The dawn seeps in around the curtain edges of the cottage bedroom where Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling lie sleeping soundly, casting a warm glow over their entwined figures. The morning is tranquil, the serene silence broken only by the distant call of seabirds and the gentle crashing of waves on the shore.
Hannibal lies behind Clarice, his arm draped possessively over her waist, their bodies nestled together as if made for one another. She stirs slightly, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, a mischievous smile almost immediately playing at her lips. She begins to rub her backside gently against his groin, eliciting a low, appreciative groan from him.
"Good morning, my love," Hannibal murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, though certainly not free from desire. He tightens his hold on her, left hand sliding over the smooth curve of her hip as he presses himself closer, his arousal growing quickly. His lips find her neck, placing soft kisses along delicate skin, moving down to her shoulder blade, raising delightful goosebumps on her flesh.
"Mornin', H," Clarice replies, her voice teasing and breathy. She tilts her head back, giving him better access as his kisses grow more insistent. "Sleep well?"
"Exceedingly well, my little vixen," he responds, his breath hot against her ear. "Though I must admit, waking up next to you is infinitely more pleasurable." His hands continue their journey over the landscape of her body, tracing the contours with a reverent touch and igniting a trail of warmth wherever he lingers.
Clarice giggles softly, a playful edge to her voice. "Is that so? Perhaps I should wake you up like this more often."
Hannibal's laughter is a low rumble, filled with dark promise. "Oh, Clarice, you are a dangerous woman," he whispers, his hand slipping between her thighs, fingers exploring her with expert precision. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."
Their banter gradually fades into a harmonious blend of breathless gasps and impassioned moans as they once again become deeply entrenched in one another, their bodies moving as though performing an exquisite, time-honoured dance. The intensity of their connection, both physical and emotional, envelops them, allowing for nothing but the shared euphoria of the moment.
Afterward, bodies glisten with the sheen of exertion as they slowly come down from their shared high. Hannibal kisses her shoulder delicately, a gesture filled with deep affection and unspoken devotion.
"We should get up and have some breakfast," Clarice suggests, her voice lazy with contentment. "I'm suddenly feeling rather peckish."
Hannibal chuckles softly, grazing his fingers down her arm. "Certainly. How about something a bit lighter this morning? Perhaps some freshly baked croissants alongside an assortment of fresh fruits? And a drizzle of honey, of course, for my honey."
"Hmm...sounds perfect, babe," she agrees, a smile in her voice, stretching languidly before reluctantly pulling away from the comfort of his embrace. They rise and dress leisurely, Clarice slipping into a pair of Hannibal's boxers—a sight that nearly make him come undone, conceding they look far better on her than they ever have him—and a loose, oversized T-shirt, while Hannibal dons a pair of comfortable linen pants and a blush pink, short-sleeve button-down, the top two buttons left undone for a casual yet altogether dapper look.
Before they head into the kitchen, they share a dallying kiss. Clarice affectionately fusses with the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down with a sweet, loving smile. Hannibal's hands rest on her hips, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles under the hem of her shirt, the scene comfortably, naturally domestic.
In the spacious, sunlit kitchen, Hannibal moves with his usual fluidity and grace, preparing their breakfast with ease, slicing ripe strawberries, arranging plump, luscious blueberries on a plate, and warming the croissants to a perfect golden brown. Clarice sits at the island, watching him with a soft smile as he pours them each a cup of rich, aromatic coffee.
"You're truly a master of your craft, H. A real Julia Child," she teases, accepting her coffee with a grateful nod.
"Just the aesthetic I was going for. Thank you, my dear," he replies with a smile and a wink, loading the tray with their breakfast and carrying it outside to the silvery and sun-kissed deck. They nestle into the sofa, the morning sun casting a halcyon glow over the landscape.
Clarice's gaze drifts out to the row of kayaks lined up by the waterfront, her cerulean eyes shining incandescently with sunshine and, perhaps, a dash of mischief. "How much coaxing would it require to get you to go kayaking with me, H?"
Hannibal arches an eyebrow, a subtle, wry smile threatening to appear on his lips. "I've never had the pleasure." He looks to the small, plastic vessels on the shore. "But for you, my darling girl, I would paddle across the Pacific Ocean if you asked it of me."
She laughs, a melodious sound floating through the crisp morning air. "That's sweet, babe. But let's start with the bay, shall we?" Resting a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently, "But I have to ask—do you even own swim trunks?"
"Indeed I do," he replies with a charming grin. "I always come prepared for any occasion." He sets his coffee on the table, paces his arm on the back of the sofa, tickling her shoulder with his fingertips, "Babe."
Once they have finished their light morning repast, they head inside to change into their swimwear and gear up for their jaunt around the bay.
For a moment, Hannibal simply watches her as she ties the neck of her simple, yet sophisticated emerald green bikini top, the sight almost too exquisite for him to bear. "You know, Clarice," he says, his voice rich with admiration, "you look like a vision of Cleopatra, Venus, and Helen of Troy combined."
She blushes and laughs softly. "You say that about everything I wear."
"And I mean it every time," he replies, a twinkle in his eye. "If I saw you everyday forever, I'd remember this time."
"Thank you, Hannibal," she says, brushing off the compliment but clearly flattered.
She watches him slip into his red and black mid-thigh swim shorts, commenting with a note of approbation, "You know, those trunks remind me of the ones Cary Grant wears in 'To Catch a Thief.' And I must say, they look even better on you. Not an easy feat." She reaches out and squeezes him on his backside.
Hannibal's eyes twinkle with delight. "Ah, an astute observation. Cary Grant, or rather, Archibald Leach, had exceptional style. I've taken some sartorial guidance from him throughout the years, to be sure." Leaning in and planting a chaste yet tender kiss on her lips, he adds, "And you, Clarice, are my Princess of Monaco."
They grab a pair of brightly-coloured beach towels and head down to the waterfront, spreading them on the sand in preparation for their eventual return. As they paddle out into open water, their customary repartee flows as naturally as the current. Clarice slyly bumps into Hannibal's kayak with her own. He pushes her away with an outstretched hand, causing her to playfully strike the side of his kayak with her oar. He attempts to retaliate in kind, but in his exuberance, loses his balance and tips gracelessly into the water in a rarely displayed lack of coordination.
Clarice's laughter rings out, pure and joyous, a sight not often seen. "Serves you right!"
Hannibal resurfaces, shaking his head vigorously. Water flies from his hair as a wicked grin spreads across his face. "Oh, you find this amusing, do you?" Before she has a chance to respond, he lunges toward her with a swift, calculated motion, tipping her kayak. She screams out his name as she flails into the water beside him, his booming laughter the last thing she hears before sinking beneath the surface.
A spirited water fight ensues, each splash and teasing taunt echoing their shared joy across the bay. Water droplets glisten in the sunlight as they leap and swirl around each other, their laughter blending harmoniously with the lapping waves. Hannibal's hands glide over Clarice's wet skin, fingers teasing at the tie of her bikini top. Their lighthearted wrestling soon transforms into a fervid embrace of plentiful kisses and caresses. Their bodies move fluidly in the water, a symphony of synchronised motions sparked by the electrifying connection crackling between them.
As the intensity of their desire crescendos, they momentarily part, breathless and smiling, faces flushed with excitement. "We should head back," Clarice whispers, her voice thick with anticipation and longing.
"Agreed," Hannibal murmurs, sunlight pinwheeling in his dark, hungry irises.
They pull their kayaks back to shore, hauling them onto the sand, droplets of water trailing in their wake. They towel off, their movements deliberate and charged with intent. Standing close, they lock eyes, a mutual understanding and raw need passing silently between them. Clarice smooths Hannibal's dishevelled hair, her fingers scratching his scalp and massaging lightly, eliciting a contented sigh from him as he wraps a possessive arm around her waist and presses his growing hardness against her.
The heat seeps through the fabric of their towels as they lay them on the sun-baked sand. They come together in a fervent embrace, their need for each other too overwhelming to wait, bodies pressing together with animalistic urgency. The rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore becomes a backdrop to their passionate union, each swell and retreat mirroring the rise and fall of their desire.
Breathless and spent, they lie entwined on the beach, the aftermath of their stolen moment of bliss leaving them covered in fine grains of sand. Hannibal, glancing down at their heavily-sedimented state, raises an eyebrow with a feigned displeasure. "My dear Clarice, that was an unforgettable introduction to kayaking, but I find this sand utterly intolerable."
Clarice laughs, brushing a few grains from his chest, her voice a soft, delighted murmur. "Yeah, I have sand in places I never even knew existed."
They rise, still holding onto each other, make their way to the outdoor shower mounted on the side of the cottage. The cool water cascades over them, washing away the remnants of sand and salt. Hannibal's fingers trace patterns on her back as he gently rinses her off, his touch both tender and thorough. In turn, she runs her hands through his hair, ensuring every last grain of sand is gone. Once they are clean, they head inside for a proper shower, the warm water a soothing balm on their skin. They take their time, finding no need to rush this all too rare moment of shared intimacy, letting the steam create about them a cocoon of warmth and comfort.
Afterwards, Hannibal decides to put the barbecue to use. He drapes an apron around his neck, ties it around his trim waist and heads outside to the grill. The smell of steak and fresh vegetables soon fills the air, joining with the salt of the sea breeze. Clarice watches him as he tends the grill, a quaint smile upon her timeless countenance. As she sets the table on the patio of their private oasis for the time being, she calls out to him, voice light and diaphanous.
"Hey, H?"
"Yes, Clarice?" He looks up momentarily from his task, meeting her eyes.
She smiles, stating simply, sweetly, "I love you."
"I adore you, Clarice Starling," he responds, feeling his heart overflow with an affection he scarcely can put words to.
The afternoon stretches languidly as they enjoy their meal, the steak cooked to perfection, the vegetables crisp and flavorful. Hannibal's culinary expertise shines, and Clarice savours every bite, the food a testament to his meticulous care and skill in all things.
After lunch, they recline against chaise longue chairs, sipping on an astronomically-priced chilled white, the conversation easy. Hannibal's anecdotes are laced with sharp wit and a wily charm, Clarice's melodic laughter providing a perfect counterpoint. They talk of everything and nothing, the hours, as ever, slipping by unnoticed in the comfort of each other's company.
As the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in muted pastels of orange and pink, they remain outside, the coolness of the evening wrapping around them. Clarice pulls Hannibal onto her chaise with a tug on his hand and a sweet smile on her lips. His arms lazily encircle her waist, resting his head on her lap as she plays with his hair. He kisses her stomach, asks her to share with him a story.
"What do you want to hear?" she asks softly, her voice a melodic cadence in the quiet evening.
"Anything will suffice," he murmurs, voice slightly muffled against the fabric of her shirt. "I just want to listen to the sweet symphony of your voice."
Clarice senses the weight behind his request, the unspoken acknowledgment of their uncertain future together. She understands that this simple luxury of storytelling may soon become one of the past, and the thought brings with it the wisps of a subtle melancholy.
"Alright," she begins, skating a hand across the breadth of his shoulders, her tone carrying with it the whispers of nostalgia. "I musta been about eight or nine; my brother Tommy and I were outside roughhousing. He was two years older than me and thought he was invincible. Well, on this particular day, we got into a wrestling match in the backyard."
Her voice gains momentum as she recalls the scene, vividly painting the picture. "Tommy was teasing me, calling me a wimp and whatnot, so I decided I was gonna prove him wrong. I tackled him, thinking I could just pin him down like the wrestlers on TV, y'know? But," she pauses, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips, "I put a little too much oomph into it, and next thing I knew, he yelped and started crying."
Hannibal's eyebrows arch in curiosity. "What did you do to poor little Tommy, Clarice?"
"I sorta broke his arm," she admits, a mixture of guilt and pride in her voice. "My mom was furious. She yelled at me for being reckless and not thinking--and accruing such a large hospital bill. But," her eyes soften, "my daddy, he took me aside later that evening. He was stern, but he told me he was proud of my toughness, that I wasn't afraid to stand up for myself."
Clarice's gaze drifts off momentarily, lost in the memory of her father's quiet pride. "It was the first time he'd ever said something like that to me. I'd always just been his sweet little girl. But that made me feel like maybe being strong wasn't such a bad thing."
Hannibal listens attentively, his fingers gently tracing circles on her knee. "Your father had no idea how right he would turn out to be," he remarks softly. "You're quite a fearsome thing to behold."
"Yeah," Clarice agrees, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "He certainly had his moments of clarity."
They sit in silence for a moment, the fading light casting long shadows around them. Clarice's heart smarts with a bittersweet pang, contemplating the fleeting nature of these moments with Hannibal. Yet, in his steady presence, she finds comfort and a sense of belonging that she holds dearly to her breast.
After a brief pause, she playfully nudges him and urges, "Your turn. Tell me a memory from your childhood."
Hannibal's thoughts drift back to a cherished recollection from his childhood in Lithuania. "Hmm..." he begins, voice low, soothing, "when I was a boy at Lecter Castle, my mother possessed an extraordinary talent for cultivating roses."
Clarice looks down at his relaxed form resting on her lap with an expression of genuine curiosity and warmth, silently encouraging him to share.
"In a small garden just outside our quarters, she nurtured a variety of blooms," Hannibal reminisces, his voice edged with a vague wistfulness. "But her favourites were undoubtedly the deep crimson roses that climbed the trellises near our windows."
He pauses thoughtfully as if transported back to that distant time. "Every evening, just before dusk, she would gather a few of those roses—velvety petals almost soft as silk, still warm from the day's sun—and bring them inside. The scent would fill our home with a fragrance that lingered long after the blooms had withered. It made the entire home feel alive with her presence. Even now, it is a scent I associate with her."
Clarice listens intently, captivated by the glimpse into Hannibal's past, her fingers continuing their gentle caress through his hair.
"I remember watching her," he continues softly, "carefully arranging them in a crystal vase. For her, those roses were more than mere flowers; they were symbols of beauty and resilience, reminders of the life we had amidst the uncertainty of those times."
He meets Clarice's gaze, his eyes reflecting the moonlight with a subdued intensity. "I would often sit with her in the evenings," he continues, "listening to her stories about the roses—how each bloom held a story of its own, its journey from bud to blossom mirroring the seasons of our lives."
Clarice's heart swells with tenderness for young Hannibal, drawn into his world of fragrant gardens and maternal love. She imagines him as a little boy, eyes wide with wonder, soaking in the wisdom of his mother, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of fresh-cut roses.
"She sounds like she was a remarkable woman," Clarice murmurs softly, her voice filled with empathy.
Hannibal nods, his gaze drifting toward the star-filled firmament. "She was indeed...truly remarkable," he agrees, a trace of long-buried sorrow shadowing his features. "Those roses... they were her way of teaching me to appreciate beauty in all its forms, even amidst the darkness."
His hand finds Clarice's, squeezing gently as if seeking solace in the physical touch, and she responds by intertwining their fingers, offering her silent support.
As they lie together in the peaceful embrace of the night, the scent of roses seems to linger in the air. Lost in their own thoughts but connected by shared memories, they find comfort and strength in the familiar stillness of the moment. The journey of the roses from bud to blossom mirrors their own resilience, their ability to overcome challenges and thrive in the face of adversity; a testament to the enduring power of love and a legacy that transcends time, a fragrant reminder of the beauty that can be found even in the darkest, most uncertain of times.
Sunday morning arrives with a melancholic whisper, signalling the impending departure from their secluded haven. The time approaches when they must leave the cottage and, once again, go their separate ways. Each parting grows increasingly difficult, the uncertainty of their next meeting casting a shadow over their hearts.
They sit together on the couch, Clarice nestled in Hannibal's lap, heads resting against one another as her thumb gently strokes the nape of his neck. A faint glow of morning light illuminates their intertwined figures.
"It's about that time, Clarice," Hannibal murmurs, his voice laden with regret.
"I know," she replies faintly, though neither of them effort to move.
For a moment, they remain still, savouring the fleeting intimacy. Hannibal speaks her name again, barely a whisper, and she lifts her head, their eyes locking in a charged exchange of unvoiced emotion. Her thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip before she kisses him with fervour, their mouths conveying the depth of their feelings in a way words prove wholly insufficient.
As they reluctantly acknowledge the unavoidable truth, they initiate the sombre task of gathering their possessions. Each item is handled with a mechanical slowness, as if delaying the moment of departure might somehow prolong their time together. When the last light is turned off, they step outside, greeted by the gentle patter of rain that quickly intensifies into a heavy downpour, as if mirroring the storm of emotions within them.
As they reach her Mustang, they hastily stow Clarice's bags, the rain soaking through their clothes. Clarice looks up at him, tears welling in her eyes. Rising on tiptoes, she presses a desperate kiss to his lips. Hannibal reverently cradles her face, their kiss deepening even as the rain pours down around them.
When they finally pull away, both are drenched, and Hannibal notices the redness of her eyes, tears mingling with the raindrops on her cheeks. "I love you, Hannibal Lecter," she utters in a delicate undertone, voice trembling ever so slightly.
"I adore you, Clarice Starling," he replies, tone brimming with sincerity.
She glances at his sodden belongings sitting on the drive next to them, "H, your stuff is getting soaked."
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, a rare vulnerability in his eyes, water dripping from his hair and eyelashes. "I don't give a damn."
For a moment, they simply stand there, staring at each other, the rain a poignant backdrop to their silent farewell. Hannibal finally musters the wherewithal to open the door of her Mustang, and with visible reluctance, she slips inside. He closes the door gently, his eyes fixed on her as she starts the engine. Their eyes remain locked until the car pulls out of the driveway and disappears from view.
Hannibal stands motionless in the rain, staring out across the now empty road. When the last trace of her car has vanished, he turns to his truck, placing his wet baggage in the cab. With slow and deliberate movements, he hoists himself into the driver's seat, body seemingly weighed down by the gravity of his thoughts. As he sits there, he closes his eyes, allowing the downpour to drum a doleful rhythm on the roof. A deep sigh escapes him, carrying the heavy burden of unspoken sentiments.
As the engine hums to life, Hannibal's mind drifts to the deep, all-consuming, and wholly unexpected love he has come to share with Clarice; a love that breaches the walls he has meticulously built around himself. In spite of their profound connection, he is acutely aware that this beautiful, fragile arrangement cannot endure indefinitely. The inevitability of their impending separation haunts him like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over their fleeting moments of happiness.
The memory of her standing in the rain, tears blending with the downpour, is indelibly etched into his mind. It is a sight that wrenches his heart, but he is aware that it is merely a harbinger of the greater heartbreak that awaits them. The thought of leaving her turns a knife in his heart, the pain sharp and unyielding--a constant reminder of the choices he must face.
He attempts to push these thoughts away, to cling to the lingering warmth of her kiss, the comforting feel of her embrace, the tender sound of her voice and that quaint southern drawl he has come to adore. For now, he resolves to cherish the memory of her touch and the transient moments of happiness they are granted, however brief and infrequent they may be. He understands that soon, all too soon, he will have to confront the dolorous reality of their situation. But for a little while longer, he allows himself to bask in the illusion of permanence.
With another deep sigh, he opens his eyes and grips the steering wheel, the weight of his emotions bearing down on him. He embarks on the journey homeward, the road ahead blurred by the rain and the turmoil within his heart, each mile bringing him closer to the inevitable separation he has long been dreading.