we're just a matter of matter
-xx-
The dramatic events at Muskrat Farm left Clarice Starling wounded both physically and emotionally. It was during this vulnerable state Hannibal Lecter emerged, a shadowy savior amidst the chaos. He swept her away, clad in her boots and commandeering her car, to his secluded sanctuary nestled in the remote reaches of Chesapeake. The journey that had ensued was fraught with unpredictability as they embarked on a series of surprising and turbulent twists and turns.
In the dimly lit dining room of Lecter's rented home, Clarice sat opposite him, reeling from the effects of the drugs he had administered, mingling with the wine served with dinner. Her mind was a haze of conflicting emotions—uncertainty, excitement, and a strange, unsettling attraction to the man who had once been considered her nemesis. But she was never afraid. Fear had no place at this table.
Hannibal moved through the room with a grace that belied his lethal capabilities, serving Clarice a meticulously prepared slice of Paul Krendler's cerebrum. The aroma of sizzling brain matter intertwined with the heavy tension in the air. As she tasted each dish, Clarice found herself drawn deeper into Lecter's world, a world where boundaries blurred and morality seemed like ancient history.
At some point in the evening, after Krendler's body had been disposed of and the last of the wine had poured, candles burning low, an uninhibited Clarice made a choice that would change the course of their lives. With defiance and curiosity, she offered Hannibal her breast in a way that transcended mere physicality. It was an offering of trust and vulnerability that echoed through the halls of the home.
Hannibal, always the consummate gentleman, accepted her offer with a reverence that surprised Clarice—and may have even surprised Hannibal himself. In sharing the intimacy of that moment, boundaries were further dissolved, and their connection deepened into something neither could fully comprehend, yet dared not resist.
His touch lingered as he traced the curve of Clarice's jaw, his fingertips grazing her skin with a feather-light caress that sent shivers down her spine. She leaned into his touch, her breath catching in her throat as her desire built within her. Their eyes locked, communicating volumes in an unspoken language.
In the flickering light of the fire, their kiss was tentative at first, a meeting of lips that spoke of both longing and hesitation. But as the seconds passed, their hesitation melted away and was replaced by a hunger that consumed them both. Their embrace grew fervent, fueled by a primal need that defied rationality.
Clothing became a hindrance as they shed their inhibitions, their bodies merging in a dance of passion and abandon. Hannibal's hands roamed over Clarice's curves, memorizing every contour as if sculpting her form in his mind. Clarice, emboldened by the heady combination of danger and desire, traced the relief of Hannibal's face with trembling fingers, committing every detail to memory.
Their movements were synchronized, a symphony of touch and sensation that crescendoed in a fevered climax. In the heat of the moment, they found solace and release, each breath and sigh echoing the unspoken vows they exchanged in the language of their bodies.
Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter had been entwined in a delicate waltz, an intricate ballet of attraction and restraint. Their journey from mutual respect to intimacy was neither quick nor simple, but rather was marked by hesitation, silent yearning, and the profound depths of unspoken desires.
The intensity of their coupling left them both breathless, but when the flames of desire had dimmed, Hannibal did not stay. Waiting until he believed her to be asleep, he extricated himself from her bed and returned to his own room where sleep would continue to evade him. Left with her own ruminations, Clarice's satisfaction mingled with a poignant longing as she lay awake, hoping for his return.
The second night brought a subtle shift. After their lovemaking, Hannibal remained in her bed, silent but unable to sleep. He switched between lying on his side with his back to her and lying supinate, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Clarice could feel the chasm between them, vast and echoing despite their physical proximity. She dared not reach out, afraid her touch might shatter the fragile progress they had made. She understood that this sort of interpersonal relationship did not come easily or naturally to him. They were alike in that way, and she would allow him time and space.
By the third night, there was a palpable change in the air. Once again, they found solace in each other's arms, a pattern to their days and evenings beginning to take form. This time, like the previous night, Hannibal stayed with Clarice. Unlike the previous night, however, he allowed sleep to claim his tired body and mind. Though his silence persisted, the distance seemed less insurmountable. He slept facing her, his breathing steady and rhythmic, a comforting counterpoint to the tumult of her thoughts. Clarice felt a glimmer of hope, a tender warmth blossoming in her chest.
The following night signaled the beginning of a breakthrough. The usual silence that enveloped them was punctuated by a few subdued lines of pillow talk, Hannibal's voice soft and refined in the darkness. He again drifted off to sleep facing her, one hand beneath his pillow and the other resting on top of it; their bodies closer than before, the gap between them narrowing. Clarice cherished the moment, watching him sleep for several minutes before closing her eyes.
On the fifth night, after a quiet conversation and a whispered goodnight, the room was cloaked in a weighty silence. Hannibal stared at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest, quiet but restless. With her back to him, also wide awake and staring at the wall, Clarice could sense his inner turmoil, the tension in his body seeming to mirror her own. She remained umoving, her longing like a silent beacon in the stillness of the night.
Finally, Hannibal broke the silence, his voice a gentle caress in the dark. "Clarice?" He waited a moment before asking, "Are you yet awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake." She replied without moving, her heart pounding in her chest. Could he hear it?
Another pause followed by a hesitantly posed query, "May I…hold you?"
Her breath caught, and she quickly answered, "Yes. Please."
He closed the distance between them, his arms wrapping her in a delicate, tentative embrace. His arm rested against her abdomen, her right hand covering his. The solid warmth of his bare chest against her back acted as a soothing balm for her tangled nerves and uncertainties. His touch was gentle yet profound, a silent promise of the intimacy she had been longing for.
From that night onward, the barriers between them continued to dissolve more naturally, steadily. Hannibal had grown comfortable with the idea of sleeping next to Clarice, of holding her close as they drifted into slumber. Their pillow talk became more frequent, their conversations more intimate, filling the nights with a deep sense of companionship and understanding.
Days turned into weeks as they remained sequestered on the Chesapeake. Their relationship evolved into a complex tapestry woven with intellectual sparring, shared confidences, and moments of unexpected tenderness. Hannibal continued to exercise his subtle influence over Clarice, guiding her through a journey of self-discovery and challenging everything she thought she knew about herself, about him, and about the world around them.
Eventually, the world outside their space outside of time started beckoning for them once again-it was time to leave. And so they fled to Buenos Aires where they disappeared into the open, reinventing themselves and embracing the life and anonymity the city offered them. Carved out amongst the city's vibrant streets and hidden corners, Hannibal and Clarice found a semblance of peace—a life together that defied conventional understanding, built on mutual respect, intellectual stimulation, and a shared past that bound them inextricably.
Most evenings, whether on their terrace or out in one of the many clubs the city has to offer, the couple dance beneath the Argentine moonlight, their movements fluid and synchronized as if they have danced together all their lives. Where Hannibal leads, Starling follows. His hand rests at the small of her back, guiding her effortlessly as they twirl and spin, lost in the music and each other.
Their life in Buenos Aires is not without its challenges and dangers, but together they navigate the complexities of their unorthodox relationship. They frequent art galleries and opera houses, indulging in the finer pleasures life has to offer, all the while knowing that their bond transcends the ordinary—a testament to the transformative power of a love yet unacknowledged and unspoken, however twisted and unexpected its origins.
And so, in the heart of Buenos Aires, amidst the echoes of tango and the whispers of their shared secrets, Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling are forging a life together—one that defies the darkness of their past and embraces the complexities of the shared stars of their inextricably intertwined firmament.
This particular cool spring morning finds Clarice engrossed in the simple yet comforting task of folding laundry in the serene environment of their shared living space in South America. The room, officially belonging to Hannibal, is graciously proportioned, reflecting its status as the master bedroom. Despite having the freedom to select the larger space, Clarice opted for the slightly smaller room nearby, feeling it would be impolite to claim the primary bedroom. This decision underscored her respect for Hannibal and his possession of the space. In reality, the choice of rooms hardly affected their closeness, as they seldom spent nights apart. Only occasionally, typically when either of them, particularly Starling, required a brief respite to unwind from the day's activities.
She has been noticeably quieter these few days past. Each attempt Hannibal makes at conversing with her seems to fall flat. He burns with curiosity but isn't the sort to wheedle or pry, certain she will tell him when she feels ready. He gently knocks at the slightly ajar door, announcing his presence before entering and standing with his hand still on the knob. "Good morning, Clarice." He says warmly. "Did you sleep well last night?" She had slept in her room the previous night, and he had missed the quiet comfort of her company. She had missed him as well, but neither would be the first to admit it aloud. They were still figuring out how to navigate the unconventional nature of their cohabitation.
She doesn't look up from her task as she answers, "I slept fine, thanks. And you?"
He winces slightly at the informality of her response. "Not as well as I would have liked." Because I find it increasingly difficult to sleep without you by my side. He waits a moment to see if she will make a comment or look up from the laundry so he can read her expression. Still, seeing she doesn't intend to do either, he continues, clearing his throat, "I'm making tea and beignets if you're interested. I know your affinity for them." She politely declines his offer, which he finds curious, considering her newfound love of the pastry. He stands momentarily, observing her movements, noting they are more languid than usual and how her melancholy seems to compound with the passing of each day. He is increasingly concerned that she has come to regret her decision to accompany him to Argentina but pushes the thought from his mind. If she does decide to leave, he will be faithful to his word and respect her decision, but would still feel the loss most acutely.
Tentatively, "Clarice?"
She sighs deeply, putting a shirt on the pile. "Yeah?"
"Is...everything all right?"
She gives a quick glance in his direction, refusing eye contact. "Yeah, I'm fine." She sets down a pair of socks with a little more force than is necessary.
He narrows his dark eyes. "Are you quite certain?"
She halts her task, looking fully at him now, clearly peeved at his questioning but giving nothing away. "Everything is fine. Wonderful, in fact. Why do you ask?"
"You don't seem yourself of late," he responds, offering a small smile. And your laundry handling is a bit more aggressive than I recall."
She laughs humorlessly, exhaling through her nose, smiling wanly. Speaking softly, "Is that so?" She returns to the laundry. "Well, I don't know what to tell you."
He observes her for a moment more, wanting to extract more information but refraining. "Right, well, if you think of anything that warrants discussion, you know where to find me." With that, he takes his leave, all but closing the door behind him. As he leaves, she lets her head fall back, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.
Sometime later, while Hannibal is busy cleaning his workspace in the kitchen, Clarice walks in, her demeanor a bit hesitant, and sits at the island. She softly says, "Hey."
He looks up as he wipes down the counter next to the cooktop, turning his head in her direction. "Hey yourself." He tosses the washcloth in the sink, and leans against the counter behind him, hands gripping the granite on either side of his hips. "Finished with that infernal laundry, I presume?"
She nods, "Yep...all done." She chews her bottom lip, absently looking around the kitchen. He tracks the movement of her eyes, waiting. Meeting his gaze again and letting out a slow breath through her nostrils, "Umm, hey, I'm sorry about earlier." She traces aimless patterns on the granite countertop. "I wasn't exactly...agreeable."
He shakes his head lightly. "You've nothing to apologize for."
"Well, I know I've been a little...off...lately."
"I had noticed. So, are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to guess?"
She stills her hands, placing one on top of the other. "With that high-powered perception, I'm sure you could figure it out."
He smiles at the reference to their first encounter eight years ago. "Contrary to popular belief, dearest, I am not a mind reader."
Upon hearing his use of the endearment, she drops her hand to look at her hands, her hair creating a curtain around her countenance. In a quiet undertone, she breathes, "dearest..." nodding her head twice.
Hannibal moves to the stool across from her and takes a seat. "Clarice..." She looks up at him without lifting her head more than a few centimeters. "If you've something on your mind, please say it. You know you can speak freely in my company."
For a long moment, she says nothing, her gaze flicking between the surface of the counter and his folded hands. He lowers his head to better see her face, raising his eyebrows. She raises her head, blue eyes gently tracing the contours of his visage. "Okay...all right..." a small sigh, "I guess I've just been feeling anxious lately."
"About?"
Softly but without hesitation, "All of it."
"He doesn't respond but holds her gaze, silently urging her to continue. Realizing his intention, she picks up momentum as she goes, "What I mean is, I left behind everything and everyone I knew and absconded with the FBI's most wanted to a country I've never been to, where they speak a language I've only just begun to learn, and...and..." She sweeps a hand through her deep auburn tresses as she trails off, her voice taking on a fragile edge."
"And Clarice?" he urges.
She sighs deeply. "And I," she says, gazing deeply into his maroon eyes, attempting to summon courage from the intensity swimming within them, "And I'm in love with you. I love you, H." She feels her heart pound against her ribcage, hurriedly adding before he can answer, "And I'm not sure how you feel or how that changes things between us, and well, quite frankly, that worries me." She takes a breath, attempting to steel herself against what she believes will be a consummate rejection, one not at all short on psychological evaluation. Sure, she knows he is fond of her, but love? It didn't seem likely. He hadn't loved anyone in decades, so why would this be an exception? In spite of herself, a fluttering feeling arises in her stomach and tears begin to well in her eyes.
Ever perceptive, he picks up on each minor change in her demeanor. He tilts his head slightly to one side, expression and tone quintessentially inscrutable. "That's completely understandable, Clarice. You've undergone a series of drastic, life-altering changes in this last year. The things you have accomplished in that time are no small feat."
She looks at her hands once more. "Thanks, H."
"If you'll permit me to do so, I'd like to assuage some of those worries."
Shaking her head, "No, H, you've done more than enough for me already-"
"Clarice." He uncharacteristically interrupts her.
Taken by surprise, though still feeling crestfallen and wishing to disappear to the sanctity of her room, she quickly raises her head to meet his eyes.
"What I mean to say is that you continue to surprise and enchant me." He reaches across the table, taking her hands within his. "You absorb me in spite of myself." He pauses for a brief moment to look at their joined hands, stroking them with his thumbs before returning to her gaze, smiling. "I am utterly enamored of you, Clarice." Her heart flutters at the admission. She waits, hoping he will say the words she so terribly wants to hear. "I love you, as well, my darling girl."
Breathless, "You do?"
His smile widens and his grip on her hands tightens. "Desperately."
She smiles back at him, relieved, overcome. "Oh. Good."
He leans across the island, seeking her lips. She responds in kind, meeting him halfway. She brings a hand to rest on his cheek as she deepens the kiss. A few moments pass before they part. Starling smirks at him and says, "Prove it, then."
"With pleasure, for as long as I shall live." At once, he is on his feet and has moved around the island to stand by her side. "I shall commence posthaste." He sweeps her up into his arms, hers wrapping around his neck. As they leave the kitchen, he places a series of small kisses on her cheeks, nose, and lips. She giggles and plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. Before long, they are in the master suite, where they will remain for the better part of the day, only emerging to gather provisions between rounds of physical exploration.
A few days following their declarations of love, Clarice wakes up alone in their bed, sunlight streaming through the partially closed curtains. It is springtime in Buenos Aires. It is late afternoon. The warmth of the moment lingers on her skin, and a soft smile plays on her lips. She can hear the faint sounds of classical music drifting in from somewhere in the house, mingling with the sounds of the kiskadee and doves outside the window. Pulling on her floral silken robe, she makes her way out of the bedroom, following the melody to the music room.
She finds Hannibal sitting at the grand piano, his fingers gliding across the keys with effortless grace. He looks up as she enters, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of affection and curiosity. "Good afternoon, my love," he greets her, pausing his playing.
"Good afternoon," she replies, moving closer. "That was beautiful."
"Thank you," he says, patting the space beside him on the bench. "Care to join me?"
She sits beside him, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers. "What are you playing?" She holds up a hand. "Wait, don't tell me—" her face scrunches up as she searches her memory for the melody. "Chopin?" she questions, looking to him.
"Very good," he replies. "Nocturne in E-flat major. A favorite of mine." He begins to play again, this time slower, more contemplative. Clarice leans her head on his shoulder as the music flows, closing her eyes and letting the melody wash over her.
After a few minutes, Hannibal finishes the piece and turns to her, fingertips resting lightly on the keys. "You appeared quite lost in thought earlier this afternoon," he observes gently. "Would you care to talk about it?"
She inhales deeply and looks up to meet his eyes. "I've been contemplating our future," she confesses. "I've been thinking about what comes next for us."
He acknowledges her with a nod, urging her to continue.
"It's just that... this isn't exactly the life I envisioned for myself," she explains, her voice steady but soft. "Not that I regret any part of it," she adds quickly, "but at times I wonder what it is we're doing here. You know-what kind of life we might create together."
Hannibal listens thoughtfully and reaches out to gently hold her hand, offering warmth and reassurance through his touch. "It's natural to have such thoughts, Clarice. You've made considerable sacrifices to be here with me. We both have."
She nods, appreciative of his understanding. "I guess I would like to know that we're moving towards something-that there's more to our future than perpetual running and hiding."
He smiles a rare and genuine smile, one that reaches his eyes. "Of course we have a future, Clarice." He squeezes her hand reassuringly. "It may not be conventional, but it will be uniquely ours, and we will build it together."
Feeling a wave of calm wash over her, Clarice asks with genuine curiosity, "What sort of things do you see in our future?"
"A great many things," he replies. "We'll travel and explore—any and every place you'd like. And perhaps, if we seek a change of scenery, we can even find a second home away from home where we can live openly and without fear." He snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to his side. "Most importantly, we will continue to learn and grow together."
She smiles, feeling more at ease. "That sounds wonderful, H."
Hannibal's expression softens as he kisses her temple tenderly, breathing in the understated almond and lavender scent of her hair. "And I will do everything in my power to ensure that we have that future, my darling girl."
"Do you think you'll ever be able to return to Florence? I'd like very much to see it. To see what you see in it." She plays with the knot of his tie.
"In time, I should think. I did have a different face when I was there last." He says with a wink.
As the sun sinks ever deeper and afternoon gives way to evening, they prepare a simple yet elegant dinner together. The atmosphere in the kitchen is warm and intimate, the soft conversation accented by the comforting sounds of chopping vegetables and the simmering of the saucepan on the cooktop. Working side by side, they move together in a seamless dance, perfectly attuned to one another's movements.
Once dinner has come to its natural end, they retire to the sitting room, a bottle of Batard Montrachet resting between them as they sit with their backs against the arms of the couch, barefooted with legs entwined. Starling occasions to tease her toes up under his pant leg, relishing in the changes to his breathing the act elicits. The conversation flows easily. Topics of the evening range from light-hearted banter to deep to meaningful discussions about their pasts and their hopes for the future. Hannibal takes her foot in hand and massages it, repeating the process with the other. Clarice leans back, relaxed and content. Gazing at Hannibal with a mixture of love and curiosity, she asks, "Do you ever think about what it would be like if we had met under different circumstances?"
He chuckles softly, admiring the column of her exposed throat. "I have often wondered about that. But I'm of the mind that our paths were meant to cross precisely as they did. We're stronger for each of our trials and tribulations." Holding her foot with one hand, he runs the other up her calf, gently kneading. "You've come to know every part of me and have chosen to love me in spite of it."
She lifts her head and nods her understanding. "You're right. I wouldn't change a thing." She smiles warmly, unbridled adoration clearly painting her features. "And I don't love you in spite of those things, H. I love you because of them."
Hannibal reaches out to caress her cheek, his touch sending shivers down her spine. "Thank you, Clarice. Thank you. Our journey has made us who we are. You've no idea how grateful I am for that. For you."
"I think I have an idea." Clarice leans in, resting her head on his shoulder, his hand on her thigh. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the soft glow of the fireplace casting a warm light over them. Eventually, she murmurs, "I'm glad we talked."
"As am I," he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "And remember, my love, no matter what the future holds, we will face it together."
As the evening fades ever further into twilit and bistered hues, they find themselves back in the master suite, their connection stronger than ever. The worries that had weighed heavily on Clarice's mind are now eased and replaced by a sense of hope and determination. Together, they will not only survive but build a life together, one filled with love, passion, and the promise of endless possibilities.