The Midnight Sun
Part I
Buenos Aires, Argentina, some years later...
The morning finds our lovely couple lingering over a simple breakfast of tea, bread, and an assortment of fine cheeses and jams. It is an altogether typical Argentinian spread. They are seated at the small, round table on the terrace which extends from the top floor of the mansion, from their private quarters where the servants never enter before twelve noon. A light zephyr occasions to stir the warm spring air. He reads the day's newspaper, pretending not to notice as she eyes him over the top of her cup, her elbows resting on the tabletop. He turns the page, the beginning of a smile threatening to appear. She sets the cup down and leans back in her chair, shifting her gaze out across the cityscape beyond.
"I can hear you thinking." He says without looking up from his paper, though a smile does indeed paint his lips. She looks back to him again. Smartass. She thinks to herself. But a handsome one, at that. She smirks.
"Yeah? If you're so perceptive, what do you suppose I'm thinkin' about?"
He folds the paper and sets it down, not having finished a sentence in the last several minutes, anyway. "Contrary to what you may believe, my dear, I cannot read minds." He also reclines in his chair, places one foot atop the opposite knee.
"Oh, I don't know, I've seen you give a fair impersonation of it."
"It is true, some people are easier to read than others. But with you, my dear," he inclines his head to one side, "wonders never cease. So, peso for your thoughts?"
"Pretty sure I started chargin' more for those." She teases.
"Whatever the cost, I shall pay it enthusiastically." His eyes glitter with the delivery of the last word and she feels a flush rise in her chest. He notices, of course. He notices everything. My, it is still so easy to fluster her, he thinks.
She shakes her head lightly as if to expel from her mind any impertinent thoughts and clears her throat. Nice try. "We can negotiate price later. I was just thinkin'...we haven't got anything planned for the day, right? And no events or dinner parties for a few nights?" The Doctor shakes his head, silently encouraging her to carry on. She pauses for a moment, considering her words before continuing. Why did she feel nervous all of a sudden? Out with it, Starling. He's your common law husband, for Christ's sake. It's not like he's not gonna judge you for it. "H, do you think we could buy a TV?" There, she had said it. She had asked for a television, the lowliest, most pedestrian form of entertainment available. A nearly imperceptible shift in her seat. Nearly.
His head lolls to the other side, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek, amused. Embarrassed, Clarice? This could be fun. "A television? What ever for, my dear? Have my attentions not been sufficiently diverting for you?" His tone is light, gently teasing. "Have I become a dull old curmudgeonly thing and left you to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?"
She recognizes the mirth in his tone belying any real notion of self-flagellation, but rushes to clarify all the same. "No, no it's not that, H. Never that." She reaches across the table for his hand. He offers it gladly, stroking his thumb across the back of her hand. They savor a moment of shared eye contact before she speaks again. "I just figured for days like today it'd be nice to curl up and watch a movie together or something." And after another moment. "And besides, I never did get to see how Dallas ended." She raises an eyebrow at him as if to suggest that it is his fault alone.
He chuckles then and nods his head in an invitation for her to join him. She acquiesces and lowers herself onto his lap. His hands wrap around her waist, finding purchase on her left hip. Hers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. "Well, my dear," he replies "had I known, I'd never have deprived you so long." A kiss on her jawline. Mine.
"Uh-huh, I bet you wouldn't." A stroke of the thumb.
"Shall we go after breakfast?" A nip at the earlobe.
"We shall." A fluttering of the eyelids. "But first, take me to bed, H."
He does.
It is several hours later and the evening finds our couple in the den, on the sofa. He lies reclined against the couch back, legs outstretched on the ottoman, arms encircling her. She lies back against him, head on his chest. In front of them a television flickers black and white and varying shades of grey as Rod Serling introduces the plight of an unfortunate cast of characters in an episode of The Twilight Zone. It is one she recalls from early childhood. Her father had let her stay up past bedtime to catch an old rerun. Funny, she should have stumbled upon it purely by accident earlier while flipping through the seemingly endless lineup of channels of their brand new cable subscription. How Hannibal. Of course he would spring for the most expensive television set Sony had to offer, surround sound, and a premium cable package (including all the movie channels) on top of that.
He had encountered slight difficulty, however, when faced with the assembly of it all. Though he was loath to admit it-as would be any true renaissance man, he reasoned- electronics had never been his strongest suit. But how hard could it be? Surely he would figure it out in the process. That was all fine in theory, slightly different in practice. For his Starling, this rare display of ineptitude had provided a great source of amusement. She did not relish in his failure, but could not deny her amusement at seeing the ease with which he was able to tackle countless other tasks falter before him, his brow knit together in consternation as he stood staring at the remote held in one hand and the extra cable in the other. Yes, this was a sight she would commit to her memory palace. Give it here, old timer. She had said, taking the items from him with a smirk. She had made easy work of it. He was glad of it. He was glad of her.
Now as they lie curled together before the screen he peppers the top of her head with featherlight kisses. Occasionally he drops a kiss to her temple, hums. He breathes in the scent of her shampoo. Almond. Lavender. Lovely. So very lovely. She traces slow, languorous lines up and down the length of his forearm.
"I keep getting this crazy thought-" comes the woman's voice from the television.
"this crazy thought that I'm going to wake up and none of this will have happened. I'll wake up in a cool bed, it'll be night outside and there'll be a wind, branches rustling, shadows on the sidewalk, a moon..."
Well, that was a little on the nose. Starling momentarily, ever so subtly, tightens her grip on Hannibal's arm before continuing her gentle ministrations. She lets out a sigh, reveling in their closeness. It's not a dream. He's here. We're together.
His gaze flicks down to her fingers and he swears he can hear her thoughts again. If he's correct, then they are his thoughts, as well. He has never seen The Twilight Zone despite having been in the United States and of prime viewership age at the time of its original run. He would have been, he supposes, otherwise engaged at the time—practicing medicine, exacting revenge, making some nameless woman's fur crackle? It is of no consequence, as it all pales to this moment. It is evident to him, however, that his companion is no stranger to the program. He feels his curiosity piquing. Despite the dire circumstances playing out on the screen before them she wears the faintest of smiles-almost whimsical.
"I never argue with a lady with a gun." A man's voice from the screen this time.
"I don't think I can say as much for you." his Starling, laughter in her voice.
"Never during any of our meetings were you armed, Clarice." he responds in kind, and after a moment's pause, "Or were you, hmm?"
"A lady never tells." He squeezes her gingerly.
"Please forgive me, would you? I'm just off my rocker." The man's voice again.
Yeah, that was definitely on the nose.
Ahh, she must be trying to tell me something.
They finish the remainder of the episode in relative quiet, save for the occasional snigger or yawn. The night has grown dark and the clock now reads half midnight. As the credits begin to roll she sighs again and shifts against him.
"What is it, my little Starling?"
"You mean aside from the fact that you're wearing sweatpants right now? When I didn't know you even owned a pair?"
Ah, he has been wondering when she would bring up his current state of dress.
"I believe the saleswoman used the term athleisure in describing them, and yes, aside from my choice of trousers."
She turns her head and fixes him with a look of feigned incredulity. "Semantics, H."
"I've heard it both ways. Now, you were saying…"
His Starling shuffles so her side is flush against his chest, head resting upon his shoulder. He pulls the blanket up over them, creating a sort of quilted cocoon. How appropriate, he thinks, as they continue to molt and change together, year after year. He finds himself wondering what will hatch forth next.
"I was just thinkin' about how my daddy and I would watch Twilight Zone after dinner sometimes. An' how funny it is that I should be here, with you, watching it again. That same last episode..." She is quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by the sounds of their breathing and the faint drone of the television in the background. Her drawl is thick with fatigue when she speaks again, and oh, how he's come to adore the cadence of it. "After everything that's happened. It's just funny how things work themselves out sometimes, you know?"
He hums, strokes a hand placidly through her wavy blonde locks. "Perhaps we should not leave it up to mere fortuity. Perhaps we were always supposed to meet each other here and share this moment."
"Some of our stars are the same?" She rubs the tip of her nose against the barely-there stubble of his jawline.
"Hmm. And I used them to find you."
"I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a heathen." She whispers against his skin sleepily. "Take me to bed, H."
As always, he does. Cocoon and all.