in technique. Better to focus on technique, if one is kissing, than to allow one's self to behave carelessly. In this instance, however, this act read differently. Starling was in a trance under the influence of psychedelics, for the purpose of exploring her desires without judgement or anxiety of any kind. And what she had chosen to explore in this moment was his mouth. She did so without judgement or anxiety, and this was what it looked like. It was slightly artless in its exploratory nature, sweet in its innocence of expectation and sin. That sigh into his mouth, the meandering rhythm of her kisses and licks, her pink cheeks and trembling hands on his collar...It is beautiful, he thought.
"Kiss me," she whispered, and he did. His arms snaked around her with a mind of their own, her mouth open and her tongue was in his mouth and then he could not think, and they floated down onto the bed.
The control he managed to maintain was the pace, allowing her to direct it. He'd tattooed it into his mind like a mantra, I will take only what is given, and it served to drive his functions. Her exploration continued to be administered in timid, experimental sips. His throat felt tight and aching, as though his hands were not around the neck of his internal longing, but around his physical throat. It was this that brought sound and timbre to his exhales, when he remembered to do it. Sound and timbre, he thought. He liked that better than 'moans'.
Starling's legs, which wrapped around him, did nothing to help. One heel slid up his back, one of her hands gripped his shirt, the other was in his hair. She bit his lower lip softly, kissed his upper lip, then put her tongue back into his mouth snugly, as though it were its sheath. His next exhale was a shuddering moan.
She pulled away and smiled. "Now, touch me here."
He'd only gotten to kiss her for a few moments, and for an instant, his heart screeched and howled, as only the most selfish and despicable creature could. But then he conceded; she was still focused on the sexual only, and he shifted back into a place of appreciation.
"Do you want my mouth or my hands, my delicious little doxy?"
"First your mouth," she said, settling in with an air of entitlement like a spoiled child, which he found very pleasing. "Then, your fingers at the end, like I like. You know."
"I do know," he agreed, before gratefully descending between her legs, his dark, sleek head.
When she climaxed, she trapped his head between her legs, and he could scarcely get his fingers into her in time for her to grip them, the way he knew she liked. He managed just so, taking the sips of breath he could manage, throughout her indulgence.
When he was released, she clapped her hands and laughed at his pink, slippery face and messy hair.
"You like that, do you?" he asked. He ran a hand through his hair and tickled her side. She pedaled her feet and pulled at his collar.
"You're all red," she said.
"I suspect so," he said, licking his lips and wiping his chin with his forearm.
"And wet and shiny."
"Oh, I know..." he said, leaning over her on his elbow. "You'd like some, is that it?"
She shook her head and covered her mouth.
"Yes, I know you like that," he said, pulling her arms from her face.
"No," she said, muffled. "No, no."
"Yes, yes."
Her arms out of the way, he bent his head to hers and paused, to take reading in her eyes. Her eyes said yes and she smiled. He kissed her. Before he could make much headway, she was distracted once again, and rolled him over onto his back. He let her, telling himself that frustration and agony were simply going to be a part of having more of her. Having more meant wanting more. She leaned over him, a leg heaped on top of one of his.
"Hannibal," she said, tracing her finger around his face. It was not a prompt. She spoke his name as a word. When her finger passed his mouth he gnashed his teeth, and she flinched, smiled, and resumed her touch. "You like me," she said, her voice teasing. She let her head fall onto his chest, her hair rolling across his throat. She bit his nipple.
"Yes, I do. I like you very much," he said, a hand in her hair.
"You want me," she said, lifting her head to peer up at him, impishly.
"Yes, I do. How much do I want you, Clarice?"
"More than anything," she recalled.
"That's right," he said, keeping her hair out of her face. "I want you to remember that part. You may have trouble recalling pieces of this night, especially the earliest ones. But you," he said, pinching her nose, until she coughed and brushed him away, "will remember that part. Won't you?"
"Umm-hmm."
"What do you say, my spoiled girl?"
"Yes, Hannibal. I'll remember."
"Good girl," he said, pinching her nose again. She bit him harder and he hissed.
"What's that?" he asked, pulling on her ear. "Do you not want to be my good girl?"
"No," she said, rolling off him to wallow and stretch.
"No? You want to be a bad girl?" He sat up and rolled over onto his elbow to look down at her. He could not seem to tolerate being more than an inch from her, he noted.
She shook her head, her lips pressed in.
"What kind of a girl do you want to be?"
She looked up at him, amidst her short attention span, and explored his face. "Just yours," she shrugged, and scratched her thigh.
Dr. Lecter closed his eyes in delight, took a measured breath.
"My girl," he said.
"Yeah."
He opened his eyes and bit his lower lip. "You won't be my girl for long, if ever again after this night. When you wake up and remember some of this, you'll be a little hard on yourself."
"That's her problem." Her tone throaty and womanly again, as she stretched.
"Hers and mine."
"How is it your problem?" she said, with a dash of her head.
"She is my beloved. You, my indulgent brat, are only a piece of her. Clarice Starling, you know, is a complex subject. She is a universe. And she has more honor and bravery than anyone will likely ever know. She is a vulnerable warrior, and her champion's heart and divine body are not meant for me. She knows that. All the world knows it. It's very unlikely I could ever have her, but to care for her is the closest relation I can hope to have. So it is my problem, my girl, because I choose it."
Vivaldi playing from a record. Viola d'amore Concerto in A. Dr. Lecter in brown pinstripe suit jacket and pants suit from Barney's. His shoes are Saint Laurent. He keeps the doors of the castle open in order to bring in the remainder of his shopping bags. Crystal bar set from Christofle, a matching silver set including serving trey and candelabra. Bookends, one men's wristwatch, and a magnifying glass from Hermès, and more clothes from Dior, Bergdorf, and Valentino. One vile of cologne from Bulgari.
The weather was mild, no one had bothered him in days, and Starling had left a travel size bottle of lotion in the bathroom. After putting his new things away and eating a sandwich, Dr. Lecter opened the French doors in the kitchen out onto the patio. He sat with a glass of red d'Yquem, a book, and the little bottle of lotion. He deliberated over the lotion and the wine, not wanting the scents to clash. He decided to first have one glass, then savor the smell of the lotion while reading his book, and then have another glass.
Starling had also left a single strand of hair in the bathroom sink. He had taken it and placed it in his own bathroom inside of a tissue, and kept it in a wood box on the counter for him to look at sometimes.
The shopping did provide some comfort and distraction, but there were only so many days he could spend out. He also had not forgotten about Starling's warning about his spending, but he felt fairly certain he was not particularly high up on the U.S. governement's wishlist, at present. He'd recently checked for his picture on the ten most wanted list on the FBI's website. He was second from bottom.
Dr. Lecter had noted in the past year how little he'd thought about killing anyone. It crossed his mind, he believed, about as much as it did anyone. But the intent to act was low. He began to wonder if Starling simply had begun to occupy too much of his mind.
He grinned into his glass, now. Of course she had. There was no question. The most recent development was that he no longer cared. He welcomed her, ushered her inside and set tables for her. He painted frescoes on the walls of her, composed music about her. The library of memories of her grew, and were well-maintained. He horded and organized and dusted the fragments he had of her. She infused his mind like incense and he bowed his head in reverence and sniiiifed.
Valarie Martin had taken the news well. In fact, she'd come to his home only a few days after Starling had left to tell him goodbye.
"Etienne is going to the U.S.," she'd announced, and rolled her eyes. "There is a program for her there, apparantly. Did you know she's frightened of you, by the way?"
"I wasn't sure. Is that why she's leaving?"
"No, although I think she's relieved. Anyway, with her gone, I'm going back home."
She'd sat down on the wingback chair and crossed her legs. Lecter handed her a drink.
"Thank you. Etienne is trying to get me to come with her. I think she's afraid to be alone there."
"Is there a particular reason you wouldn't?" asked Dr. Lecter. He took a seat across from her.
"What, go to America? Well, I don't particularly want to."
"Yes. Why?" he asked, smiling.
"Because...What could possibly be there for me? Sneakers and chicken wings? No. I will go home."
"Sneakers and chicken wings aside, there are opportunities there. It would be wise to at least consider what they may be."
"You sound like Etienne. She's just sure I'm desperate to escape this life of crime."
"You're not?"
"Not in the way she thinks."
"But you'd like to experience something new?"
"Sure," she nodded. "That's a good, dispassionate way of putting it."
"The point of going to America isn't to stay there, anymore than the point of a data entry job is to stay. You go to climb. When you've climbed high enough, you can go where you please. Are you worried about your ability to climb?"
"Reasonably so."
Dr. Lecter hummed. "You shouldn't be."
"Thank you, John."
"This comes at a good time, in fact. I can no longer sleep with you."
"Ah," she said, her eyes dancing. "Was she jealous?"
"Yes, she was."
"And did you fuck her, at last?"
"No, but she did kiss me."
Valarie pursed her lips. "Progress, I suppose. You said the meaning of that would be gargantuan. Was it is as good as you hoped?"
"It was euphoric," he said, smiling at his private joke. "But it also wasn't real."
"What do you mean?"
"She was tripping."
"Tripping?" Valarie grinned. "Do you mean on drugs?"
"Yes."
"What did you give her?"
"Just a pleasant little cocktail to help her."
Valarie sat back in her seat, looking a little dazed. "That's horrible. You drugged her to get sexual gratification?"
"I would never have made love to her in that state. Even if she had pressed it upon me. That would've taken all the fun out of it. But a kiss? Yes, I would take that."
"Still. T'es un connard, hein?"
"C'est tout?"
"D'accord. Une canaille diabolique. Bien?"
Dr. Lecter gave an approving nod. "Better."
"Is someone threatening your reputation of depravity?" Valarie wondered.
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "You seem so desperate to convince everyone what a shit you are. Including ta chérie."
"It's best for her to remember what I am."
"And what is that, John?"
He shrugged, looking away in thought. "Je suis un monstre."
"Important for her to remember, or for you? Love can do a lot of damage. Or it can put you back together again. Which do you think it will be, for you?"
"Umm. We'll have to wait and see, won't we?"
Translations:
T'es un connard, hein? You're an asshole, aren't you?
C'est tout? Is that all?
D'accord. Une canaille diabolique. Fine. A diabolical scoundrel.
Bien. Good.
Je suis un monstre. I'm a monster.
