The drive to Bedelia Du Maurier's home felt odd, but what was unfolding inside was even stranger.
The outside of the house looked unremarkable, but the interior was exquisitely pristine and almost disturbingly elegant—more like a meticulously maintained showroom than an actual home.
They were gathered around an elegant glass table in the spacious living room, sitting on a sofa so white that Clarice hesitated to lean in too much. Will didn't share her reservations. He sat in the middle, leaning comfortably against the couch, while Jack Crawford occupied the left, his face tense as he shot wary glances at Will from time to time, as if he were watching a ticking bomb.
There wasn't much she knew about the woman whose house they were in. In fact, all she knew was that her name was Bedelia Du Maurier and that she had been a psychiatrist at some point—a detail Will had mentioned in passing before the woman re-entered the room, carrying a delicate tray piled high with steaming cups of tea.
This was the extent of her knowledge. Well, that and the fact that there seemed to be some serious bad blood between her and Will.
As Dr. Du Maurier set the cups down, Will regarded her with a calculating gaze. She met his stare with equal intensity, as if they were two hawks assessing each other's weaknesses.
"Thank you, Bedelia. That's very kind," Will said, though his voice lacked sincerity. Leaning closer to Clarice, he murmured loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Don't drink that."
Dr. Du Maurier responded with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—a grimace masked as politeness. She took her seat opposite them, sitting down with a graceful elegance that seemed almost impossible considering her prosthetic leg.
Her eyes immediately focused on Will, scanning him deliberately as her eyebrow twitched with what could only be described as an unspoken challenge.
In an instant, Will's demeanour shifted; his eyes narrowed as he shot back, "Problem, Bedelia?"
"I believe it is you who faces a problem—one you don't quite know how to resolve."
"Looks like you found your solution," Will quipped, his gaze flickering pointedly to her prosthetic leg.
For the first time since their arrival, Dr. Du Maurier shifted uncomfortably. Her fingers moved in small, soothing motions over her leg as if to compose herself.
"Not all of us have as many options as you do, especially now with all the new facets you keep acquiring," she replied, speaking very slowly, very calmly, and very deliberately. Clarice felt uncomfortable just listening to her. There was something unsettling about this woman.
"I see you've constructed quite the person suit for yourself."
Will smirked. "Why this tone, Bedelia? I would think it's something you're familiar with."
"It is not as refined as your counterpart's," she replied, her words infused with just enough derision. "But adequate for the intended purpose—limited and tangled. Do you ever find time to unwrap the layers you've cloaked around your skin?"
"What about you? Did he leave you anything to wrap around?" Will snapped back, his words laced with a cruel edge that made Clarice look at him incredulously.
What was that about? She has never heard Will speak this way…
Agent Crawford, seemingly tired of the escalating tension, intervened. "Alright, let's not get sidetracked here," he said, raising a hand as if to prevent a physical confrontation. "I understand there's some history here. But let's focus on why we're actually here, shall we? Will?" he added pointedly.
Clarice blinked in confusion. What was happening? Will was getting agitated and Jack Crawford was calming him down?
"Yes, do tell me, what is the reason you decided to pay me a visit?" Dr. Du Maurier's voice flowed coolly, each word dripping with a slow, almost hypnotic elegance. Clarice couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that the doctor might be under the influence of something—perhaps medication for her leg?
"The same reason as always, I'm afraid: Hannibal Lecter," Crawford replied, scanning her face for any sign of surprise. When he found none, he pressed further. "You don't seem startled by this."
"Should I be?" Du Maurier asked, arching an elegantly sculpted eyebrow.
"Most people believed he was dead."
"I never succumbed to that naïveté."
Will huffed, an incredulous smile playing on his lips. "Oh, I think you had a few more reasons to believe he was alive than just your keen perception," he quipped.
Crawford's gaze shifted uneasily between the two of them until it landed on Du Maurier's prosthetic leg.
"What really happened to your leg, Dr. Du Maurier?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of genuine concern. "Will seems to think Hannibal made a personal visit."
Clarice's gaze dropped to the prosthetic limb, and in an instant, her heart sank. Oh no...
But Du Maurier merely flashed a cold smile, her composure unwavering. "My leg was... the price of survival, long before Hannibal ever arrived at my door."
"What does that mean?" Crawford asked.
"I hoped that by having a dinner already prepared, I might gain a touch of leniency. After all, it's only polite."
Clarice felt a wave of nausea ripple through her stomach at the implication. Crawford, however, didn't seem to share her unease as he leaned in, pressing further.
"So your leg... you did this to yourself?"
"I did it for myself. I did what was necessary to survive," Dr. Du Maurier repeated, her voice disturbingly serene.
Will exhaled sharply, "So you chose a living sacrifice? Did you have it all wrapped up—holy and pleasing to God?"
Dr. Du Maurier raised an eyebrow and met his gaze with cool calm. "A true and proper worship—one with which you have an intimate acquaintance."
Clarice noticed Will's jaw clenched tightly as he leaned in closer. "Was it accepted?" he pressed, his voice a mix of curiosity and resentment.
"I am still alive, aren't I?"
"For how long?" he snapped, his tone sharp.
"Will!" Crawford called in sharp reprimand, "Dr. Du Maurier, we do not intend to cause you any distress." He continued, "We fully understand that you are also a victim in this situation…" Will scoffed at that, and even Crawford's fierce glare didn't seem to deter him.
Crawford sighed in resignation and turned his attention back to the doctor. "However, as you are apparently aware, Hannibal Lecter remains an active threat. We need to gather all the information we can. We're hoping for a civil conversation, but should that fail…" His voice trailed off, a steely look in his eyes. "You will have to come with us for a proper interrogation."
Dr. Du Maurier studied Crawford for a long moment, her expression blank and without a hint of tension. "I have no objections to your questions, Agent Crawford. In fact, I anticipated your visit much sooner—though I suppose some were preoccupied," she said, her eyes flicking pointedly toward Will. "You must have relished your freedom, with all its blessings and curses."
Will's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Ah, but we're all condemned to be free, aren't we, Bedelia?"
Her head tilted as she scanned him from head to toe. "Reclaiming your true self must have cost you in terms of self-differentiation. It must have been thrilling to possess the key that unlocks every door," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But did you find it frustrating that, no matter how many times you wiped that key, the blood always seemed to seep back?"
"That's a bit rich, coming from someone who never bothered to clean it at all."
The corners of Dr. Du Maurier's lips curled into a shadow of a smile. "I was never handed the key."
"That didn't stop you from strolling all over the place..."
"Alright! That's enough," Crawford interjected, stepping in as Will leaned forward, anger practically radiating off him. Clarice could see the lines of frustration on Crawford's face, with red marks forming where he rubbed his temple in a futile attempt to calm himself.
Clarice darted her eyes back and forth, feeling as if she were witnessing a tennis match. She was almost certain they were discussing existentialist philosophy, but why and to what end, she had no idea. She still couldn't quite grasp who this woman was or what her history with Will—or Hannibal Lecter, for that matter—might be, especially since she apparently possessed information about how to find him. But how Will expected to extract information through metaphors and philosophical arguments was beyond her. The mention of the key felt like a reference to the tale of Bluebeard, right? Will had called her Bluebeard's ex-wife… God, she hadn't read it since high school. If only she had paid more attention back then, she might better understand their cryptic dialogue.
Crawford, too, seemed to be in the dark, his wary gaze shifting between them.
"I would appreciate it if we could all keep things civil," he began, his tone annoyed yet measured. "Let's avoid these philosophical sparring matches—whatever that was." He looked pointedly at Will. "Now, Dr. Du Maurier," he redirected his focus toward her, "when was the last time you saw Hannibal Lecter?"
Dr. Du Maurier shut her eyes momentarily, drawing a deep breath as if she were sifting through long-buried memories. Clarice found herself captivated by the subtle changes in her demeanour—the way tension knotted the muscles in her face. When she opened her eyes again, a raw vulnerability flickered across her features, even though her posture remained poised.
Something about it rubbed Clarice the wrong way. She frowned, puzzled—was this genuine emotion or merely a performance?
"It was quite some time ago—the day Francis Dolarhyde met his end, I believe. Hannibal appeared on my doorstep, not at all as I had expected. He did not come as the victorious man seeking vengeance for his misdeeds. He was injured and in dire need of medical care."
"And you helped him?"
"I did what I could, given my own circumstances," she replied, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the space where her leg used to be. "I did what was necessary to help him move forward, hoping that with this assistance, he would move far from here."
"And where exactly was he heading?" Crawford pressed, furrowing his brow.
Dr. Du Maurier shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The movement was so smooth and lacking suddenness that Clarice was almost certain it was practiced.
"That, I cannot say. Our conversations were minimal—almost nonexistent, barely more than formal exchanges."
Crawford leaned in, his voice sharp. "He didn't confide in you at all?"
"I doubt Hannibal trusts me with his thoughts anymore," she mused, casting a knowing glance toward Will. "After all, no living soul can keep a secret for long. If his lips remain sealed, he chatters with his fingertips."
Will snorted in disdain. "Well, betrayal sure as hell oozes out of your every pore…"
"That's Freud, right?" Clarice blurted out, the words escaping her before she could catch them.
Silence fell as all eyes turned to her. She realized this was the first time she had spoken since they sat down—the first time the doctor had a reason to look her way.
The chill from Dr. Du Maurier's gaze felt like ice—cold, precise, and all-seeing, as if she were peering through a microscope at Clarice's innermost thoughts. Clarice swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
"Don't be. At least they've stopped," Crawford grumbled, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "So, this is where Hannibal came to get medical help. And after that, he just left? You haven't seen or heard from him since?" He turned his suspicious gaze back to Dr. Du Maurier.
"Fortunately, that is the extent of my knowledge."
Clarice noticed Crawford shifting in his seat, the mounting tension evident in his demeanour. His eyes darted briefly to Will before returning to the doctor.
"And Hannibal… he was alone when he came here?" Crawford asked, the edge in his voice barely concealed.
Clarice could almost feel Will rolling his eyes before he actually did it.
"Don't play coy, Jack. It doesn't suit you," Will said dismissively. He pushed back from the sofa and got to his feet, seemingly eager to leave. "I'll step outside so you can interrogate her about whether I was with Hannibal or not."
"Will, there's nothing personal about—" Crawford began, trying to soothe the situation, but his words were quickly cut off.
"Don't worry, my feelings are intact," Will replied lightly. "Go ahead, satisfy your doubts. I've gotten what I needed from this meeting anyway." He shot a frosty glare at Du Maurier before delivering his parting words. "I'd wish you well, Bedelia, but I know even with one leg, you'll manage to hop through life just fine."
Du Maurier met his cold stare with one of her own.
"I wish you well too, Will. For my own sake." Her voice held an unsettling undercurrent, almost like a veiled threat.
Clarice watched with furrowed brows as Will strolled out of the room, briefly wondering if she should go after him. Something about this whole exchange left an uncomfortable knot in her stomach.
The room fell into heavy silence after the door clicked shut, leaving Crawford to clear his throat. "Well then, let's… let's return to my question," he stammered, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.
Clarice glanced at Crawford, her eyes widening. "Are you really asking…?"
"It's important to explore every avenue…"
"But you don't really believe Will…" she began, exasperated.
"Agent Starling, focus on the answers, not on my questions," he snapped, his voice sharp as he turned his attention back to Dr. Du Maurier. Now it was Clarice who almost rolled her eyes; apparently, with Will out of the room, Crawford felt free to show his short-fused temper again.
"Hannibal was alone," Du Maurier said simply, and Clarice watched as Crawford's shoulders sagged in relief.
She had to bite her lip to suppress an incredulous huff. Was he seriously considering that possibility? Didn't Will say he woke up in the hospital after the cliff incident? Surely, he hadn't been roaming around with Hannibal Lecter before that.
"And do you have any idea... what the situation is between them now?" Crawford asked, his voice awkward and hesitant, as if he didn't want to ask the question at all.
"It is... evolving," Du Maurier replied.
"Can you elaborate on that?" Crawford pressed.
"Only time will elaborate on that," Du Maurier said curtly. Crawford must have sensed the finality in her tone, as he sighed in resignation; it was clear this line of questioning was going nowhere.
"I can see we're about done here. Can I trust that everything you've told us is accurate?" Crawford asked, eventually shifting his tone back to detached professionalism.
The doctor simply nodded. "It is in my best self-interest to aid you in any way possible to keep Hannibal Lecter away from me."
Crawford furrowed his brow at her words. "You're genuinely concerned for your safety. I thought you…" He faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features as his eyes landed on her prosthetic limb. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "I thought you and Hannibal had come to some sort of understanding. After all, there was a time when you were considered his wife, Dr. Du Maurier."
Clarice felt the air leave her lungs, nearly choking on the revelation. Her eyes widened even more as she shifted her attention to Du Maurier, now seeing her in an unsettling new light. She had been Hannibal Lecter's wife?
"It was nothing more than an alias, however genuine we lived it," Du Maurier replied coolly, her facade unshaken.
Crawford shook his head in disbelief. "Still, even for a psychopath, surely Hannibal must have some fondness for you."
Du Maurier smiled, sending a chill down Clarice's spine at the sight. "Hannibal is not a psychopath, as you mistakenly believe. He is a pathological narcissist," she clarified, her tone smooth like silk but edged with ice. "He craves grandiosity and admiration; it is only in his relentless pursuit of self-interest that he lacks true empathy. One must continuously make grandiose efforts to appease his ego. I do not know how long my credit will last."
Clarice leaned in slightly, watching intently, desperately trying to find any cracks in Du Maurier's seemingly armoured composure. There was something unnervingly calm about her, as if her words were meticulously calibrated—each one striking with unyielding precision. The way she held herself, the effortless elegance in her movements—she resembled a sculpted figure, chiselled from the stone, utterly devoid of warmth.
What had Will once said about the people Hannibal Lecter found particularly intriguing? 'They remain unmoving, frozen in time, eternally aware that it's only a matter of time before they, too, become a scattered mess on the floor.'
"You are one of Dr. Lecter's masterpieces." The thought slipped from Clarice's lips before she realized what she had said.
Du Maurier's gaze snapped to her, sharp and assessing, like a hunter sizing up its prey. "I don't believe I have made your acquaintance. What is your role in Hannibal's play?"
Clarice opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Crawford stepped in. "This is Agent Starling. She's... assisting on the case. We suspect she might be Hannibal's next target," he explained.
Du Maurier's gaze sharpened further. "Which raises the question... What is your relationship with Will Graham?"
Clarice barely stopped herself from huffing in exasperation. Why was everyone asking her that?
Fortunately, she found it easier to respond this time. "I barely know him."
There was something inscrutable in the doctor's eyes, as if she found something deeper in that answer—something Clarice couldn't quite understand.
"Is there anything else, Doctor, that might help us find Hannibal?" Crawford asked, clearly eager to shift the focus.
Du Maurier's gaze shifted to him, her expression unreadable. "I've shared everything within my capacity," she stated with unmistakable finality.
Crawford cleared his throat. "Alright then, that will be all for now. But please do not leave the city. We might have follow-up questions," he said as he rose from his seat. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Du Maurier."
Clarice quickly followed suit, but Du Maurier held up a hand, stopping them both. "Agent Crawford, if I may, I'd like a moment alone with Agent Starling."
Crawford stiffened immediately. "I don't think that's a good idea…"
"It's alright, I don't mind." Clarice interjected swiftly. She leaned toward Crawford, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe there's something she feels more comfortable discussing with a woman."
Crawford still looked uncertain, and Clarice felt a strange sensation under her skin. Was Will right? Was Crawford actually feeling protective of her?
She added hastily, "And if I need assistance, you'll be right outside."
He cast her one last look, laden with unspoken concern, before reluctantly turning and offering a polite farewell to Dr. Du Maurier, stepping out of the room.
As the door clicked shut, Clarice sank back into her seat, locking eyes with Du Maurier's calculating gaze. Now that there was no one else in the room and she was the sole focus of the doctor's interest, the atmosphere felt even more uncomfortable. A suffocating silence settled between them. Clarice took a breath, ready to break it. "Well, what did you want to...?"
"You should run," Du Maurier interjected, her tone grave as if issuing an ultimatum.
Clarice blinked, "E-Excuse me?"
Du Maurier's piercing eyes studied Clarice, dissecting her with an unsettling intensity that felt all too intimate. "They all look at you and see someone else. For you, there is no possibility of victory."
Clarice looked at her uncomfortably. "Am I supposed to understand what that means?"
"No. Not yet," Du Maurier replied flatly, offering no reassurances.
Clarice furrowed her brow as a familiar prickling of frustration crept in. This woman was… challenging. The way she spoke and the words she chose felt like some twisted riddle that only Will could navigate. Still, Clarice wanted to try to uncover something—anything.
Leaning in, she decided to take a gamble. "I really don't know what you're talking about," she confessed, striving to infuse her voice with vulnerability, though exasperation slipped through. "I don't know you or anything about you, for that matter. They don't tell me much," she added, glancing furtively toward the door where she assumed Agent Crawford stood, ready and poised.
"Perhaps there are truths I could divulge that others would prefer to keep hidden."
And suddenly, Clarice felt as if she were being lured to the answers rather than digging for them herself. Despite the chill creeping down her spine, an unusual allure beckoned her in. An absurd image entered her mind—a siren's call disguised in the voice of the psychiatrist.
That curiosity, that nagging feeling that had driven her throughout her life and had served her well until recently, stirred within her. Clarice swallowed hard, her mind racing. Surely, she could ask a few questions? What harm could it possibly do?
She leaned forward. "How do you know Hannibal Lecter?" she asked, opting for a direct approach.
Du Maurier regarded her for a moment, her face a flawless mask of inscrutability. "I was with him behind the veil."
"Meaning…?" Clarice pressed.
"I was with him the first time Hannibal escaped capture."
Clarice frowned, piecing together her fragmented knowledge regarding that escape. "Where did you go?"
"Italy," came the curt response.
Her heart raced as connections sparked in her mind. It couldn't be mere coincidence, could it? Will had mentioned that strange story about Italy, and now this…
"Was Will there too?" she asked uncertainly, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.
"Briefly," Du Maurier replied, and Clarice sensed the deliberate way she crafted her responses—succinct and evasive.
Clarice cleared her throat and straightened her back, striving to exude professionalism.
"You were with him when he was on the run. You spent time in his world. Surely, you have insights that could help us. You know his mind—how he maneuvers, what tricks he employs to evade capture. If you acted as his wife, you must have—"
A flicker of something crossed Dr. Du Maurier's eyes—irritation? No, it was something deeper... anger.
"If you seek to understand Hannibal Lecter, the only one with the true answers is Will Graham. My connection to him wasn't as profound as his."
"But you were his wife…"
"And yet," Du Maurier interjected, her expression hardening momentarily.
The uncomfortable feeling seeped deeper into Clarice's bones. "What exactly are you implying?"
Du Maurier exhaled slowly, her icy demeanour beginning to crack just enough to reveal a hint of vulnerability—a subtle twitch at the corner of her jaw betraying her discomfort.
"It's quite straightforward, Agent Starling. Our relationships stem from fundamentally different roots. To put it simply, if Will had confided in Hannibal that he wanted me dead, I would be a mere casualty of his ruthless intent. However, if I ever hinted to Hannibal that I wished for Will's demise, he wouldn't hesitate for a second to kill me. That, in essence, is our stark divide."
Clarice furrowed her brow. "If Hannibal Lecter is so indifferent toward you, why did you escape with him? What drove you to care enough now to help him with his injuries?"
The woman leaned back, a knowing glint in her eyes. "What drives you to Will Graham? Our situations are not so different. There's an intoxicating allure to things we can't fully comprehend, and we pursue it, even at our own peril."
Clarice straightened in her seat, her spine rigid as an inexplicable irritation washed over her. Now, she understood why Will had been so irritable around Bedelia Du Maurier. There was something maddeningly exasperating about her—a quality that seeped under the skin and ignited frustration with every word she spoke.
"The difference is," she snapped, her voice laced with incredulity, "Will isn't a cannibalistic serial killer!"
Her raised voice had no effect on the woman before her. Bedelia maintained an unwavering composure, her gaze cutting through Clarice like a scalpel, dissecting the very core of her being.
"I pity you, Agent Starling," Bedelia said, her voice dripping with a condescending mix of sympathy and derision, which only fueled Clarice's ire.
"I don't need your pity."
"You do. You just can't see it—not yet, at least," Bedelia countered, her tone almost dismissive. "Their happiness hinges on one another. And they will not be interrupted by the casualties strewn in their wake."
Clarice stared back, baffled. Was this woman being deliberately obtuse, or did she not even understand her own words? Perhaps her initial instinct was correct—Dr. Du Maurier was indeed under the influence of something. Maybe not even drugs, but… What horrors had Hannibal Lecter inflicted upon her to mold her into this lifeless figure? She sat there, devoid of warmth, her demeanour as frigid and unyielding as a marble statue, with only fleeting flickers of emotion breaking through her frozen exterior—nothing positive, just glimpses that barely hinted at her being alive.
What had Hannibal Lecter done to her?
Yet, even as these thoughts tumbled through Clarice's mind, she felt no sympathy for Bedelia Du Maurier. There was something about her that defied the label of a victim—something unnervingly poised and deadly.
Instead of offering the gentle words she typically reserved for such situations, the reassuring tone she mustered to coax victims even in the most stressful circumstances, Clarice found herself saying instead, "Maybe I should be the one pitying you. You're frozen in the exact place Hannibal Lecter left you."
A flicker of satisfaction flared within Clarice as she caught the spark of ire in Bedelia's eyes, but that victory quickly soured, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. What was she doing? Taunting a woman so clearly traumatized?
Clarice gulped. With a rush of urgency, she stood up to leave.
"If you have no useful information to help us track down Hannibal Lecter, then I should really be going," Clarice said, her voice steady but resolute as she moved toward the door, fully aware of Bedelia's piercing gaze tracking her every step.
"Aren't you going to ask?" The words drifted lazily toward her, stopping Clarice just as her foot was about to take another step.
"A—ask what?"
"That question swirling in your mind. The one you dare not voice because deep down, you already suspect what the answer will be."
Clarice's heart pounded in her chest. Was this woman just playing with her? There was no way Bedelia could read her mind or guess what was pulling at her heart. They had barely met and exchanged words. There was no way…
Yet, an invisible force tugged at her, keeping her in place. Curiosity wound around her like an intoxicating mist, compelling her to turn back. This was the heart of her problem, wasn't it? That relentless curiosity… She glanced over her shoulder and found Dr. Du Maurier still seated, her gaze patient and expectant. In that fleeting moment, Clarice could see the psychiatrist she once was.
"If I ask you the same question as Agent Crawford did, will you give me a different answer?"
"If you choose to ask it correctly."
Clarice swallowed hard. "Do you know…" Her voice wavered between uncertainty and resolve as she took a deep breath. "Is Hannibal Lecter in love with Will?"
Du Maurier tilted her head, her expression as unreadable as a closed book. The question hadn't caught her off guard; it was expected.
"It is much more tragic than that," she said.
Clarice frowned.
"Tragic for Dr. Lecter?" she pressed.
"For everyone who dares to stand in the way. Because he… does… ache… for him."
Each word crawled from Du Maurier's lips, heavy and deliberate, as if it were meant to be the most profound answer, as if it would illuminate any confusion. But if anything, it left Clarice even more in the dark.
"I don't understand..." Clarice murmured, frustration tightening her lips.
"You will. When it's too late. That will be your tragedy."
Clarice narrowed her eyes. "If you know something that could help us, you really should share it. If whatever fixation Hannibal Lecter has on Will makes him target those around him... You should help us, for your own sake, if not for anyone else's…"
"Knowing too much is a perilous endeavour," Dr. Du Maurier interrupted. "Sometimes, it's safer to accept that some pasts are too broken to mend and find a way to move forward. You'd do well to keep that closet shut tight."
The closet? What was she...? Clarice's mind raced, trying desperately to find meaning in her words. A moment of realization struck her, and she glared at the psychiatrist.
"You mean the Bluebeard's closet? The secret room where he hid his past?" she demanded, incredulous. "I have a pretty good idea of what Hannibal hides in there. At this point, everyone does."
Dr. Du Maurier exhaled deeply, a sigh thick with meaning and resignation. In that instant, whatever cracks in her façade mended, and any emotions she had let slip away were tucked deep down, unreachable. Now, she truly was a statue—cold and devoid of feeling on the surface.
"Goodbye, Agent Starling. I doubt we will meet again."
Clarice could only watch in stunned silence as Dr. Du Maurier exited the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that resonated in her chest. Her pulse quickened, pounding in her veins. She felt… discarded.
Hannibal's words echoed in her mind: they were playing on a chessboard, all mere pieces in a game.
'Not a pawn in sight,' he had said. It dawned on her that Jack Crawford, Will Graham, and Bedelia Du Maurier were all important, all formidable. But herself? She couldn't shake the chilling thought that she was nothing more than a fragile, vulnerable pawn—the lone piece teetering on the edge of the board, exposed and defenceless.
When Clarice finally returned to her apartment late in the evening, a wave of relief washed over her as the familiar sights and smells enveloped her like a comforting embrace. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, trying to convince herself that everything was just as it should be—another day in an ordinary life, untouched by the chaos of the last 24 hours.
But when she opened her eyes, reality crashed back in. Outside her window, she saw FBI agents stationed along her street, their serious faces illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. Next to them, police officers were settling into their cruisers for the night shift. Even inside her apartment, two agents were meticulously checking her belongings, combing through every nook and cranny. The same two who had now become her reluctant bodyguards for the foreseeable future.
"Did Agent Crawford declare my apartment an active crime scene or something?" she asked, a knot forming in her stomach as she recalled Price and Zeller's warning about Crawford's obsessive tendencies.
"Not yet," answered one of the agents, skillfully inserting a tiny surveillance device into her vent. His demeanour was all business—cold and efficient.
Clarice let out a weary sigh. "Could you at least provide me with a list of where everything is once you're done?"
"We're primarily installing cameras targeting every entry point—doors and windows. We'll add listening devices and trackers to your phones tomorrow as well," he explained, his tone as devoid of warmth as the mechanical motions he made.
"Fantastic," she replied dryly, sarcasm dripping from her words. How had it come to this? She had always been the one setting up equipment in people's homes, not the other way around. And why did she feel more like a suspect under surveillance than a victim needing protection?
She sank into a chair at her kitchen table, eyeing the two agents with growing exasperation. "What are your names, anyway? Looks like we'll be spending some time together."
"Pembry," the taller one answered, moving with the precision of a machine. His strong build did not lend itself to graceful movements.
"I'm Agent Tate," the shorter one piped up, clearly indifferent, focused on his task. His hands moved with surprising efficiency among the devices they were setting up.
"I guess it's nice to meet…" Clarice began, but her introduction was cut short by a sharp knock on the door. She exchanged uncertain glances with the agents, who quickly checked their phones.
"Cleared. It's Agent Graham," Tate confirmed.
A strange sense of relief washed over her as she rushed to the door, flinging it open to reveal Will standing there, holding a small bag in one hand and two steaming cups of coffee in the other.
"I didn't know you were still an agent," Clarice blurted out, the first thought that crossed her mind.
Will gave a casual shrug. "Technically, I'm not. Jack pulled some strings to expedite the screening process. Mind if I come in?"
"Sure," she replied, stepping aside to let him in. Her eyes darted to the coffees he was holding.
"I think it's a bit late for those," she remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"Then it's a good thing they're not for you," he shot back, a teasing grin spreading across his face as he turned his attention to Pembry and Tate. "Here you go, guys. I heard Jack put you on surveillance duty. You could probably use these."
The grateful expressions that lit up their faces almost made Clarice laugh. She could have sworn Tate looked like he might burst into tears of joy. Maybe she should have offered them coffee sooner, but that thought slipped away as she gestured for Will to follow her into the living room, closing the door behind them and leaving the agents to enjoy their caffeine fix.
"They seem nice," Will mused, his voice trailing off as his gaze wandered to the window. His attention clearly on the police officers stationed outside her building. Some instincts never left an agent, she supposed.
"Apparently, they warm up with a little coffee. But honestly, I expected Agent Crawford to send Price and Zeller for this," she replied, secretly wishing that had been the case. At least they would be familiar faces, not strangers invading her space.
"I just came back from seeing them. They're busy. They have thousands of samples to analyze from the restaurant and everything around it."
Clarice raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Will it actually lead us anywhere?"
"Of course not. Hannibal isn't that careless," Will said flatly. "But I can bet they're enjoying their time at the lab. Mention Hannibal Lecter to Jack, and it's like waving a red flag in front of a bull. It's just smarter to stay out of the way."
She watched as Will settled into one of the chairs, an unexpected air of ease about him that felt almost out of place given their current situation.
"Not that I mind your company," she said slowly, crossing her arms defensively as suspicion crept in. "But why did you really come here?"
Somehow, she felt there was no such thing as a casual visit from Will Graham. And certainly not after everything that had happened.
Will shrugged. "I figured Jack would order a mountain of unnecessary surveillance equipment that would take hours to set up, and you could use some company after the day you've had."
His words struck a chord, and Clarice gulped, realizing just how right he was. "What do you have in that bag?" she asked, eyeing it curiously.
Will reached inside, pulling out a bottle of whiskey, its dark glass glinting in the soft light.
"Another thing you could use after the day you've had."
"Pretty sure you've had the same day." she said, still eying him suspiciously.
"Which is exactly why I didn't bring apple juice this time." He said lightly, and despite herself, Clarice felt a smile tug at her lips.
"Good. Because the last time you offered me a drink, you were angling to weasel your way into a crime scene. At least we've moved past that," she teased, heading to the cupboard to retrieve some glasses. Now that she thought about it, she could definitely use a drink.
Will lifted an eyebrow in silent question, prompting Clarice to shrug in response.
"Agent Crawford mentioned it," she admitted vaguely, not wanting to delve into the tone Crawford used, fully aware he had intended to plant a seed of doubt about Will in her mind.
"I'm sure he did," Will replied knowingly, as if he understood exactly how that conversation really went down.
Setting the glasses on a small wooden table, Clarice leaned back in her chair, her eyes locked onto him as he opened the bottle. "Yeah, I think it's safe to say he's still not your biggest fan," she remarked, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Watching you and Crawford interact was supposed to give me clarity on your dynamic, but if anything, I feel more lost than ever."
Will chuckled softly, though his smile faded a bit. "It's a layered relationship."
Clarice settled deeper into her chair, her gaze never leaving him as he skillfully poured the drinks. "Seems like you have quite a few of those. Bedelia Du Maurier didn't look too pleased to see you either," she remarked, gauging his reaction.
At the mere mention of her name, a shadow flickered across Will's face. Clarice noticed the tension in his hand as it tightened around the bottle, a tiny splash escaping as he clenched it tighter. "The feeling was mutual," he said, his voice low and edged.
That tension returned—his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was definitely some deep-seated animosity there. Feeling daring, Clarice settled in more comfortably and asked, as casually as possible, "What is the story between you two?"
Clarice watched as Will took a sip of his drink before he started speaking, as if the topic required some liquid to help him gather his thoughts.
"We've shared a variety of experiences. Most of them… unpleasant." There it was again, the vagueness that was starting to get on Clarice's nerves. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "She was actually my therapist the last time I saw her."
Clarice froze, her glass hovering midway to her lips. The image that flashed in her mind was both absurd and jarring: Bedelia, poised and unflappable, sitting across from Will and delving into his feelings. It made her shake her head in disbelief. "I can't even begin to wrap my head around that," she said, incredulous.
"Well, to be fair, my standards for therapists were pretty low back then," he replied with a wry smile. "She did wonders for my mental health compared to my previous therapist." He swirled the liquid in his glass, almost as if the motion calmed him.
"And who was your previous therapist?" she asked.
"Hannibal Lecter."
Clarice's eyes widened. She had heard the rumours, of course, and she remembered Price and Zeller mentioning it vaguely. Still, it was strange to hear the absolute confirmation. It was yet another puzzle piece that seemed out of place at first glance. She had tried to piece together what Will's life had looked like before, but the more pieces she gathered, the less idea she had of the picture she was trying to assemble.
So, Hannibal Lecter had been Will's therapist, and after that, Lecter's ex-wife—whatever her role was—had taken over? It was enough to make her chuckle darkly at the sheer absurdity of it all.
"Right. I think I heard something about that. I can see how even Dr. Du Maurier would be an improvement," she murmured.
Will raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh? Was she not to your liking?" he asked, feigning innocence.
Clarice let out an irritated huff. "Is she to anyone's liking?"
The corners of Will's lips twitched, clearly entertained by her unfiltered disdain for Du Maurier.
"Well, except for Hannibal Lecter, apparently," she added, her tone thoughtful. "It's easy to see why he'd be drawn to her—she's quite... something else." Her voice trailed off as she noticed the shadow that crossed Will's face, his amusement gone. Had she said something wrong?
He took a hefty sip from his glass, the kind that looked like it could burn all the way down.
Clarice cleared her throat. "Um, do you know how they even met? Lecter and Dr. Du Maurier?"
Will's gaze drifted off, a distant look in his eyes. "She was Hannibal's therapist," he replied flatly.
Of course, that was the moment Clarice decided to take a sip of her drink—and instantly regretted it. She coughed, the liquid scorching down her throat, and when she finally regained her breath, she blinked at Will in disbelief.
So, Hannibal Lecter's last therapist was Will's last therapist after Hannibal Lecter was Will's therapist… God, Clarice felt the overwhelming urge to grab a whiteboard and sketch it all out. What the hell even was that?
"The more I learn about all this," she confessed, shaking her head in bewilderment, "the less I understand. Do you have any straightforward relationships in your life?"
Will shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure. With my dogs."
Clarice couldn't help but laugh at that. "I can't tell if that's funny or sad," she admitted, relieved when Will didn't seem offended and simply smiled in response. After a moment's hesitation, she added, "You know, she asked me to stay behind for a bit. Bedelia Du Maurier. She wanted a private chat."
To her surprise, Will didn't seem shocked at all.
"I know. Jack told me," he said, his tone revealing nothing.
Clarice tilted her head. "Aren't you going to ask me about that? Honestly, I still kind of think you're actually here to pry for some information from me," she said, still suspecting that this late-night visit had ulterior motives.
Will shrugged again. "I'm just here to offer some company. If you want to tell me, you'll tell me. If not, it's none of my business."
His response caught her off guard, making her pause. Clarice studied him for any hints of deception but found none. Then again, would someone like Will Graham let anything slip?
"That's quite a mature approach," she said cautiously, watching him carefully.
"Must be all those years of therapy," Will quipped, raising his glass in a mocking salute.
Clarice's lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded, replaced by something more somber.
"She warned me. Dr. Du Maurier." Clarice's voice was small now, her gaze locked onto Will's, searching for a flicker of... something. Anything, really.
Will didn't flinch; instead, he leaned in slightly, curious. "What did she warn you about?"
"I'm not entirely sure. Everyone, I think? Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford… you." She paused, studying his impassive expression. "She said there's no chance of winning for me."
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Will's face—a ghost of emotion—before it vanished, too quickly to analyze.
"There's not," he said bluntly. "Not in Hannibal's game. But you won't be playing that game."
Clarice shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a deep unease settling in her gut. "Because I'll be playing yours?" she challenged.
Will's eyes snapped up to hers, sharp and assessing for a heartbeat before he replied, his voice low and resolute. "Because he'll be too busy playing mine."
And there it was. That shift, that change. A brief moment of something cold entering Will's eyes. Was this the investigator in him? No, it felt deeper than that—more primal, like a hunter poised and ready, preparing for his prey. Suddenly quiet, smooth, and calculating. Was this the side of Will Graham that made people uneasy? Was this why so many kept their distance and acted strangely around him? The hunter, ever watchful, understanding that to catch a predator, one must think like one…
"Were you really surprised?" Clarice's voice broke through the silence, hesitant but probing. "That Lecter would go after people close to you? Did you really not think he would act this way?"
It nagged at her, a haunting thought inching its way from the shadows of her mind. Because she hoped that if Will considered this, he would warn them… warn her.
Will's gaze dropped to his glass, his grip tightening around it until his knuckles turned white.
"No," he replied, his tone low and tainted with something unsettling. "I didn't. I suppose we were just viewing things from different angles while evaluating the past. But don't worry," he added, a hint of menace creeping into his voice, "my perspective has been adjusted."
Clarice swallowed hard, her heart racing. "Good. I suppose if anyone could outmaneuver Hannibal Lecter, it would be you," she said, studying his face for any hint of a reaction. "Dr. Du Maurier seemed to think you have a way of influencing him. She even suggested that... if you asked nicely, he might just kill her."
"If only," Will mused, a wistful smile playing on his lips as he took another sip of his drink.
Clarice flinched and looked at him uncertainly. Will caught her reaction and shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
"I'm joking, of course," he said, though his eyes told a different story.
"Are you?" she challenged. "You two don't exactly get along."
In her mind, she envisioned two cats hissing at each other but kept that vivid image to herself.
"Bedelia has that effect on people," Will said dismissively. "You met her once, and look how quickly she dug under your skin."
Clarice bit her lip, letting out a reluctant sigh. "She is a bit terrible," she finally admitted.
A sly smile crept across Will's face as he reached across the table, clinking their glasses together with a celebratory ring. "Drink up; it'll help wash away the Bedelia aftertaste. Trust me, I know from experience."
The tension eased as Clarice's mouth tugged into a smile. The whiskey coursed down her throat, warming her insides and giving her a fleeting sense of courage. It spurred her to confess, "You know, she wasn't the only one who wanted to speak in private. If I'm being honest, I had my own questions for her."
Will didn't look surprised at all.
"What was it?" he asked.
"I asked her if Hannibal Lecter is in love with you," she blurted, her words tumbling out quickly like ripping off a Band-Aid.
She quickly took another sip, the burn of the whiskey grounding her. Will regarded her with an arched brow, and heat flooded her cheeks—was that a bit too blunt? God, Will must have so many bad memories of Hannibal Lecter, and here she was…
But Will didn't look offended or taken aback. Instead of anger or shock, he appeared… intrigued.
"Why did you feel the need to ask that?"
Clarice bit her lip, nervous tension fluttering in her stomach. "Because I felt like I already knew the answer," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I didn't want to be the one to say it first."
Will looked at her again, and she was relieved to find no trace of anger in his gaze. "And what did she tell you?"
Clarice hesitated for just a moment. She had no angle here, and she had already taken them down the rabbit hole.
So she chose to tell the truth: "That it is much more tragic than that."
A hollow laugh escaped Will, carrying an underlying sadness that made Clarice frown.
"I suppose it is. It wasn't, and now it is again…" he mused, his voice trailing off. Clarice couldn't quite tell if he was speaking to her or getting lost in his own thoughts.
Desperate to pull him back from this strange place he'd wandered into, Clarice leaned closer, resting her elbows on the table. "There was actually a good reason why I felt the need to ask that question," she said, confessing again. Maybe the whiskey had loosened her tongue a bit too much.
It worked to get Will back into the conversation. His gaze locked onto hers, attentive and expectant.
"I've been hearing things for a while now. Even before we met, I knew your… situation with Lecter was complicated. But the more I learned, the more… complicated it became. And then, when he called… when he asked…"
'Do you love Will Graham?' The memory made her stomach flip. Clarice gulped—there was no way around it, was there?
"When I talked to you and Agent Crawford about his call, I… I left something out."
Will raised an eyebrow, and maybe it was his complete lack of surprise that made the words tumble out easier.
"He didn't just ask what our relationship is. It wasn't as vague. He asked if… I loved you." As she spoke, warmth crept into her cheeks, and she silently hoped Will wouldn't misinterpret her flustered state.
But he seemed unfazed.
"Of course he did," Will said without pause, as if he genuinely expected that. "What did you say?"
Clarice bit her lip nervously. "Nothing. I just… froze. I had no idea how to respond. Then… that's when his tone shifted. It was like… I couldn't help but think that maybe he was… jealous?" The words felt awkward as they escaped her, and she inwardly cringed, but she had no other way to broach the subject.
Will let out an amused snort, genuine laughter flickering in his eyes as if the very thought entertained him.
"Hannibal doesn't do jealous. He goes straight to controlling and obsessive."
"Yeah, I definitely got that," she replied flatly, memories of flowers and the body at the morgue flashing through her mind.
She took another swig of whiskey—perhaps too large this time. Before she could rein herself in, the words tumbled out:
"I'm not in love with you."
A rush of heat flooded her cheeks the moment the confession escaped her lips. Will looked at her even more amused.
"Honestly, I'd be worried about your sanity if you were," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Clarice couldn't suppress a snort, and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. Out of all the reactions she could have received, this was, oddly enough, the best. Amusement and a touch of dismissal—she needed it more than she would care to admit.
"Ass," she shot back, a smile creeping onto her lips. "I just mean… I don't want you to misunderstand. I completely froze at his question, and some of that was definitely just… shock. But I guess it's also because… it felt like he was forcing a simple answer to a complicated question."
Will still looked at her patiently, not judging, so she continued. "It's a bit hard to explain, I guess." She started uncertainly. "I know we've only just met, but what you do matters to me. Helping me, checking in on me… You stand up for me in ways no one has in a long time…" She let her words trail off, unsure of how to end that sentence. 'So saying yes or no to Lecter's question both felt like a lie'? No, even that didn't sound right…
Will tilted his head, absorbing her words. The amusement faded from his face, replaced by something deeper.
"What about your family?" he asked gently, his tone a soothing probe. "Don't they help you? Stand by you?"
Clarice avoided his gaze, looking down at the table.
"I don't really have…" she began, her throat tightening. "My dad died when I was ten. My mom… she passed away soon after. Then my uncle took me in, but…" She faltered, a lump forming in her throat. "It wasn't a good fit. There was an incident, and he sent me to an orphanage. That's where I grew up. No siblings, so… that's pretty much my family history."
Will didn't offer her any words of consolation. The reassuring phrase, 'I'm so sorry to hear that,' was noticeably absent from his lips. Instead, he closed his eyes and slightly tilted his head away. Clarice couldn't help but watch in fascination as his expression shifted into something distant yet painfully familiar. It was like catching a glimpse of someone from a long-lost memory—a presence that had faded over time but left an indelible mark on her mind. When he revealed that expression again, it struck her with such profound recognition that it felt as though no time had truly passed.
"The incident…" he mused, lowering his voice, "Something scared you. He didn't send you away; you ran."
'You should run.' Bedelia Du Maurier's words echoed uncomfortably in her mind, intensifying the shiver that ran down her spine.
Clarice looked at Will with a growing sense of unease. The longer she stared, the more he seemed to dissolve before her eyes. His expression morphed into something alien, and the more she looked, the more she caught glimpses of an unfamiliar face. Yet within it, she could see echoes of herself—a distant memory, like gazing into a mirror from years past.
"Are you… doing that thing you do? Analyzing me?" she asked hesitantly.
"No," he replied without missing a beat. "I'm empathizing with you. Something scarred you back then."
And in that moment, she felt a flicker of dull hope. She could tell him, she realized.
He could be the first person to hear that buried story. Maybe it would help her, lighten the weight she had been carrying. Maybe it would make her feel better.
But… something was stopping her. An instinct honed by years of self-preservation held her back, echoing the same warnings she had always heard. Was it too early? They had just met… or maybe it was the fear of revealing that raw, vulnerable part of herself that would leave her unguarded and utterly defenceless...
Drawing in a shuddering breath, Clarice finally said,
"The lambs were too loud that night."
The words felt alien, terse, and final—like sealing a door shut.
Will blinked, as if emerging from a dream, confusion flickering across his features.
"What does that mean?" he asked, a hint of incredulity lacing his tone.
A small part of Clarice relished this moment; it was a rare pleasure to see him confused for once. Despite the pounding in her chest, she managed a smile.
"You gave me so many vague, cryptic answers. I thought it was my turn to give one back." She hoped her finality would derail his questions, and remarkably, it did.
A fleeting understanding passed between them; she could see it—Will got it. He understood that she didn't want to talk about it.
"Fair enough," Will simply said, his voice softening. Just like that, the tension dissipated, and relief washed over her. Clarice found herself smiling.
When was the last time she had felt such unconditional understanding? Had she ever? No, she realized she had. Vaguely and distantly, she recalled a time—back when she was still a child—when her parents' reassuring presence made the world feel safe and comfortable...
An awkward blush hit her cheeks at the comparison, and she was immensely glad Will couldn't actually read her thoughts. To prevent any possibility of him empathizing with her more or delving deeper into her mind, she rushed to say:
"This conversation got way heavier than I intended," she remarked, trying to restore some lightness. "Anyway, what I'm really getting at is… I don't have the best track record with people. While it's not in some romantic context or anything… you are important to me..."
The words tumbled from her mouth, and a wave of embarrassment crashed over her. She rubbed her temple, frustrated. Hadn't she been great with words once? She'd aced every debate in high school, hadn't she? So why was she stumbling over herself now?
Will seemed to sense her discomfort, chuckling almost affectionately at her awkwardness.
"It's okay, Clarice. You're important to me too," he said, causing a warm feeling to spread over her chest. But then his expression grew serious—so incredibly serious and heavy—as he added, looking her straight in the eye, "I won't let him pull you away this time."
Clarice's smile faltered, and that warm feeling was countered by a sharp prickle of unease. Will's intense gaze felt oddly distant, as if he were looking at someone far removed from her—someone far away.
Her mind betrayed her, conjuring a memory: 'They all look at you and see someone else.' That's what Dr. Du Maurier had said.
Who was Will seeing when he looked at her?
But she wouldn't dare ask. Just as he wouldn't pry into her own past. If he wanted to tell her, he would tell her, and if he didn't want to share… it was none of her goddamn business. Maybe it was for the best that they both kept some part of themselves hidden.
She took a deep sip of her drink, searching for something—anything—to shift the mood.
"First we dive deep, and now we're getting mushy. We really need to pivot here," she declared, forcing a lighter tone. "How about telling me more about the other women Lecter is targeting? I feel like we should form a club… or a support group."
While that wasn't exactly a lighter topic, it was clear Will welcomed the change as well; she saw his shoulders relax as he leaned against the chair more comfortably.
"You could definitely do that. But keep in mind, they'd have seniority over you. Hannibal's already made attempts on Alana and Molly's lives." He delivered the news far more casually than the words warranted.
Clarice blinked in disbelief. "And you said you split up because there was someone else… are you sure it wasn't the attempted murder that pushed the divorce?"
Will's eyebrow twitched. "Strangely enough, that had little to do with it."
Just as she was about to respond, her phone buzzed in her pocket, interrupting the moment.
It was strange how the same sound that had once filled her life as mere background noise now resonated ominously, like distant bells tolling a warning. Clarice yanked the phone out, its screen lighting up with the unsettling words 'Unknown Caller.'
Her fingers trembled as she cast a quick, anxious glance at Will. "It... it can't be him again, could it?" she stammered, searching his face for any sign of reassurance. "You said it would be a while before he made another move…"
To her astonishment, Will simply shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe something has stirred him sooner," he mused, his tone teasingly casual, yet his eyes were fixed on the phone's relentless ringing. Clarice shot him an incredulous look, but he met her gaze with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "Answer it, Clarice. It would be rude to keep him waiting."
A chill raced down her spine, reminiscent of her earlier dread in the restaurant. Fear gripped her throat once more. Yet this time, she wasn't alone. There were agents and police officers around. She looked across the table and saw Will watching her intently. Even though he feigned nonchalance, she could see the tension in his shoulders.
Feeling a small sense of reassurance wash over her, she reached for the phone. As she answered, a now familiar velvety voice greeted her from the other end.
"Good evening, Clarice. I trust your day has concluded on a pleasant note."
She swallowed hard, drawing in a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She had to remind herself—she was an agent; she had to think like one and maintain her composure, no matter how much Hannibal Lecter tried to draw her into the role of the victim.
"Good evening, Dr. Lecter," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. "I didn't expect to hear from you quite so soon."
Quickly, she rose from her chair and made her way to the kitchen, only to find Pembry and Tate had already left. She almost huffed in irritation—just when she actually needed them… Sighing, she grabbed the laptop off the table, praying it was ready to go, and returned to the living room.
"I did not anticipate it, either," Lecter said, oh so casually, as if they were mere friends chatting. Somehow, that familiarity unnerved her more than anything else. "However, a few recent developments have altered our initial plans."
Clarice sank back into her chair, momentarily distracted by Will, who was absorbed in something on his phone, typing rapidly. Their eyes locked, and he silently mouthed, 'Crawford.'
Right, that was good. Getting Agent Crawford on board and getting other agents ready. They were on the case, tracking down a serial killer. Just another day in the life of an FBI agent. This was work, just work; nothing personal about it.
With fingers trembling slightly, she opened the laptop and switched it on, the familiar hum grounding her.
"What new developments are you referring to, Doctor?" she asked, almost absentmindedly as she navigated the FCC server. The screen abruptly flashed the infuriating message: 'Please wait…'. She almost scoffed. Really? Shouldn't systems like this work faster?
Her momentary frustration was interrupted by Lecter's smooth voice. "I've become aware that Will paid a visit to Bedelia. I trust no one's eyes have been scratched out."
Clarice froze, her fingers suspended above the keyboard. Was he watching them this whole time? Or did Dr. Du Maurier contact him somehow…? Clarice shook her head; now was not the time to dwell on that.
A bit belatedly, she realized she should probably put the phone on speaker. She quickly connected the device to the laptop, placed it on speaker mode, and set it in the middle of the table.
"I can assure you, everyone left that meeting unscathed," she stated vaguely, somewhat relieved that Will hadn't heard the earlier comment.
"Excellent," Lecter said, and as his voice filled the room, Will flinched as though struck. He shut his eyes tightly, deep lines creasing his forehead.
A stab of sympathy pierced through Clarice. She could only imagine the flood of haunting memories that voice must have dredged up for him.
"What did you think of Bedelia?" Lecter asked, his tone deceptively casual, as if inquiring about the latest exhibit in a gallery.
"She's a unique woman," Clarice replied, her fingers tapping impatiently against the laptop, the screen stubbornly frozen on 'Please wait…'. "I can understand why she captured your interest."
Will's eyes snapped toward her, a quick, piercing glare flashing her way—was it aimed at her or the device? Surely, it was directed at the phone, wasn't it?
"Yes, she is quite intriguing," Lecter admitted, although his voice carried a dismissive air, as if he couldn't care less. "And what did you think of the reason you went to see Bedelia?"
Clarice frowned. "After understanding your intentions, Dr. Lecter, I believe it's only fair to utilize every resource at our disposal to pinpoint your location."
A low chuckle escaped Lecter, smooth and silky, sending a chill down her spine. "Oh, is that why you think you went there? Did Will conveniently forget to share his true reasons for orchestrating that meeting?"
She shot a glance at Will, who sat rigid, his gaze fixed on the phone as if willing it to combust. Anxiety fluttered in her chest.
"I'm not entirely certain what you're implying, Dr. Lecter. If you'd be so kind as to elaborate..." she said, secretly wishing for a long-winded explanation.
The server's frustrating refusal to connect was testing her patience. Shouldn't the FBI's tech be more dependable?
"Certainly," Lecter said, his voice laced with a smooth politeness that made her nearly envision him waltzing through elegant soirées. "It's painfully clear that Will used this meeting as bait. He knew I'd be tempted to reach out to you again if he interacted with Bedelia. In essence, he's been manipulating me by manipulating you. Be vigilant, Clarice. He can be remarkably cunning when he puts his mind to it."
She glanced back at Will, whose eyes were still fixed firmly on his phone. Could he really have…? She quickly dismissed the thought, forcing herself to regain focus. It didn't matter. Not now.
Finally, the server on her laptop connected, and she exhaled a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. With renewed intensity, she navigated the labyrinth of randomly generated TMSI codes. She almost cursed under her breath; she should have paid more attention in that class. There had to be a quicker way to do this.
To buy herself some time, she bit her lip and shot a quick, apologetic glance at Will before she spoke again.
"You say that, but it sounds like you're still quite fond of him despite his flaws."
At that, Will's gaze flicked to her, and she offered him a sheepish look before returning to her task.
"Flaws?" Lecter echoed, his tone almost gleeful. "Oh, quite the opposite. It's that very cunningness I find most delightful."
Will let out a faint, frustrated huff, a sound barely above a whisper.
Yet somehow, his quiet exasperation shifted the atmosphere in the room.
Silence fell on the other end of the phone call, and for one horrifying second, Clarice's heart dropped. Had Lecter hung up? No, not now! They hadn't even located him yet…!
"Is Will there with you? I swear I can hear him fuming." Lecter's voice shifted, deepening and taking on a weighty cadence—serious, anticipatory… almost intimate.
Clarice stole another glance at Will, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't want to force him into anything he wasn't ready for, but... The screen in front of her flickered with more ominous red flashes. She bit her lip, feeling desperation creeping in. They needed time. If Lecter could focus on Will, maybe they could actually track down his location...
She shot Will a pleading glance, hoping he might understand. To her surprise, instead of fear or hesitation, anger ignited in his eyes as he gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
"He's here," Clarice finally admitted, an uncomfortable stab of regret cutting through her.
Dr. Lecter chuckled—a sound so dark and layered that it sent shivers racing up her arms.
"Of course he is, keeping his lamb safe."
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, and her mind raced back to those childhood memories. Flashes of past events overwhelmed her at once—late night, the lambs, the screaming. But of course, Dr. Lecter wouldn't know any of that. She quickly shook off the unsettling chill that crept over her. He couldn't possibly know—it was just a figure of speech, she assured herself; nothing more. Just coincidence.
Gathering her composure, she forced herself to sound calm. "Would you like me to put him on the phone for you?"
"Please, if you'd be so kind." His polite tone resonated, and the absurdity of the situation intensified the flutter in her chest.
For appearances' sake, she nudged the phone further toward Will, creating a little shuffling noise to obscure his awareness that he was on speaker.
"Will," Dr. Lecter spoke, and in that one name, so many emotions seemed to hide.
Clarice recoiled; it felt like a prayer, reverent in its weight, akin to the way Christians utter 'amen.'
"Dr. Lecter." Will's reply was sharp and icy, each syllable clenched between his teeth.
There was a quiet, but within that quiet, Clarice could hear it. She could hear the inhale, the slow exhale from Lecter—he was savouring this moment as one relishes fine wine, enjoying every nuance.
"I must say, I am disappointed. Are we resorting to those impersonal titles again?"
"I don't know. Are we?" Will snapped back.
Clarice's brow furrowed deeper with concern. Will sounded strange—not just angry, but genuinely upset. She sensed an edge in his tone, as if he were ready to explode, and they couldn't have that. They needed time.
She tried to look at him reassuringly, hoping he would notice other agents connecting to the server, working tirelessly to track the signal at that very moment. But Will remained steadfastly focused on the phone, as if he could see Hannibal Lecter himself rather than just hear his voice.
"You sound angry, Will," Lecter remarked, his tone velvety, so casually forceful it was almost laughable. "I envisioned a more amiable discourse after our extensive separation. What's weighing on your mind? Is there something you'd like to share or discuss? The time… the teacups… the balance of nature… the right and wrong, and all their implications...?"
"You left me," Will interrupted sharply.
The bite in Will's words made Clarice flinch. She hesitated over her keyboard, instinctively drawn to look up, despite knowing she should focus on the screen. Will wasn't just angry; he radiated fury, his icy gaze piercing. She forced herself to return her eyes to the screen, an uncomfortable sensation creeping down her back.
"A necessity, I assure you," Lecter replied, his voice betraying a hint of regret. "You required medical attention that I was unable to provide."
"Well, good thing you found someone who could provide it for you," Will shot back, his words laced with contempt.
Clarice's eyes darted up again. Was he referring to Bedelia Du Maurier? But… There seemed to be something deeper in his tone—was he... jealous? Frowning, she dismissed the thought; that couldn't be right. Surely this was just a strategy to keep Hannibal talking... wasn't it?
Lecter sighed, the sound heavy with significance.
"You still doubt me, Will," he said, the petulance in his tone both an accusation and longing. "You have yet to see yourself through the eyes of another. That's the rift between us. I find myself selfish in this regard."
Will leaned in sharply, nearly causing Clarice to jump from her seat.
"I had no doubts," he seethed, his eyes blazing with intensity. "But now? Now I have plenty, thanks to your little ruse…"
"You've harboured those doubts all along, Will," Lecter interrupted gently, as if speaking to a child. "Not on the surface, perhaps, and not anymore. Not about yourself, but about me. One brief visit and a few band-aids, and those doubts clawed their way back to the surface, didn't they? Clawing at Bedelia..."
Clarice winced at the faint, ominous sound of Will grinding his jaw.
"Perhaps those doubts wouldn't feel so frivolous if you were here to dispel them," Will hissed, his words strained through gritted teeth.
"Allow me to do just that now," Lecter replied smoothly, unfazed by the escalating tension. "Your jealousy, while rather endearing, is entirely misplaced. There's truly no reason to worry."
"I'm not worried," Will rebutted vehemently, though Clarice caught a glimmer of something deeper beneath his bravado—was he being... petulant?
"Of course not. You're still a problem-free man, just like myself," Lecter replied, his tone dripping with irony.
Will let out an exasperated huff.
"You only came back to play your stupid games again. Is that why you didn't come back sooner? It wasn't interesting enough for you?"
"That is a complex question, layered with many wrong assumptions that would take us quite some time to untangle. Time which we do not currently possess—risking further wrath," Lecter continued, undeterred. "I must give you a simpler answer for now: I wasn't entirely convinced that you would have welcomed my presence."
"I wouldn't have…? I killed with you."
Clarice froze. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard as her gaze darted to Will again, bewildered. What on earth was he saying? Was he referring to the Dolarhyde case? Surely that was it. But wasn't that self-defence?… Wasn't it?
The dynamics between the two men were nothing like she envisioned. Was that the "game" Will spoke of—his strategy to distract Hannibal? Was he just playing him?
Lecter's voice sliced through her thoughts, flippant and sharp. "You also pushed us down the cliff. I believe that's what the kids today call a 'mixed signal.' I think the best course of action under such circumstances is to give one space."
Will huffed, "How generous of you."
"Did you feel abandoned, Will? With the expectations of that which shall be, that do not coincide with that which is?"
"Being, doing, and having require different forms of expectations," Will seethed through his teeth.
"Precisely the distinctions I wanted you to navigate away from any deterministic constraints. I hoped it would give you some clarity on your expectations before I introduced mine. With your remarkable empathy, I wouldn't want to impose upon you. After all, the only way to escape from self-deception is through authenticity."
Clarice watched as Will drew a shuddering breath, straining to regain his composure. She could see his hands, clasped tightly, shaking.
"Normally, people just talk," Will snapped.
"Normalcy is one thing no one has ever accused us of. However," Lecter's tone shifted, a predatory edge creeping in, "it seems you decided to relinquish your autonomy and agency. You found a new companion for your conversations. Tell me, does navigating the mind of Clarice Starling bring you as much joy as exploring mine?"
At that, Clarice couldn't force herself to focus even if she tried. She heard that again; the insidious undertone behind his casual words—a cruel, veiled threat.
Their eyes met. As Clarice looked at Will, she could see the anger burning within him.
"Leave her out of this," Will said, his voice slow and chillingly low. The venom in his tone rivaled Lecter's own.
The line lingered in silence, stretching out until all Clarice could hear was the frantic thumping of her heart.
"You must realize your fierce protectiveness is counterproductive," Lecter replied coolly.
This time, Will's huff was more than simple irritation; it carried a weight of frustration so palpable that Clarice could feel it on her skin.
"You don't have to do this. I thought we finally understood each other..." he said, the vulnerability in his voice catching Clarice off guard—this was all an act, wasn't it? Part of the game?
"We do, Will," Lecter replied, his voice shifting to a low gentleness, like a predator expertly coaxing its wary prey. "But today's identity can never be identical to its past or its future. It's already slipping away from what it was, and it hasn't yet become what it will be. It's not a lack of understanding that holds us back. To navigate this change together, we must stand on equal ground. I want us to be equals; but, as it stands, we are not yet there... you still have some way to go, if I may be so bold."
Will's eyebrow twitched dangerously. "What exactly do I lack?"
"Yearning."
Will's eyes widened, as if paralyzed. His body went rigid, frozen in that moment, until his eyes narrowed and he got up from his seat so abruptly that the chair behind him fell over.
"Fuck you, Hannibal!" he exclaimed, with such force and venom it sounded like something he's been keeping in for a long time, as if he had been carrying that outburst inside him for far too long.
And then, with growing confusion and horror, Clarice watched as Will left the room in a few long strides, leaving her too stunned to intervene.
She remained frozen, her gaze locked on the door that slammed shut with a resonating finality.
"Well… at least we're back on a first-name basis," Lecter's calm voice sliced through the silence before the call abruptly cut off.
As Clarice sat there, hearing the disconnected sound in her ears and watching the screen flash big, red letters that read 'Failed to locate', she couldn't shake the unsettling realization. Was this entire conversation nothing but an elaborate act? Or was Will actually…
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. All those questions swirling in her mind... Was Hannibal obsessed with Will? Was Hannibal in love with Will? That's all she was focusing on.
Maybe she had been asking the wrong questions all along... Perhaps the more pressing question was…
Is Will in love with Hannibal Lecter?