It had started happening almost immediately after the chaotic events in Memphis transpired. That single touch—the electricity that crackled between them as their fingertips met ever so briefly—the look in his eyes—what was that look, exactly? A mixture of unbridled admiration and respect and something else she couldn't quite place. If she had been forced to put a name to it, she might call it affection, or perhaps even... no, best not to go there.
She had been unable to keep these thoughts from her clouded mind for more than a day at a time—more than a few hours at a time, really, if she were being honest with herself. That had been just over two years ago, and she wondered somewhat forlornly if they would ever subside. In reality, her only respite from this torment was when sleep claimed her, and more often than not, he deigned to visit her in her dreams in some form or another. Of course he would, she thought. I let him get inside my head, and now he's claimed squatter's rights. She nearly laughed out loud at the thought of Hannibal Lecter in all his finery and elegance, squatting in the corner of her mind, eating beans or something equally distasteful directly from a can. She could hear his droll response chiding her—really, Clarice, me a squatter? How utterly pedestrian.
I won't call on you, he'd said, and in spite of herself, Clarice repeatedly found herself hoping that he would, wishing he weren't so true to his word just this once—a bit less of a gentleman, as it were.
It was on one altogether typical spring morning that she sat at her kitchen table idly pushing around the oatmeal in her bowl with a spoon that everything would change. "Dammit, Doctor, where the hell are you?" She huffed with a sigh to no one but herself and the near-bare kitchen walls of the duplex that confined her. She pushed the oatmeal away from her with a grimace and stood up.
Just then, Ardelia walked into the kitchen, eyeing Starling warily as she walked to the refrigerator. "You good, girl? That oatmeal say something to you?"
Starling feigned a small laugh. "I'm fine, Dee, but I really gotta start eating better." I could see to that, you know. I'm quite skilled in the culinary arts... among other things. Came a voice from inside her head, promptly causing her to shake it as though she could banish the voice altogether in so doing. She stood there staring at the offensive bowl of mush for a few seconds more before Delia asked her again if she was feeling all right. She assured her she was but that she needed to get to the office. Clarice quickly headed out the door, leaving Delia ever so slightly bemused. "Musta been some oatmeal," she muttered as the front screen door slammed shut.
As she made her way to Pennsylvania Ave and her stagnating career at the bureau, Clarice felt her pulse pounding in her temples and a rumbling in her stomach, and so decided to stop at a charming little pâtisserie on Wisconsin Avenue known as Boulangerie Christophe. She'd heard some of her colleagues raving about their scones, and apparently, the beans they used in their house brew were to die for. It also looked to Clarice like the sort of place Hannibal—no, Doctor Lecter might enter—might have to twist his arm, but—dammit, Starling, enough of this already. She silently chastised herself as she entered the bakery and perused the menu.
Unbeknownst to her, the all-consuming object of her maunderings had, in fact, entered that selfsame establishment moments after her and was now surreptitiously surveilling her from behind a copy of the Washington Post. He kept his gaze on the paper all while keeping her in his periphery. She stood off to the side of the counter as she waited for her order, glancing around at her surroundings, eyes briefly floating over the space he occupied in the far corner. Had she noticed him? Had he wanted her to?
Starling felt her heart catch in her throat. She felt the odd sensation of being watched as she stood waiting for her blueberry scone and Americano, but thought perhaps she was just being overly paranoid. That is until she caught a glimpse of the sleek, well-dressed man reading the paper in the corner. He was a little too put together for a place like this, she considered, and there was just something about him that got her hackles up. Could it really be...? She suddenly felt flushed and her palms went clammy as she grabbed her food and thanked the cashier. What should I do? She mused. I should make sure it's him first—if it is him. She took a steadying breath and turned toward the seating area of the pâtisserie, finding an available seat at a table adjacent to the mysterious, well-tailored gentleman in the corner.
As she set her items down and then herself, Hannibal adjusted slightly in his seat so the paper obscured most of his countenance, but not so much that he couldn't still see her if he chose to throw a sidelong glimpse. He could smell the intoxicating mixture of L'air du temps and adrenaline wafting from her direction. Pointedly, he inhaled a little more deeply as she took her chair and unwrapped her scone. Over the brim of her coffee cup, Clarice stole a quick but intentional glance at her neighbor. He had the same slick black hair and professorial posture as the doctor; that much was evident, and she had to admit that whatever cologne he was wearing was not unpleasant—not in the least—-but could she be sure it was him?
As if reading her mind, and without moving the paper even a millimeter, Hannibal cleared his throat and said, "You know you should really try the espresso here. It's Neapolitan."
At the sound of his familiar timbre, Starling felt a wave of heat flash through her. Whether it was due to anxiety, excitement, or something else, she couldn't be sure. But one thing she knew with unequivocal certainty was that fear had no part in it. Just then, Hannibal lowered the paper and looked at her with bespectacled maroon eyes, and in the relative quiet of the cafe they both heard her take her next breath.
"I like the glasses," she said, not quite knowing why that was the only thing she could think of to say. "They suit you."
His lips curled up in a half smile as his dark eyes held her whole. "Hello, Clarice."
"Hi, Dr Lecter."
One night, lying in bed as sleep evades her, Clarice thinks back to that beautiful, fateful day at Boulangerie Christophe, a smile painting her lips. She'd wished him to call upon her, and as was his nature, he had obliged her. Lost in her reverie, ahe almost doesn't hear the faint tapping on her bedroom window. It had been rather blustery all day, she reasons, thinking nothing of it. Probably just a tree branch. As it grows louder and more insistent, though, she rises from the bed and goes to the window, drawing the curtain. Much to her surprise, she finds a strange man standing outside her window wearing dark jeans, a Baltimore Ravens cap pulled low across his face, and a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood up.
She frantically opens the window. "Shithouse mouse, H! What are you doing?!"
"Hi, my darling," he whispers, grinning widely.
She is suddenly concerned by this errant, unusual behavior. During the course of their covert affair he has never showed up unannounced, in the middle of the night like this, and she is at once consumed with worry. But what's with that shit-eating grin? Her mouth seems to move faster than her brain as she asks him a series of rapid-fire questions. "Why are you here? Did somethin' happen? What's wrong?"
"Nothing happened," he assuages her fears with a wave of his hand. "I just…missed you. I was quite overcome with the desire to see you. Is that all right?"
She sighs in relief, her wits coming back to her. "Oh, thank god."
"I'd just as soon leave him out of this, if you don't mind. May I come in…?"
"Oh! Yes, yeah. Get in here before anyone sees you." She steps back from the window to afford him space to enter. He hoists himself onto the HVAC system and begins climbing through the windowpane.
"You look like a burglar dressed like that. Hopefully no one saw you." She remarks, glancing out the window behind him, halfheartedly surveilling the neighboring structures before closing the window and pulling shut the drapes.
"Better a burglar than a notorious cannibalistic serial murderer.'" He responds, deftly slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her. "Good evening, my love."
"Fair point." She giggles through her nose. "Hi, H." They stand, smiling at each other for a moment like lovestruck teenagers. She reaches up to lower his hood and removes his hat, realizing the emblem on the sweatshirt for the first time as he drops his arms from her waist. "Really, Hannibal?" She gestures at his shirt incredulously.
"What?" He feigns ignorance.
"An FBI hoodie? That's a little on the nose even for you, is it not?" She crosses her arms, but her eyes glitter with mirth, belying any genuine annoyance with him. "Where did you even get that?"
"What, this old thing?" He flashes a row of small white teeth at her, employing his trademark West Virginian accent. "They sell them on every street corner in your beloved capital, dear. Twenty big ones, as you Americans like to say."
Starling can't help but smile, loving his twisted sense of humor and delighting at his use of common American colloquialisms. She uncrosses her arms and reaches for the hem of the sweatshirt. "Well, take it off. I certainly don't need the FBI in bed with me, too."
It is his turn to grin. "As you wish, special agent Starling." He starts to remove the hoodie, but stops short. "I almost forgot—I've brought you something." He reaches into the sweatshirt pocket, procuring a pack of bright pink cellophane-wrapped snoballs and hands them to her.
"Aww, H..." She takes the proffered treat. "I know how difficult it must've been for you to buy these." She laughs. "Thank you."
"Anything for you, my dearest, darling girl." He kisses her chastely before quickly tossing aside his sweatshirt, boots, and jeans, leaving him in a pair of boxer briefs and a brand-new T-shirt with the FBI logo emblazoned across the left breast.
Starling sighs exasperatedly at the realization, but the smile never leaves his face. "What, did you go on a shopping spree?" She inquires sarcastically as she pulls back the duvet.
"I merely wanted to show my support for all you and your fellow comrades do for this great nation."
She rolls her eyes as she places the snoballs on the nightstand. "You're incorrigible, you know that? If you really wanted to show your support you'd turn yourself in," she utters as they crawl into bed together.
"Ah, there is a limit to my support, I'm afraid." He teases back," And something tells me you prefer me unincarcerated." He winks at her flirtatiously, and as they lie on their sides facing one another, he tucks her hair behind her ear and gently strokes her soft auburn waves.
"So, you missed me, huh?"
"Mhm." He smiles. "Terribly. You've quite entrammeled me, you know."
"I missed you, too." A beat, and all that is heard in the quiet room is their steady breathing and the occasional rustling of the trees outside in the cool spring breeze. Starling closes her eyes, reveling in her companion's gentle touch. She breathes in deeply through her nose and exhales, "I love you."
"I know."
Another beat, just then. Starling opens her eyes, gazes into his. "Did you just Solo me?"
He knits his brow, attempting to decipher her meaning. "If I did, it was unintentional. What does it mean— to solo someone?"
Starling grins at his non-understanding. "Han Solo. From Star Wars?" He only stares back at her with the same lost expression. "Never mind, babe. We'll get you caught up someday. Maybe this weekend." She pats his chest reassuringly.
"I can hardly wait." He remarks drily as he shifts to his back, pulling her with him so she's lying with her head on his shoulder and chest.
They lie entwined for a few moments, enjoying the comfortable quiet. He strokes a thumb along her bare bicep. "I love you, as well, Clarice. I apologize for solo-ing you a moment ago." He plants a kiss to the top of her head, feels her chuckle lightly.
"It's okay, H. I know." She looks up at him, squeezes his hip where her left hand is resting. "I'm glad you came over tonight."
"Hmm… me too, darling, me too. Even if it is you who are now solo-ing me." He nuzzles into the hollow of her throat, kissing and suckling gently, causing her to flush and whisper his name, perched upon a sigh. He takes it as a sign of encouragement, placing kisses along her collarbones and kneading the skin of her hips and thighs.
She stills his hands with her own and clears her throat. "Hey—no funny business tonight. Delia's home."
"Hmm. Can't risk it? I promise to be very quiet." He teases, placing a kiss on her nose.
"Much as I'd like to—" she cracks a smile, runs a hand through his slick black hair, "I just can't trust myself with you."
He smiles, allows his lashes to fall to a position of repose, relishing in her sweet, soft touch. "Thank you."
They lapse, limbs entwined, into a comfortable silence before he speaks again, "Shall I still be expecting you next weekend, or has my unexpected visit thrown everything into disarray?"
She ponders the loaded meaning of his question before responding, "I wouldn't miss it for the world." And then after a beat, "Or, you know, you're already here…you could just stay?" She looks up at him, eyes heavy with sleep.
"And what of Ms Mapp? Were you planning to stow me away in your closet or under your bed all weekend?"
"Not unless you want me to. Delia's leaving tomorrow after work, some last-minute family thing, I guess."
"Ahh, an intriguing development, indeed. How could I possibly resist?" She snuggles in closer, and he tightens his grip around her.
"Good. Now that's settled," she yawns, "I need to get some sleep. Gotta rest up. Big weekend ahead of us."
"Of course, darling."
Before long, she is asleep, and he holds her for a while, listening to the steady in and out of her lungs and the cadence of her heartbeat. Before dozing off himself, Hannibal contemplates the present—asking himself how wide it is, how deep it is, how much is his to keep. No—how much is theirs to keep. Of course, he has no way of knowing, but one thing is blindingly obvious to him. Here and now, in this moment encased in amber, he is critically entangled—both physically and otherwise. It's as though Love has wrapped his heart in butcher paper, tied it tightly with twine, and delivered it directly to this most munificent woman lying in his arms.
And what's more, he wouldn't disentangle himself for anything. No, not even if Stephen Hawking himself were to appear and tell him of a surefire way of reversing entropy. No, not even that. It was his blessed entropy that brought him here, after all.
After a few moments more, he finds himself drawing closer to somnolence's gentle embrace. Better rest up, he thinks. It seems I've a big weekend ahead of me.