"Good morning, my dear." Hannibal greets her, looking up from the paper he reads.
"G'mornin', babe." Starling replies sleepily, walking up to him to place a kiss on his cheek and running a hand through his lightly mussed hair. "You didn't wake me." She goes to the kitchen counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, yawns.
"I couldn't bear it, you were so serene." he says sweetly, though she detects a hint of devious mirth lacing his tone.
She snorts, placing the carafe back in the holder, turns to face him. "Yeah, after what you did to me last night? I can only imagine what I look like this morning." She moves to take the seat at the island next to him, smiling. "Not that I'm complaining." He smiles his response. "Why are you sitting in here? You never have breakfast in the kitchen."
He folds the paper, sets it down on the counter. "Oh, no reason, really." He takes the hand nearest him in his own, stroking a thumb across the soft ridges of her knuckles. "I wanted to give Henriette and the servants the day off. I thought it might be nice to enjoy our little corner of domesticity, just between us, today." An easy moment of prolonged eye contact.
It wasn't altogether unusual for him to dismiss the servants at random for a day or two, but this felt different to Starling for a reason she couldn't quite place. "Does that suit, dearest?" he asks, and she swears she can almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. She acquiesces, takes a sip of her coffee.
They spend the next half an hour or so in comfortable quiet as they finish the light breakfast spread he'd laid out before her descent. He'd returned his attention to the paper, checking the racing results of the Gran Premio, while she had set to work on the crossword, as was her usual practice, though her concentration had faltered early on.
He is thinking again (or rather, still), and the sound is nothing short of deafening to her. She studies him from beneath her dark lashes, eyes ostensibly on the crossword. A deep breath in, an exaggerated exhalation; a tap-tap-tap of the pencil on the counter, a surreptitious glance at her companion.
"A tough one?" A question asked with a single raised brow.
"You could say that." She replies, setting down the pencil and sitting back against the stool. He mirrors her actions, folding his hands in his lap. "...can't quite figure it out."
"Perhaps I can be of assistance. What clue do they give you?"
"No, not the crossword, that's easy...I got the 'four letters, like Solomon or Yoda,'" she flashes him a grin, "...or Hannibal Lecter, M.D. What I don't got is whatever it is that's goin' on in that brain of yours at this very moment." A pained look paints his visage at her improper grammar. How she loves to torment him.
He cocks his head to one side, holding her gaze. "What ever can you mean?"
"Well, for one," she begins, animatedly listing off line items on her fingers, "you gave the staff the day off; second, you're still in your pyjamas and it's already past ten; you're also sitting at the kitchen island—which you never do; and, on top of all that, you've been uncharacteristically quiet this morning." She emphasizes the last point, wiggling her fingers.
He watches her, watching him, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Let me see that crossword." He reaches for the paper only to have his hand swatted away.
"No! Not until you answer me." She laughs, placing her left elbow on the countertop and leaning her head against her hand. "I know when you're up to something."
With a small, contented sigh, "I'm not up to anything, querida. I've just been thinking, that's all."
"Oh, no." A feigned despair.
"Is this your way of telling me you dislike when I think? Would you prefer me brain dead like all those nice Appalachian boys back home?" He toys idly with the handle of his teacup, briefly considers dropping it on the floor before deciding against it. Not now, perhaps later when Henriette is around to sweep up the broken bits.
She shakes her head ever so slightly. "Easy, killer. No, normally I'd say that you thinking is a great thing—a wonderful thing, in fact. But , I've been listenin' to those wheels turn in your head all mornin', and I admit I'm a little nervous as to what you might've come up with."
With an amused hum, "You needn't be nervous, my dear. I think… Yes, I think I'd like to ask you a question, is all." She doesn't reply, silently urging him to continue. He takes a moment to put his thoughts in order. "Have you ever entertained the idea of matrimony?" And then, after a beat, "Hypothetically, of course."
She is still for a time, quiet. She looks up and off to the side of him, brows coming together in consternation. "Well, yeah, I s'pose when I was a kid I fantasized about it. There was a boy on our street I liked." She smiles wistfully at the memory. "But that was before my daddy died." She shifts her gaze back to his. "Haven't really thought much about it since then. I've been...occupied with other things." A small grin and a puff of air through the nose. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason—just a hypothetical."
"You hate hypotheticals." She eyes him, sitting up straight again.
"I don't hate anything, as concerns you."
"Right. Circumlocution, H?" Her eyes take on a guileful gleam. "Whattaya really wanna ask me?"
"My clever girl." He reaches out and gently pushes her hair behind her ear, touch lingering momentarily on her earlobe before dropping his hand back to his lap. "Alright, then, former special agent Starling." He speaks slowly, evenly. "What I mean to ask is… have you ever thought about marrying me ?" Despite himself, his voice lowers to almost a whisper.
Starling feels a heat begin to creep up the nape of her neck, her palms moistening. "Well, I…I mean, I—" she stammers and licks her lips, falls silent for a short time before continuing. "Have you thought about it?"
"Ah-ah, I asked you first. Quid pro quo." He chastises gently.
"Truthfully, H, I—I don't know." She takes his hands in her own and he watches her stroke her thumbs over them. "I never earnestly considered it before now. And I won't apologize for that, 'cus I know you wouldn't like that, but… I really don't know." She screws up her face in an exaggerated expression of apologetic anguish, nose sufficiently scrunched.
"Of course, cara mia," he gently squeezes her hands, "you've nothing to apologize for. It was only a question."
"Quid pro quo, babe." A soft, delicate tone.
He hums in response. "Very well. I shall do my best."
She takes a slow, deliberate breath. "Do you want to ask me to marry you?"
He is silently, inscrutably, infuriatingly neutral. She feels her pulse pounding in her veins, hears it like crashing waves in her ears. "Hypothetically?" His voice is still low and even.
"Mhm." It is all she can manage.
"Hypothetically," he begins, extricating one hand from hers and moving it to the side of her face, tracing the gunpowder mark on the arch of her cheek with his thumb, " hypothetically , I would like very much to do so." She leans into his touch, allowing her eyes to fall closed.
"H—" she breathes heavily, languidly opening her eyes again. "You know I love you, right?"
He nods, looking over the soft lines of her countenance with an otherworldly reverence only he could bestow. Once again, he brings his tenebrous vermilion to rest on her sparkling cerulean, hand still on her cheek. "And I adore you, my little starling."
They share the tenderness of the moment a while longer, exchanging gentle caresses and sweet nothings, relishing the closeness of the morning without the intrusion of the staff.
"So, what are we doing today, carino ?" she asks, leaning against him from her chair, head on his shoulder.
"Hmm," he hums, turning to kiss the crown of her head. "Well, we do have the house to ourselves…" She lifts her head and meets his gaze. "If you're quite finished with your crossword…" he picks up the paper where it sits on the countertop and lets it drop to the floor beside them. Quick as lightning he is on his feet, raises her to sit on the marble countertop, pushing away the now empty teacups in one swift motion. He moves to stand between her legs; legs that now tightly encircle his waist, his hands sliding under the satin of her nightshirt along the smooth skin of her obliques.
"I suppose it can wait." She breathes airily, fingers gripping the hair at the back of his head, lips parting involuntarily.
"Good," he growls as he pushes her flat on the countertop, sliding his hands up her abdomen and leaving kisses along their traveled path.
Clarice pushes herself up onto her elbows, breathes his name upon a sigh. "H—hang on a second." She takes his chin in one hand and he brings his gaze to meet hers.
"What is it, darling?"
"I just…" she trails off, momentarily distracted by the man bent in front of her, dressed in his devotion. "You really are gorgeous, you know that? I feel like I don't tell you that often enough." She strokes his chin with her thumb.
"Thank you, my dear, I appreciate that. But no one could dare hold a candle to your beauty." He kisses her thumb, where it rests on his face. "Is that all you wished to tell me?"
She shakes her head, drops her arm back to a reclining position. "No, I was wondering—did you—were you going to—um, propose to me today?" She stumbles over her thoughts, but he waits patiently as she formulates her query. "Is that why you dismissed the staff?"
"Hmm." He smirks. "Agent Starling, has no one ever told you that you're never supposed to ask?"
"…spoils the surprise…?"
"More than just a breathtakingly beautiful face." He kisses her lightly and feels her smile against his lips. "But to answer your question, love, my plans extend no further than taking you and making sweet, passionate love to you right here in the kitchen, with no one around to possibly interrupt us." His hands make their way to her obliques again, caressing and kneading.
She hums in delight. "I like that idea. But, H?"
"Yes, my dear?"
She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter to her. "I think instead of making sweet love to me, I'd prefer it if you fucked me right here in the kitchen. And then maybe the dining room." She pulls the hair at the nape of his neck. "And then perhaps, if you're up to it, on that harpsichord of yours."
His breath is scorching and thick against her neck, gripping her waist tightly. "Your wish is my command." He snarls as he lays her flat against the counter once again, consuming her in a series of kisses and nips, smattering her alabaster skin in little red weals and drenching her in his own unique brand of rough admiration.
It may not be what he had in mind for the day, he considers, but this is quite an agreeable alternative. And his starling certainly doesn't seem to mind, either.