I. taste (and other) buds

"You've really never done this?"

"For the—" he inclines his head and silently mouths as if counting, " fifth time, no, I have never done this."

"I dunno, that just surprises me, I guess. I thought you'd put up more resistance, to be honest." She says as she lifts a tightly rolled joint to her lips and lights it, inhaling deeply. He had watched her roll it moments earlier, transfixed by her prowess.

They sit together on the settee of their balcony that overlooks the back terrace of their home. Clarice leans back, a relaxed smile on her face as she looks over at Hannibal, handing him the joint. His eyes scintillate with curiosity, exhibiting a rare vulnerability as he peers into the world of her adolescence. "It would seem I missed the zeitgeist."He runs a hand up and down her thigh, squeezing near the knee.

"Sorta how I missed the whole hip-hop thing." She snorts, starting to feel the effects.

"You were one of the lucky ones, then, I expect." They grin widely at one another. "So," Hannibal begins, his voice smooth and inviting, "tell me, my dear. How did a disciplined, determined woman like you come to be acquainted with the devil's lettuce?" He takes a drag, coughing as he lets out a puff of smoke, struggling to speak, "I'm beginning to see why it is referred to as such." He hands it back to her, eyes watering.

Clarice chuckles softly at him as she takes it from his outstretched hand. "Rookie." She sits back, her eyes growing distant as she recalls the memory. "It was at the Lutheran home in Bozeman," she says, her tone taking on a nostalgic quality. "I must've been about fourteen, I think."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Do go on," he encourages, settling into his seat with the air of someone about to hear an enthralling story.

Clarice takes a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. "Bozeman was... not great, to say the least. The orphanage wasn't exactly the warm or nurturing, as I'm sure you can imagine. It was strict, and the nuns there ran it like a tight ship. I remember they hung a girl from a coat hook for wetting the bed." She shakes her head recalling the memory. " But you know kids are-we still found ways to escape, even if just for a little while."

She pauses, smiling slightly as the memories flood back. "There was this girl, her name was Maggie. She was a few years older than me, and she was a real rebel. She'd sneak out at night, through the cow pastures and hop the fence, and disappear into the town. One night, she invited me to join her."

Hannibal nods, his expression encouraging her to continue.

"Man, was I scared at first, but I just couldn't resist the idea of a few hours of freedom from that hellhole. We sneaked out after lights out and went to this little hidden spot behind a rundown barn. That's where she pulled out a small joint." Clarice laughs at the memory, the sound filled with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "I didn't even know what it was at first. Maggie lit it up, took a drag, and handed it to me. 'Just try it,' she said. 'It'll help you relax.' And honestly, I needed that, so it didn't take much convincing."

"And did it?" Hannibal asks, his voice gentle, hand stroking her thigh.

Clarice nods, her expression thoughtful. "It did. It wasn't just the weed, though. It was the act of rebellion, the sense of camaraderie with Maggie. For a few hours, I felt like I was more than just another orphan in the system. I felt...free."

Hannibal's eyes soften, his understanding deeper than words can convey. "I imagine that kind of freedom was a rare and precious thing."

"It was," Clarice agrees. "After that, we snuck out a few more times. It became our little ritual. Eventually, Maggie got caught and sent to another orphanage, and I stopped after that. But those moments stuck with me. They were a reminder that even in the bleakest circumstances, you can find a way to carve out a little piece of joy."

Hannibal gently takes her hand in his. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Clarice. It's a beautiful story, in its own way."

She squeezes his hand, feeling a warmth spread through her. "It feels good to share it," she admits. "I haven't thought about those nights in a long time."

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, the shared intimacy deepening their bond. The night stretches on, filled with stories and laughter, the two of them finding solace and joy in each other's company. After some time, Clarice realizes that she is positively famished and suggests they make something to eat. Hannibal is nothing if not eager to agree

Clarice insists on preparing him something to eat for a change. She tells him to be objective and let his tastebuds do the deciding, that she is making him what she affectionately refers to as a "munchie delight." It is a dish that varies with each iteration, wholly dependent on the contents of the refrigerator and pantry. Rummaging through the provisions of their kitchen, she gathers a tortilla; a tub of chipotle almond dip; mayonnaise, prosciutto, thinly-sliced turkey, which she pan-fries, and sharp cheddar cheese, finely shredded. As she puts the final touches on her dish, she suddenly thinks of a few additional ingredients that would pair well with her culinary creation. She hurries to the pantry, emerging with a container of roasted cashews, unsalted of course-adding a handful to the tortilla and topping it off with a healthy drizzle of sweet chili sauce. She presents the final product to him on one of their finest china plates. Setting the plate before him with a flourish and an exaggerated bow, "Monsieur. Bon appetit."

Delighting in her whimsy, though unable to conceal his slight apprehension, he lifts the rolled tortilla to his lips and takes a bite. Parsing out the flavor profile with closed eyes, he stops chewing, a smile erupting across his face. Clarice watches him savor the flavors, her own smile widening at his unexpected enjoyment. Hannibal, a man renowned for his culinary prowess and refined palate, finds genuine delight in the chaotic creation she has prepared. There's a certain charm in the simplicity and spontaneity of their evening that neither of them can ignore. Watching him intently, Clarice inquires as to what he is smiling about. His response is but a quiet chuckle, eliciting a giggle from her as well. He finishes chewing, exclaiming, "Clarice, this is actually quite good." A bout of laughter once again overtakes them.

"Let me get some of that before it's gone." She says, leaning over his hand and taking a large bite.

He pulls the wrap out of her reach. "Ah-ah, I haven't finished yet." He takes two more bites in quick succession before handing the rest to her. "My god, Clarice. Who knew something so inelegant could be so incredible?" She assures him that she knew, in fact. Reaching out to wrap her loose tresses around his index finger, he says affectionately, "Oh, my beautiful, brilliant girl. Maybe we ought to exchange recipes."

"Alright, now, it's my turn," Hannibal says, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. He rises from his seat with a newfound energy, heading towards the refrigerator. "Let's see what I can concoct from the limited selection we have."

Clarice follows him, curiosity piqued. She leans against the counter, watching as he surveys their refrigerator and then pantry with the same meticulous attention he might give to a rare and precious artifact. I can't wait to see what you come up with," she teases.

"You'll be amazed, no doubt," he replies, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous glint in his eye. He begins pulling out various items, among them a can of black beans-never mind how that even ended up in his kitchen-a jar of homemade mango salsa, some fresh coriander, a lime, and a block of pepper jack cheese.

With deft hands, he starts constructing his very own version of a munchie delight. He mashes the black beans, mixes them with the salsa, and spreads the mixture over a tortilla. He then grates the pepper jack cheese, sprinkling it generously before adding finely chopped coriander and just a squeeze of fresh lime juice. Folding the tortilla in half, he places it in a hot pan, letting it crisp to a perfect golden brown.

As the aroma fills the kitchen, Clarice feels giddy with anticipation. There's something almost surreal about this moment—two people from such different worlds finding common ground in something as simple as a shared late-night snack.

Hannibal plates his creation and hands it to her with the same flourish she displayed earlier. "Voilà," he says, his accent adding an elegant touch to the otherwise humble dish. "I call it la quesadilla di mezzanotte."

Clarice savors a bite, closing her eyes to fully appreciate the burst of flavors—the creamy beans, the sharp cheese, the tangy coriander and the lime. It's delicious, in a way that speaks to Hannibal's expertise and her own craving for something comforting.

"Wow," she says after swallowing. "That's incredible."

They sit back down together, passing the quesadilla back and forth, each bite accompanied by more laughter and the warm, easy conversation that flows so naturally between them.

Throughout the evening, their inhibitions continue to diminish, not only due to the effects of the weed but also because of their openness with each other. They share stories, memories, and eventually, recipes. Hannibal teaches her the complexities of making the perfect béarnaise sauce, while she introduces him to the pleasures of a well-made grilled cheese sandwich.

The outside world feels distant and almost irrelevant as they create a cocoon of laughter and shared experiences, leading to a rare and precious connection. The food and their companionship blend together to create a night that neither will forget.

As they finally begin to wind down, Hannibal looks at Clarice, a softness in his eyes that she has rarely seen. "Thank you," he says, his voice earnest. "For tonight. For this."

Clarice reaches out, taking his hand in hers. "Anytime, Hannibal," she replies. "Anytime."

II. life is like a bowl of cereal

Clarice Starling tiptoes into the bedroom, balancing a bowl of cereal with careful precision. The moonlight streaks through the open curtains, casting a soft glow over the bed where Hannibal Lecter lay propped up on pillows, reading. The television flickers quietly in the background. She smiles at the sight, a mix of warmth and amusement bubbling inside her.

Without looking up from his book, Hannibal's voice, rich and smooth, fills the room. "Amarone and that rubbish you refer to as cereal?"

Clarice perches on the edge of the bed, her grin widening. "You ever had the chocolate Lucky Charms, H?"

Hannibal finally looks at her, his head lolling to one side as he gave her a lopsided smile. His eyes, usually so piercing, softened with an affection so profound she finds it almost unbearable to meet his gaze. "I think you know the answer to that question."

"Yeah, it's evidenced by the fact you call it rubbish. You'd never use such slander if you had." She jabs playfully, raising a spoonful of the cereal to her lips and savoring it with a satisfied hum.

His only response is to watch her, reverently, as if she were the most fascinating thing in the world. She takes another bite, then turns to him, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Anyway, I'm eating them with your fancy oat milk and a glass of expensive wine on the side, so it's kinda like the best of both worlds." She takes another bite and seems to momentarily lose herself in thought. "You know, in a way, this bowl of cereal is a lot like you and me."

Hannibal's smile widens, intrigue dancing in his eyes. "Is this some vague and circumlocutory way of calling me short?"

Clarice rolls her eyes at him exaggeratedly, putting her whole head into the motion. "While you may be slightly shorter than the average male height, I don't consider you short. Besides, I'm the same height as you, which is considered tall for women. So, there's that," she said, finishing with a flourish of the spoon in his direction."

"I almost feel a hundred feet tall hearing you say that. And with such gusto." She can hear the grin in his voice.

"You're ridiculous, and I love you."

"And you, Clarice M. Starling, are my lucky charm." With that, he reaches for the spoon in her hand, but she turns away from him before he can grab it. "Now, change my life for the millionth time and give me a bite."

She hands him the spoon, watching him take a tentative bite of the cereal. He chews thoughtfully, a bemused expression spreading across his face, eyebrows knitting together. "Well?"

Hannibal swallows, nodding slowly. "Not entirely rubbish, I suppose. Though I maintain that Amarone is the superior choice here."

Clarice laughs, the sound bright and infectious. "Baby steps, H. Baby steps."

He leans over, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "For you, my love, I'll try anything. Even chocolate Lucky Charms."

"Just wait till the Tattler finds out."

Hannibal lets out a low chuckle, chest vibrating against her, the sound mingling with the soft hum of the television. She shifts closer to Hannibal, nestling into the crook of his arm. The warmth of his body and the gentle rhythm of his breathing fills her with a deep sense of contentment. She reaches for the remote, turning down the volume on the TV, allowing the quiet of the night to envelop them.

"Do you ever think about how far we've come?" Clarice asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Every day," he replies, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her shoulder. "Our journey has been...remarkable, to say the least."

She smiles, feeling the weight of his words. "It's funny, isn't it? How something as simple as a bowl of cereal can remind me of that."

Hannibal's lips curve into a knowing smile. "It's the little things, Clarice. The moments that seem insignificant often carry the most meaning."

They sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. The moonlight casts a silvery glow over them, bathing the room in a serene light. Clarice can feel the rise and fall of Hannibal's chest beneath her head, a steady reminder of the life they have built together.

Suddenly, she feels a playful nudge. "You know," Hannibal says, breaking the silence, "you never did explain how this bowl of cereal is like us."

Clarice looks up at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well," she begins, "it's a mix of contrasts, just like us. The sweetness of the cereal and the sophistication of the oat milk and fancy dishes, the simple and the complex. It's an unlikely combination that somehow works perfectly together." She appears awfully proud of her explanation.

Hannibal chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A rather poetic comparison, my dear. And yet, quite fitting."

She nods, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. "We've both had our share of darkness, but we've found a way to bring light into each other's lives. Just like how the marshmallow pieces brighten up the plain cereal."

His smile widens, and he leans down, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, a promise of forever in its gentle pressure. When they finally pull away, they are both breathless, their foreheads resting together.

"I think," Hannibal murmurs, "that we should make this our new tradition. Cereal and Amarone by moonlight."

Clarice laughs. "I think I could get used to that."

They settle back into the pillows, the bowl of cereal forgotten on the bedside table. Wrapped in each other's arms, they watch the moon slowly climb higher in the sky, content in the knowledge that they have found something rare and beautiful in each other.

As the night wears on, the television flickers its silent images, and the world outside continues to turn. But for Hannibal and Clarice, time stands still, caught in a moment of perfect harmony. In the quiet of their shared sanctuary, they know that no matter what the future holds, they will face it together, one bowl of cereal at a time.

III. foul fowl

Hannibal sighs as he glances at the untouched remnants of his plate. The roasted pheasant, cooked to a deep golden brown, was far from the culinary triumph he had envisioned. "Elevated cuisine," he mutters under his breath, recalling the words from the cooking show that had inspired tonight's dinner. He pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, taking the dishes to the kitchen and then making his way to the bathroom.

Moments later, he stands next to Clarice at the sink, toothbrushes in hand. Hannibal attacks his teeth with fervor as if scrubbing away the evening's failure. Clarice looks over, her own brushing slow and methodical.

"Take it easy, H. You're gonna ruin your gums. You don't wanna have to get a gum graft, do you?"

He spits into the sink with exaggerated force. "I am trying to get that foul-tasting fowl out of my mouth." Turning the tap on full blast, he fills his mouth with mouthwash, the liquid nearly spilling out as he swishes vigorously.

"I didn't think it was that bad." Clarice's voice is calm, a gentle counterpoint to his frustration.

Hannibal spits again, a minty hiss escaping his mouth. He examines his reflection, noting the lines etched deeper by the evening's disappointment. Meeting Clarice's gaze in the mirror, he sees the twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

"No offense, my dear, but you haven't quite the experience with elevated cuisine as I do."

"Maybe so, but you're the one who made it. What's that say about you?"

"Agh!" He grabs a hand towel, wiping the sink with unnecessary force. "Had to have been the butcher."

"Um-hmm. Undoubtedly the butcher." She takes the towel from his hand, tossing it on the hamper. Turning to him, she grabs his shirt collar, smoothing it with her thumbs. "Relax, H. It's not as serious as all that. I actually enjoyed how crispy the skin got. Kinda reminded me of KFC."

Her sincerity is evident, and he feels a pang of guilt for his earlier grumbling. He looks down at her, his hands moving to her hips, gently kneading. "Darling, I thank you for attempting to mollify me, but I must say I resent the comparison."

She laughs, her eyes bright. "I thought you might say that." Her hands slide down to his chest. His response is a look of feigned incredulity, and she laughs again, swatting him lightly on the chest.

"All right, just know it was meant to be complimentary, not slanderous." With that, she steps back, walking into their primary suite and turning down the bedding. Hannibal watches her, a smile playing at his lips. Despite the evening's culinary mishap, he feels warmth spread through him. He follows her into the bedroom, leaving behind the remnants of their dinner and the echoes of his frustration.

As they settle into bed, Hannibal pulls Clarice close, the disappointment of the night fading away. He realizes that no matter the outcome of a single meal, what matters most is the person beside him, sharing in the successes and failures alike. The thought brings a contented smile to his face as they drift off to sleep together.

The next morning, Hannibal wakes to the soft light filtering through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across the room. Clarice stirs beside him, her warmth a comforting presence against his side. He watches her for a moment, a feeling of gratitude washing over him for having her in his life.

As Clarice blinks away sleep, her eyes meet Hannibal's, and a smile lights up her face. "Mornin'," she murmurs, reaching out to trace the contours of his jaw with gentle fingers.

"Good morning, my dear," Hannibal replies, returning her smile. He can't help but marvel at how she seemed to bring light to even the darkest of moments.

With a stretch, Clarice rises from the bed, the sheets slipping gracefully from her form. Hannibal admires her silhouette in the morning light, the way it seems to dance with grace and elegance. She turns back to him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Breakfast?" she asks, her voice playful.

Hannibal chuckles, throwing back the covers and joining her. "Breakfast sounds delightful. Although, I must admit, I'm not sure I trust my culinary skills after last night."

Clarice laughs, the sound like music to Hannibal's ears. "Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent cook," she says, her smile infectious.

As they make their way downstairs, Clarice hums a tune under her breath, the melody light and carefree.

Upon entering the kitchen, she sets about making freshly ground coffee, eggs over easy and bacon. Hannibal watches her with a sense of awe, marveling at how effortlessly she seems to navigate the world around her. Despite the challenges they face, he knows that as long as they are together, they can overcome anything.

As they sit down to breakfast, Hannibal finds himself filled with a sense of contentment he hasn't felt in a long time. He reaches across the table, taking Clarice's hand in his own, the gesture a silent promise of love and support.