Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I have to die a little
Between each murderous thought
And when I'm finished thinking
I have to die a lot
- Leonard Cohen –

Marathon, Florida
March 2020

Clarice Starling looked out at the skyline as she stepped out of her rental car. The stray hairs from her ponytail stuck against her sweaty neck. It was only eighty-five degrees, but it felt like hell.

"Jesus H. Christ," she muttered, removing her ballcap and fanning her face. The air that it swished around her was just as miserable, and she wiped her forehead before putting the hat back on. 

A small beach house was a few hundred yards away, the old bones of a half-finished boat sitting next to it. She could smell stale beer drifting to her from where she stood, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She hesitated before moving, long enough to decide whether or not she wanted to see what was inside. Truth be told, she had no choice. This was Jack Crawford's idea, not hers, and she didn't have the clout or gumption to turn tail and run back to Virginia without doing what she was asked.

She counted her steps, each one feeling longer than the last, as she wandered up the path. The front door looked like no one had ever used it, but there was a sliding door in the back, catching rays of the afternoon sunlight. She headed towards it and listened to the wooden steps on the deck creak as she climbed up. Back door friends are best, after all, or so said the maxim at her parents' old house. Vaguely, she wondered if the sign was still there, or if the new occupants had long removed it. She held her hand up to the glass, whispering, "Fuck it," as she knocked.

There was no answer, though she could hear movement within. She counted to ten and did it again, rapping her knuckles on the glass until the sound rattled in her brain.

"What?!"

The voice was rough, and though it wasn't even close to five o'clock, it was slurred with drink. Clarice touched the cell phone in her pocket, wanting to tell Jack that he really was a pathetic old drunk and to forget it. But her hand gripped into a fist, and she raised it one more time when a figure appeared in front of her.

Holy damn Moses.

It was worse than what Jack had told her. 

Will Graham's face was a mess of scars, twisting around his cheeks and forehead. There was a deep one down his nose, bisecting it like a harlequin figure. Hair was streaked with silver. Eyes icy blue and swimming with red veins, though they were as sharp and piercing as they must have been before the Minnesota Shrike, Chesapeake Ripper, and Red Dragon screwed everything up for him. She inhaled a breath, gathering her courage around her like so much armor, and spoke.

"Mr. Graham, you don't know me, but my name is Clarice Starling."

Her reflection met his when he moved closer and crouched down to her height, comically trying to focus on her face.

"It's too early. Come back closer to nine. I'll have the money on the dresser before you leave."

What the fuck? 

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Come back. At nine. And I'll have. The money. On the dresser. After."

"After what?"

He leaned in, his eyes suddenly sober when they aimed at her hat. "Oh shit. Get the fuck off my property. Your one of Jack Crawford's, aren't you?"

"Mr. Graham –"

"Tell Jack that he can go fuck himself if he thinks he can send a little girl out here to play at being a mindhunter." He turned around and left her standing on the other side.

She blinked, trying not to lose her shit, but deciding that she didn't give a flying fuck. 

"Like hell, I will!" she yelled, opening the door and slamming it behind her. A wave of foulness hit her nose, and she swallowed a gag as she looked around. She was in a kitchen, or maybe it was one before he moved in. Dirty plates were stacked in the sink, some of them moldering with food that looked older than she was. She lifted her shirt to her nose as she walked through the galley and into a living room of sorts. It smelt better here, or at least the stench of beer covered the worst of the offenses. She looked around, not seeing him in the stark room. Following her nose, she found the stronger traces of alcohol as she moved to a hallway off to the side. The first door on the left was closed, and she knocked on it.

"Unless you have a warrant, you are in violation of my fourth amendment rights," his voice called out on the other side. "Or didn't you pay attention in school?"

"And unless you want to see the working end of my fist, you'll open the door and apologize for being a prick before I sock you in the mouth," she yelled back, covering her mouth when the words left it.

Goddamn it, Clarice.

"I'm a washed-up drunk of a prick. Everyone knows that. So should you."

"Open up and tell me that to my face."

Will Graham cracked the door and stuck his head out. "I'm not going to apologize for who I am."

"Then I'm not going to apologize for beating the shit out of you, you rude-assed sonofabitch bastard!"

He opened the door a little more and leaned against it. He showed his teeth then, his lips curling into a smile. They were too white against his deeply tanned skin, and his smile reminded her of a wolf who was about to devour his prey whole.

"You've got moxie."

"What the hell is that?"

He walked out and shut the door behind him. "What was your name again?"

"I'm Special Agent Clarice Starling."

"Call me Will, Clarice."

"Call me Agent Starling, Mr. Graham."

"Fine," he said, holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Starling."

She shook it and wiped her hand on her shorts. "I wish I could say the same."

"Jack sent you here?"

"He did."

Will grimaced and sucked his tongue against his teeth. "You drink beer?"

She didn't, but she didn't hesitate in saying, "Yep."

"Let's sit out back and talk about what Jack wants."

She walked back through the living room, which she had dubbed the 'non-living room' in her head, and she held her breath when they walked through the kitchen. The refrigerator door creaked behind her as she opened the sliding door. When she was outside, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air.

"Sorry about the mess," he muttered. He passed her a beer and waved a hand over to a table and chairs off to the side. "Sit. Please."

At least the chairs were plastic and hadn't gotten too hot in the shade of a faded umbrella. A breeze made the deck almost comfortable, but it was the cold beer in her hands that cooled her off the best. Clarice popped open the can took a drink, grimacing as she swallowed.

"You aren't from the South, are you?"

"Not really. I'm from the hills. West Virginia," she said. "What about you?"

"New Orleans. At least, that's where I was born." He was staring at her in a way that made her uneasy. It was almost like when she had her psych eval. That woman made her feel naked, even though she'd worn her best suit. He sat sideways in his chair and faced her. "Have you had enough of the social niceties?"

"Pretty much," she admitted.

"Then tell me what Jack wants."

"We need help on a case." 

"I've heard that before."

"You won't be anywhere close to the field."

"I've heard that one, too."

Clarice took another drink and looked away from him, out to the ocean. The tide was starting to come in, inching up the shore. At another time, it might have been peaceful out here. If not for the asshole sitting next to her. "This time, he means it. We've gone old school. We make the profile. We send it back to the locals. Interviews only to help with victimology and profiling. That's it."

"The answer is no."

She looked back at him and resisted the urge to throw her can at his ugly face. "This one is skinning women. Young, smart women. Skinning them and dumping them in rivers to rot. And he won't stop. He's got a real taste for it."

"I know enough about my tastes to resist the urge to help you, Agent Starling." He drank the rest of his beer in one long guzzle and tossed it at a pile in the corner. It upset the tiny mountain, and a few dead soldiers fell off the side. "It's a shame you don't know enough about yours to walk away from the Bureau before it eats you alive."

"You'd know more about that than I ever will." She knew she'd said the wrong thing the second the words left her mouth, but she took nothing back, lifting her chin while his expression darkened.

"Do you know what you look like, sitting on my deck with that FBI branded hat on your head and smug expression on your face?"

"No. Why don't you fill me in, Mr. Graham?"

He stood, resting his hands on the arms of her chair. The hairs on her arms prickled when he leaned in, crowding her. She could smell the odor of unwashed clothes and self-pity. Unconsciously, she was moving away from him in her chair, something between terror and morbid fascination moving through her as he started to speak. "You're the new protégé, aren't you? But it's not empathy you have too much of. It's sympathy and compassion. You feel for every one of the victims that come across your desk. They call out to you in the night, don't they, Agent Starling? The dead call out to you until they are all you can think about. Jack Crawford will use you until you're burned out and used up, and he'll leave you with nothing. Just like he did with me. You've got a degree in psych. And… victimology? Don't you?"

She nodded automatically and cursed herself for confirming his thoughts.

"Use it to your advantage and be a counselor. Let the victims your heart bleeds for cry it out in your office. But don't waste the best years of your life serving a man who doesn't give a damn about you. Pop out a couple of kids that you can love better than you were in those poor hills where you grew up unless you’re desperate not to be like your mother. You need to fly away while you still can, little bird. Now. And don't look back."

Her teeth ground together until she was sure she'd lose one of the cheap metal fillings in her molars. "You sexist pig!" she spat. "Get out of my goddamn personal space!"

He backed off, lifting his hands when she stood and threw her half-full can at the side of his house. Every nerve in her body was firing, and she was breathing too fast. The tip of her nose was numb, and so were her fingers. She balled up her hands into fists and stuck them in the pockets of her shorts. 

"You see a lot," she said, her voice wavering but strong. 

"That's my fucking curse," he said, his voice cracking.

"Maybe you should turn some of that empathy of yours on yourself. Take a good look in the mirror in your bathroom, unless it's covered in grime and spunk. You fell from a cliff, but that's no match to how far you've fallen since you decided to give up on being anything that resembles a human. Or maybe you're just afraid of what you see. A victim is staring back at you, instead of the badass you could have been before you looked into the abyss and jumped headfirst."

His eyes narrowed, and when he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand.

"I'm at The Hideaway Hotel out on Highwa–"

"I know where it is."

"Fine. I have all of the case files with me. Everything. In case you didn't know, his last victim was a local girl. She grew up five miles up the road from here, when she still lived. I'll be here through the end of next week. If you decide to sober up long enough to help me out, I'd appreciate it. And if you don't, I'd appreciate it even more."

"Don't you have a partner?" he asked.

"Haven't you figured that out already?"

His cheek twitched, but he didn't answer.

"I guess not. I did have a partner, but he died when we were asked to help the DEA with a raid last month. Now, I fly alone." She turned her back to him and walked away, and before she could stop herself, Clarice Starling lifted her right hand and gave Will Graham the one-finger salute. Then her other hand joined it, and she gave him the symphony of her chaotic thoughts in surround sound. When Clarice was finally in the safety of her car, she turned on the air conditioning and flipped the radio up to max. It was loud enough to drown out the sound of her frustrated scream as she drove away.

Chapter Text

“It’s not worth it. I’m coming back in tomorrow if I can manage.” Clarice had blue-tooth earbuds in her ears and was pacing the tacky hotel room. It was spotlessly clean; too much anger had given way to pent up energy. 

Some of what Will said had been true, and she sure as shit hoped that the rest didn’t come close to clanging on it. She’d been close to rage when he’d mentioned her mother, the goddamn jerk. She’d gone to the nearest hardware store when she got back to town and picked up all the supplies she needed to scrub her hotel room. After a long bath, she almost felt like herself again, except for the pit in her belly that Will Graham had carved out with his words. 

“I want you down there, Clarice. Do you really think Will is a lost cause?”

“He’s so far removed from the man you knew that I doubt you’d recognize him. His liver is probably as puffed up and brittle as that idiot in the White House.”

“This is a secure line, Agent Starling.”

“Noted,” she said. “I meant as pure and holy as the stable genius whose picture is above your desk.”

“That’s better.”

She sat on the bed and folded her legs underneath her. Ten file boxes surrounded her, each one stuffed with police files about the victims of Buffalo Bill. They were staring at her with as much accusation as the eyes of the ten victims whose pictures were taped to the wall beside the bed. She closed her eyes and shut them out, trying to find a moment of silence.

“Clarice?”

She jumped. “Sorry. I forgot you were there.”

Jack Crawford laughed on his side of the phone, a sound few people heard these days. But he and Clarice had a kinship that neither held with many other people. She respected the hell out of him, to the point of hero-worship. And he’d developed a latent fatherly affection for her after he’d plucked her out of the evidence response team in New York to join his unit.

“Lost in thought?”

“It’s what I’m good at.”

“What do you feel?”

“Nothing. I was trying not to for a minute.”

“Everyone needs a break, Clarice.”

“But if I take a break, another girl might die.”

“You aren’t in this alone. I’ve got the best minds we have working on this one.”

“Except for the one you want.”

“Tell me what you saw at his house.”

“He’s lost it,” she said. “I could smell the beer from a mile off. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in a month, and the house hasn’t been cleaned in a year. He thinks he’s trash, and he’s trying his damnedest to prove it to anyone who comes around.”

“Even you.”

“Especially me. Will told me to come back at nine because he’d have my money then. On the dresser. After.”

Jack sighed, and Clarice was so hungry to share the air of her mentor that she sighed along with him. “Probably a bluff.”

“Could have been. I doubt it. After the Red Dragon… and his wife leaving him, I imagine he’d do anything to pretend that someone thought he was worth something. Even for an hour. Well, judging by how thin he is, maybe thirty seconds at best.”

“Will Graham is worth more than he’s ever realized,” Jack said. “I failed him by never letting him know how valuable he is to the Bureau. And to me, for that matter. But someone poisoned his mind.”

“And now Will thinks he’s gonna poison everything he touches.”

“Try to think about it a different way. A good man who thinks he’s poison will drive away everything around him to keep the rest of us safe. Especially someone like the Will Graham I used to know.”

“What do I do?” Clarice asked softly.

“What you do best. Stay in Florida. Interview Fredrica’s family. Look through the files again, from the first to the last victim. Go for a run on the beach every morning. And try to start healing yourself as you look out at the horizon. I know you miss Johnny. Everyone in this office feels his absence. But no one feels it as strongly as you.”

She rubbed both hands over her eyes, trying to stop the tears before they started. A tiny whimper shook her shoulders, but it made no sound. 

“And if Will comes around –”

“That’s a big if.”

“If he comes around, try to understand that it isn’t about you, no matter what he makes you feel.”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Clarice?”

“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll stay.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Bye, Jack.” 

She hit the red button on her phone and laid down on the bed. It was too soft, and the mattress squeaked every time she moved. She rocked her hips a few times, listening to the mocking sounds coming from the rusty coils.

“Gross,” she whispered, getting up from the bed. The clock on the dresser blinked the time.

Nine o’clock.

“Well, maybe someone is getting laid,” she said, huffing out a laugh as her stomach rumbled. She’d been so busy that she’d clean forgotten about food. There was a kitchenette off to the side: a tiny stovetop and fridge along with a sink. The brown bag on the table held peanut butter and bread, along with a few cans of tuna and crackers. Stuff she’d usually gobble down over the sink before running out the door on her side of the duplex, Ardelia griping at her the whole time about eating something hot for a change. There was a crack in the blinds on the window, big enough for her to see the glowing sign over the twenty-four-hour diner next door.

She pulled on the pair of sneakers by the bed and grabbed her bag, locking the door behind her. It wasn’t too far to the diner, though the heavy air made it feel like a mile. But when she swung the door open, cool air burst around her, drying up the droplets of sweat that ran down her temples. It was the kind of place she’d have stopped by in school when she needed to study after the library closed. There was hot coffee brewing, and an apple pie sat under a glass dome on the counter. She decided it was as good a place as any and parked herself on a red leather stool.

“What do you want, honey?” The waitress had on a blue and white checked uniform, and she looked kind.

“What’s good?” Clarice asked.

She shrugged. “Most tourists get the shrimp basket.”

“What do the locals get?”

The plastic name badge read Kathy in all caps. Kathy smiled. “Burger and fries, hold the onion. Mike cuts ‘em too thick.”

“I’ll take that. Do ya’ll make peanut butter shakes?”

They did.

“One of those too, and a glass of iced tea.”

“Sweet or unsweet?”

“Unsweet.”

Kathy wrote the order and clipped it on the pass. “You ain’t from around here, are you? No one orders unsweet tea. I’ll have to make a fresh pitcher.”

“Don’t go to the trouble. I’ll have water instead.”

“You staying at the Hideaway?”

“Yep, for a week with change.”

“Planning on coming back?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll make you some,” Kathy said. “And I’ll remember to keep a fresh pitcher, just in case you stop by.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem, honey.”

Kathy walked over to the sink and pulled out some large tea bags, humming to herself when the door opened. Hot air touched her back, but it didn’t last long. Clarice’s nose prickled when she smelled stale beer.

Fuck a duck.

She didn’t turn around, waiting for him to make the first move. The eyes on her back stayed there for a long beat, long enough to make her want to squirm. But she didn’t let on and instead straightened her spine, taking the glass of cold tea from Kathy when she brought it to her.

“Thanks again,” Clarice said. She took a sip. It was crisp and bitter, and exactly what she wanted. “That’s pretty dang perfect.” 

Kathy shook her head and smiled. “Do you want your shake now or with your food?”

“After.”

“Sounds good.” She lifted her eyes and looked over Clarice’s shoulder. “The usual?”

“Please.”

Will Graham took the seat next to Clarice. She could see him in her peripheral vision. He’d put on some cleaner clothes and combed his hair. Clarice still didn’t acknowledge him, taking another sip from her glass. Kathy sat a coffee cup in front of him, along with a bowl with little packets of cream and sugar. Two packs of sugar went into the cup along with all the cream she’d given him. 

Clarice bit her lip, resisting the urge to tell him he should have ordered a glass of milk. 

“You doin’ okay, Will?” Kathy asked him.

“I’m fine. Been a long day.”

“I saw you out walking on Sunshine Road when I drove in,” she said. “You looked a little lost.”

“Just… trying to clear my head, I guess,” he said, shrugging. Will glanced at Clarice, then turned back to his coffee.

“You need to take better care of yourself, son. You’re too young to be acting so old.”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times.”

“With reason. I can come by tomorrow and help you clean up if you want.”

He shifted in his seat. “It’s fine, Kathy.”

“Suit yourself.” Kathy turned and walked to the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

The silence was uncomfortable, and Clarice had to bite her tongue to keep herself from speaking. But she stayed her course and looked straight ahead. The phone in her pocket vibrated, and she thanked God for the distraction when she pulled it out. It was a text from Ardelia, checking in. She shot her a quick message back, assuring her that she was sitting down for a late dinner, and put the phone on the counter in front of her.

“I didn’t take you for a Bears fan.”

Clarice glanced at her phone, smirking at the navy background marked with a capital C.

“I’m not. This was Johnny’s old phone.”

“Was Johnny your partner?”

“Yeah. He always rooted for the underdog. Johnny was from Chicago, worked in their field office before he taught at the Academy.”

“Your partner wasn’t Johnny Brigham, was he?”

“Yep.” She finally turned to him, catching his bright eyes with hers. “Did you know him?”

“He started teaching the same year I did. I’m sorry, Clarice. He was a good agent and a better man.”

Clarice nodded and cleared her throat. “I was the… he left me everything he had. I didn’t know that until… well, until after the raid. No family, no kids. Married to the job.”

“It happens. Quite frequently.” Will was staring at his coffee instead of drinking it. She knew that look. Indecision about how much a drunk wanted to sober up. She relaxed a little when he took one sip and then another.

“Did it happen to you?”

“No,” he said, putting the cup back down. “It wasn’t the Bureau I fell in love with. There’s no separation counseling for what happened to me.”

She took a breath and turned away. Will's pain was vibrating to her like a song, and she needed to put a wall up to keep it from absorbing into her skin. 

“You aren’t as young as I thought you were,” he said softly.

“Huh?” She was a little taken aback, and her fingers gripped her glass too tight. “That’s rude.”

“Sorry, I –” He quickly ran his hands over his face. “This afternoon, you looked like a kid. How old are you?”

“You aren’t helping yourself at all, Mr. Graham. But I turned thirty-five two days before Christmas.”

“Do you have a family?”

She frowned and bit her lip. “I’ve never been married, and I grew up in foster care.”

“No one adopted you?”

Clarice looked at the ceiling and slowly counted to ten. For a guy with an empathy disorder, he sure didn’t know how to talk to people at all. 

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“Here you go,” Kathy said, putting a big plate of food in front of her. Clarice’s eyes grew huge. There was no way she could eat that much, and she was suddenly thankful for the fridge in her room. She cut the hamburger in half and moved most of the fries to the side, taking the glass bottle of ketchup and pouring enough on her plate to make a kid blush.

“Most folks get seafood,” Will remarked.

“I guess I’m not most folks,” Clarice said, shrugging as she dipped a fry in the ketchup. “What’d you order?”

He pointed in front of him, and Kathy was quick to refill his cup.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He scowled at her. “I don’t need a mother.”

“I wasn’t offering to be one,” she said. But she slid the plate between them, turning the other half of the burger in his direction after grabbing the half she wanted. “I can’t eat all this, and I hate leftovers.”

Will gripped his cup, then pushed it to the side and took what she offered. It almost felt like a victory when she saw him take the first bite. She joined him, closing her eyes as the flavor of the salty, fatty beef hit her tongue. 

“Jesus, that’s good,” she said with her mouth mostly full. The little grunt to her left told her he agreed. “If my shake is as big as this, we can split that, too.”

“It will be,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “What kind did you get?”

“Peanut butter.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

She smirked and shook her head. “Not your heart, Will Graham. Just your point of view.”

“You can’t have it,” he muttered.

“Then can you teach me how to think the way you do?” she asked. “How to get into this fucker’s head?”

He took another bite of his burger and shook his head. “You don’t want to think like me, Agent Starling. Someone like you would go mad if you could think like a killer.”

It was something to consider, and she let it drop. They ate in silence until the shake came. Kathy left it in the frosty metal cup, giving them each a glass. “I didn’t figure you’d want me to put two straws in one glass. It didn’t look like that kind of a date,” she said, winking before she waited on the table that had just come in.

Clarice poured herself what she thought she’d drink and gave Will the rest. She sipped the sweet concoction, remembering the good times she’d had with her mom. But the memory was fleeting, interrupted by the loud giggles from behind her. The place was filling up, making her jumpy. She slurped down the rest of the shake and took her wallet out of her bag.

“I got it,” Will said.

“It’s on me.”

“I got it,” he insisted.

She signaled Kathy and shook her head. “Consider it my way of apologizing for bothering you.” 

“Then how can I apologize for being a prick?”

“You could say the words.”

He looked at her, his brow drawing together. “I’m sorry. I was rude.”

“I’m sorry, too. For being… me,” she shrugged. “I won’t bother you again. And if we end up here at the same time, you’re more than welcome to share my plate.” She looked at the check that Kathy left her and pulled out a few bills, leaving them on the counter. “Goodnight, Mr. Graham.”

Clarice felt marginally better when she walked back, though she was so full that she had to unbutton her shorts. In the room, she pulled on an old shirt of Johnny’s that fell to her knees, one with the Marine insignia on the front: eagle, globe, and anchor. It had still smelled like him when she packed up his apartment, but now it smelled like the fabric softener Ardelia bought on sale last month. She closed her eyes, wanting to hear the calming sounds of the laundry room they shared. Instead, there was a loud knock on the door, rattling the safety chain. Clarice looked through the peephole and saw Will Graham on the other side. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and cracked it open.

“Did I forget something at the diner?” she asked.

“Kathy… uhh…” He handed her a giant styrofoam cup. “She says no one else will touch it.”

“Thanks,” she said. She set the tea on the table beside her and tried to shut the door, but Will quickly stuck his foot in the crack.

“I’ll help you,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.

She almost asked him to speak up. He had a pleasant voice, and it hurt her heart to hear it cowed down like this. “What changed your mind?” 

“I… I don’t know.” Will turned and laid his hands on the iron railing behind him. “Maybe I’ve decided it’s time to try being human again.”

She walked out on the landing and gripped the railing next to him, not caring that she was half-dressed. There was a perfect view of the ocean across the highway, silvery moonlight glimmering on the black waves like diamonds. It was too beautiful for words to describe, and she understood why he had hidden here. In a world that could be so unspeakably ugly, there was a measure of peace to be found by the sea. His pain was still calling out to her, and she accepted it instead of letting her words be a buffer against the hurt.

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you this time. You’re safe with me. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” He didn’t meet her eyes, not until he spoke again. “What time do you want me back tomorrow, Agent Starling?”

“Call me Clarice, Will. Formalities get old after a while, don’t they?”

“Definitely.”

“Why don’t we get started at nine?” she asked. “I’ll have some money on the dresser. For breakfast. Before.”

When Will grinned, she grinned with him.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off at six. 

Clarice got out of bed, automatically going through her morning routine: teeth brushed, hair combed and pulled back, running shorts on, sneakers tied. The weather outside was almost perfect; the sun popping up over the ocean as she jogged down the steps of her second-floor room and across the parking lot. 

She'd never run on the beach before. Hell, at thirty-five, there were a lot of things Clarice Starling had never done. But she was open to new experiences, and when her shoes hit the sand, the soft granules giving her a fresh challenge, she plowed ahead full force.

Johnny had taught her a ton of cadences when they jogged together, and she whistled one as the words jangled around in her head:

C-130 rolling down the strip 
Recon Daddy's gonna take a little trip 
Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door
Step right out and shout, "MARINE CORPS!"

There were cruder ones that had made her laugh until she had to stop to keep from peeing on herself, but she kept those to herself today. Anymore, she listened to music in the morning while she ran on the old trail by her neighborhood, but she needed a fix in the worst way. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Johnny running beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Stop it.

Clarice ran until her legs ached, and when she turned around and ran back in the direction she came from, her legs ached worse. When she finally stumbled into her room, she was drenched with sweat, and her legs felt like rubber. But it was a good hurt. She fell into the chair by the window and caught her breath, seeing the time on the alarm clock. 

Seven-thirty.

Good enough. She hopped up and stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes, tossing them in the makeshift hamper by the bathroom door. The shower had good water pressure, and she indulged in a long one, hoping the hot water would ward off any cramps she might have later. Even though the sand was a bitch, it had given her a better workout than she'd had in a while. 

The second half of her routine went faster: hair up, clothes on, shoes tied. She plopped on the bed and turned on the news, not watching it as much as letting the noise drown out the world for a while. 

When eight o'clock came and went, Clarice got up and pulled some money out of her purse, putting it on the dresser. She quickly changed her mind, not wanting to address the faux pas again, and sat back on the bed.

At eight-thirty, she pulled out the file on Fredrica Bimmel and looked through it, even though she knew the contents by rote.

And when nine o'clock came and went, she rested her chin on her folded hands, trying to figure out what to do next. If she was right about Will Graham, and she was rarely wrong, she knew exactly what he'd done last night when he got home. 

And she got pissed at herself for not seeing it sooner.

Clarice got in her car and sped out of the lot, driving to his damned house. Her thumbnail was chewed down to the quick by the time she pulled into the drive, and she got out, quickly scanning the grounds. Not seeing anything, she ran up the path and up the deck stairs. The sliding door was unlocked, and she walked through the kitchen, only gagging a little before looking in the living room.

He was sprawled out, face down, in a pool of puke.

Shithouse mouse.

Another set of automatic actions set in. She rolled him to his side and checked his pulse, finding it good and steady but slow.

"Will, can you hear me?!" she yelled.

His eyes rolled behind his lids, but he didn't make a sound.

"You aren't gonna like what I'm about to do, but it's for your own good, man. Just… don't kill me until it's over," she muttered. 

He was heavier than he looked, and she grunted as she hauled him up. Moaning, incomprehensible words started to slur out of his mouth, and when she stood him on his feet, he was able to stumble with her to the hallway. Clarice assumed the door to the left was his bedroom and opened the door to the right, finding a bathroom that didn't look as awful as she expected. She lowered him next to the toilet and lifted the lid.

Yo-heave-ho.

She washed her hands in the sink, dried them on her shorts, and then turned back to Will. With a practiced hand, she opened his mouth, stuck her finger down his throat, and helped him pull the trigger. His eyes opened when he started to gag, and she pushed him to the toilet.

"Get it up. Go on," she said, patting Will's back as he puked up the rest of the garbage he drank during the night along with the dinner she shared with him. It wouldn't help much, but it would lower the risk of him aspirating on something later. 

"You… bitch," he muttered.

"I've heard that before," she said, not caring.

"I'm gonna…" His shoulders shook when he vomited again. "Take you over my knee." More puke. "And spank your ass."

"Heard that one too." It didn't scare her then, and it definitely didn't scare her now. "If you liked that, you're gonna love what I'm about to do even more."

"What would that be?" he groaned.

Clarice flushed the toilet and lowered the lid, leaning over him to turn on the shower to full blast.

"I hate you, Clarice Starling."

"That used to be my daddy's sweetest lullaby. Keep singing it, Will. You'll feel better," she said. Then she shoved him in the shower fully clothed and closed the curtain, sitting on the commode while listening to him scream obscenities for a solid minute. She examined her nails, using her index finger to get the worst of the bitten-off snags from her thumb. Then she stood up and walked across the hall, peering in his bedroom. 

Unlike the rest of the house, it was clean, save for the bottles and beer cans on every surface. But it didn't smell bad, and the sheets looked like they'd been changed recently. She opened the dresser drawer, ignoring the stack of bills under a thin book to the right, and pulled out a t-shirt and boxers.

"You sober enough to dress yourself?" she called out to him.

"No," Will yelled back.

"Then I'll have to do it for you."

"Never mind," he said. "I'm good."

She left the clothes on the sink and walked back, sitting on his bed. It was hard not to think, but she kept her thoughts clear by chanting another cadence in her head as she looked at the ceiling.

To anybody who asked me why 
Here's the deal, here's my reply
I'll be a Marine till the day I day 
Motivated and Semper Fi

The shower turned off, and a litany of grumbles followed until Will Graham stumbled into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed next to her, wearing his boxers. His shirt was tangled around his neck, not enough to affect his breathing. Clarice patted his back and stood, shutting the door behind her.

"This isn't how I wanted today to go," she muttered. The idea of losing another twenty-four hours irritated her to no end, but she'd known the second she walked into this house yesterday that something like this would happen eventually. She scanned the living room and found a red bandana stuck between the cushions of the old couch and grabbed it, tying it around her face like a train robber.

It took two hours to clean the kitchen and another four to tackle the rest. To keep such a grimy house, Will didn't lack cleaning supplies, which helped speed things along. By the time she finished, she'd used a box of garbage bags and filled his dumpster past capacity. A line of white sacks bulging with bottles and cans now decorated the spot by the road where she hoped the sanitation worker would soon visit. 

When she'd sat down for a break, she ordered groceries to be brought in and contacted the local pharmacy. They had a delivery service too, thank God, and when she listed what she thought Will might need, the pharmacist had quizzed her about the state of health her friend was really in. 

Everything was scheduled to be dropped off around five. It was four-thirty when Clarice walked up from the road, now more exhausted than she remembered being in years. She was cranky and hot, hungry as hell, and in need of her second shower of the day. She checked on Will again, seeing that he still hadn't budged an inch, and grabbed some clothes from his closest, knowing they wouldn't fit but not giving a rat's ass. They smelled good enough, and at least they were clean. 

His water pressure was as good as the shower at the hotel, but she didn't linger in this one. As perfunctory as a soldier, she got clean, got dressed, and tossed her clothes in the washing machine in the nook by the kitchen with the rest of the fourth load. There were coffee and filters, and a machine sat by the now spotless sink. She got it brewing when there was a knock on the front door.

"Clarice Starling?" the delivery woman asked when Clarice opened it.

"Yep."

"I picked up your delivery from Lloyd's Drug on the way over. Ned said it was all coming to the same spot."

"That's great, thank you," Clarice said, signing for the bags. She put everything up, leaving out the bottles of supplements and ibuprofen on the counter. Then she alphabetized them for good measure.

Her phone rang, giving her a welcomed escape from what she'd had to do today.

"Starling."

"How are things?" Jack asked.

"Not great."

"Did Will come around?"

"Sort of, then he had a relapse." 

Boy howdy did he ever.

"Have you talked to Mr. Bimmel?"

"No. I'm going over there tomorrow afternoon."

"Good."

Clarice took a breath as a wave of exhaustion hit her hard. She sat on the floor of the sparkling kitchen and curled into a ball.

"You okay?"

"Not really, no."

A beat. "Talk to me."

"I can't this time, Jack." There was movement coming from the other side of the house, and she heard the bathroom door shut. "I've gotta go. Will just… emerged."

"Good or bad?"

"I don't know. Both?"

"Will you call your friend if you need to talk to someone? Agent Mapp?"

No.

"Course, I will."

"Good," Jack said, but his voice betrayed a hint of worry. "If I'm pushing you too hard, you'd tell me. Wouldn't you?"

Probably not. 

"Sure."

"I can't afford to lose you, Clarice."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Talk to you soon."

"Bye," she said, reaching up and setting the phone on the counter. She let herself maintain her pity party until the bathroom door opened, then she popped up and grabbed a mug from the cabinet, pouring a cup of coffee. She added a glug of the milk she'd had delivered and three spoons of sugar, passing it to Will when he stumbled into the kitchen.

"What fresh hell?" he yawned, looking around as he took a sip.

"How much do you remember?"

"Enough," he said, glancing at her. "Nice shirt."

It was the first thing she'd grabbed, and it would do until her clothes were clean. "I looked worse than you did by the time I was done cleaning this dump. You're welcome, by the way. Do you need a drink now?"

"Huh?"

"Your hands are shaking. Do you need a drink now or later?"

He had the decency to look ashamed when he admitted, "Now."

There was bourbon on top of the fridge, and she grabbed it, adding an inch to his coffee. He sipped it gratefully and leaned against the counter. 

"For the record, I'm not enabling you. You said you'd help me. I'm making sure nothing stands in the way of that. I'm gone in ten days, and if you want to drink yourself to death after that, I won't be here to stop you. But I need whatever you can give me, and in return, I'll keep you frosty. We got a deal?"

"Deal," he said, holding out his hand. This time when she shook it, she didn't wipe her hand.

"Take everything I set out for you on the counter every morning when you wake up. Folate, thiamine, multivitamins, and iron. Zinc and magnesium, too."

He took a pill out of every bottle and swallowed them, chasing each with his coffee.

"What set you off last night?"

"I checked the mail," he said quietly. "The FBI forwards it to me. I got a letter from…" He shook his head and didn't continue. He didn't have to; the look of defeat on his face told her everything.

"Did you read it?"

"Not this time. I burned it. Then I drank a bottle of vodka."

"And did that solve anything?"

"I guess not. But I didn't have to feel for a while. And sometimes… that's not a bad thing."

She nodded slowly and sighed. "I'm hungry and tired. But I want to sit outside and look at the damn ocean before I do anything else. Do you want to sit with me? You can pity yourself out there as easily as you can in here."

Will's upper lip twitched before he said, "I'll come with you."

They walked out together, Will sitting in a chair where his old mountain of beer cans used to lean. Clarice opted to sit on the edge of the deck, her feet dangling over the side. With her back to him, it was safe to cry. She did it silently, not wanting to show him an iota of how she really felt. But when the tears started to flow freely, the dam on her emotions cracked wide enough to let out what she felt about a lot of things, and she wrapped her arms around her waist as she started to sob. She knew better than this, not to get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. But she was all of those things, and when surrounded by the beauty of the surf, it was all she could do to keep from breaking down completely.

When Will sat next to her, she ignored him. And when he put an arm around her shoulders, she ignored that too. But when he spoke, words that were gentle and genuine, the dam inside her opened to full blast. "I'm sorry, Clarice. For who I am and that you were here to see it. You've had to do this before. A lot. Haven't you?"

She turned into his arms and wept until there were no more tears to cry.

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling stood in front of Will's stove.

Come at me, motherfucker.

She hated anything to do with kitchen appliances. Worst still, she was actually good at it. Neither of them felt like getting out of the house after she'd cried it out on his deck. It had taken a solid hour for her to calm down. Will held her the whole time, even when his hands started shaking again, stroking her hair from her face as the waves of pain washed over her. It wasn't just about him; she hadn't given herself the time to mourn Johnny's death and had a whole laundry list of other things that she'd never dealt with. It was why she was here, after all. This was technically a work trip with scheduled time off mixed in, but she'd been stubborn enough to insist on taking a copy of the case files with her after Jack had asked her to talk to Will Graham about consulting for him, one last time.

Clarice turned on the oven, dialing it up to three-fifty when her phone vibrated. It was Ardelia, and she answered it on the second buzz.

"What's up, soapy?" Ardelia asked.

"I'm trying to figure out what to make for dinner."

"Whatcha got?"

"Let me see…" Clarice looked through the cabinets again and scanned the fridge and freezer. "Snack foods and condiments. Some fresh fruits and vegetables, not enough to make anything with."

"Haven't I taught you better than that?"

"Probably, if I paid attention to your yapping."

"Hush it," Ardelia said. "Any protein at all?"

"Chicken and steaks in the freezer."

"Unthaw it, toss the steaks in the oven. You got broccoli?"

"Cauliflower."

"You and that brainy looking shit. Roast it in the oven on high with salt and pepper. Wait a minute, what the hell are you doing buying steak on the federal dime?"

"I didn't. I'm at his house. He… well, what TattleCrime said was on the nose."

"Always is," Ardelia said. "Is it bringing up the bad stuff?"

Yep.

"Nope."

"Are you lying to me, Clarice?"

Basically.

"I'm good," she said.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Ardelia said. "He got a cast-iron skillet around there somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw one when I was putting up the dishes."

"Clarice Marie Starling — did you clean up his house?"

Shit.

"I'm cooking dinner. You know how I feel about a dirty kitchen."

Silence on Ardelia's end, before a quiet voice said, "Don't get in too deep. You can't fix what you didn't break."

"Don't I know it?" Clarice said, laughing more for Ardelia's sake than her own.

"I like that sound."

"I know."

"Is it real?"

Nope.

"Maybe."

"I guess I'll take it. Call me when you can, okay?"

"I will. Thanks, Dee."

"Bye, baby girl."

Clarice took the steaks out and set them on a plate next to the sink.

"Who was that?"

She jumped and looked up to find Will staring at her. "I hate cooking. I had to use a lifeline and phone a friend."

"You don't have to cook."

"Neither of us has eaten since last night," she said. "And there's food here. I don't mind."

"Here. I'll take care of those," he said, pointing to the steaks. "You take care of the… did I hear you say cauliflower?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "I knew I liked you."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah, well…" he said, clearing his throat. "It'll be a while before those soften up. Do you want to tell me about the girls?"

"I don't have the files here."

"Do you need them?"

He sounded like Jack when he said that, and she smothered a grin when she said, "No."

They sat across from each other in the non-living room, now a little cozier since she'd cleaned up the mess and brought out a few pictures she'd found in the boxes above the dryer. She scanned them again, seeing the picture of the dark-haired girl had been turned down.

"What do you think, what do you know?" he asked.

"We know a lot, but we're having trouble figuring out what to think about it. The first girl, Cynthia Knight – Cindy – went missing three years ago. She was in college at Kent State, close to graduating when she vanished. No trace, except for a scratch on her car door. She was found six months later in the Chattahoochee River. We think she'd been dead most of that time, but it was hard to tell exactly how long with the level of decomp. Her scalp and hair were gone, removed by the unsub."

"Sexual?"

"Hard to tell, but the coroner was pretty sure."

"What about the others?"

"Same story, different timelines. Different sections of their skin missing."

"Trophies?"

"We think so, yeah."

"Sexual violation?"

"The second and third, Jane Adams and Wanda Sue Vickers, had signs of object rape. After death. None of the others did."

"Is he a secreter?"

"No sign of it, and the rivers did a good job of washing them clean after what he did. Starting with Jane, he left a calling card. He… the unsub left their shirts at the location where he stole them, slit up the back with a knife."

"Hunting knife?"

"More than likely, considering the way the fabric tore."

"Why do they call him Buffalo Bill, Clarice?"

She squirmed in her seat. "It started as a bad joke in Biloxi. Freddie overheard one of the locals saying that this one liked to skin his humps, and she ran with it." Clarice discovered she had traded feeling angry for feeling disgust. Of the two, she preferred the anger and kept the emotion close.

Will Graham closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Clarice watched from the couch, fascinated as his eyes darted behind his lids, his mind trying to make connections that most other humans couldn't handle. But it was fleeting, and when he opened his eyes again, they were red and sad.

"I need to see the case files."

"I know. At least it's a start. I'll walk you through it, introduce you to all the women he's cut up."

"I don't need to think like them; I need to think like the person who killed them," he snapped.

"To think like that person, you have to understand the victims and figure out why he selects them. Or have you forgotten what it's like to think like a profiler?" she countered. 

"I never was one." His voice was calmer now, and he leaned forward in his chair. "Remember?" 

Her blood was boiling, and she had to take a few breaths to calm the fuck back down.

"Need a break?"

"Yeah," she said, leaping up and walking to the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and started the sink, splashing cold water on her face. The face in the mirror was glaring at her, and she turned the water off, rubbing her skin with a towel she'd washed that morning. When she looked back up, she still looked upset, but at least she was cooling off. 

"Give him some grace, Clarice," she whispered. "He's been through hell, and he doesn't need you making him feel worse than he already does. You can draw more flies with honey every damn day of the week. You know this."

The reflection nodded, satisfied.

Will was in the kitchen, heating a cast-iron skillet. It was and wasn't okay, but at least he turned and smiled when she walked in.

"I'm not sure how old these are," he said. "They might be freezer burned."

"I'm not picky, just hungry," she said. "At least the vegetables I bought are fresh."

"How much do I owe you? There's a lot in here that wasn't yesterday."

"I grabbed the cash from your dresser," she said, biting her lip. "Payment for services rendered."

He snorted.

"Do you actually…" she started, then shook her head quickly, deciding that she really didn't want to know.

"No," he said. "I wasn't as drunk as I let on when you walked up. Would it be a problem if I did?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks that's awful. Another part of me understands."

"I doubt that." His back was to her, and she couldn't catch his expression. The counters were low, and Clarice hopped up on the one behind her and crossed her legs.

"It gets lonely out here. It gets lonely up there, too, even with all the people everywhere. I'm lucky I have Dee so close."

"Your phone a friend?"

"Yeah. She works for the Bureau. We went to the Academy together and became friends when we roomed together, got lucky, and were assigned in New York together when we graduated. When Jack offered me the job at Quantico, it wasn't too long before she transferred to DC."

"What office?"

"Counterintelligence. She's smart as hell, the very top of our class. Any class she's been in, for that matter."

"Sounds like she watches out for you."

Yep.

"I watch out for myself."

"So did I," Will said, turning around slightly. "It doesn't make you weak to need help, Clarice."

She opened her mouth to speak, wanting to argue that he sure as shit never asked for any. Except that he did, usually in the wrong people. 

At least she was here. For what it was worth.

"Can I ask about –"

Will shook his head and drank the rest of whatever was in his mug. "If it's about my ex-wife or… anyone else, it's off-limits."

"Fair enough."

"Can I ask about the person you used to clean up after? It was your father, wasn't it. I seem to remember something about a lullaby he sang to you about hate."

"Off-limits," she said. "But yeah, it was."

"What about your mother?" he asked. "You looked like you were about to spit nails when I brought her up."

"Because she's dead, Will."

"Shit," he said, lowering his head over the stove. He turned around completely but looked at the shining floor instead of at her. "I really am an ass."

"You said you were sorry. You didn't know. She was a local cop, got shot stopping a robbery."

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

"I bet it was rough. Especially with –"

"Yeah, it sucked. I turned out okay, though."

"You did," he said, resting his eyes on her face.

"That hot?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"The skillet. Should I chop up the cauliflower now or wait?"

"Now," he said.

They worked side by side, him watching the meat cook while she chopped up the cauliflower, adding half a red pepper since he had one. His eyes approved when she put it in the oven, and she hopped back up on the counter, pulling out her phone to check her email. Nothing but spam, except for one Jack sent her with a motivational message that made her grin. 

"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked.

"Lots of places," he said softly. "My dad… let's just say you and I have a lot in common. Except I didn't get out until I was eighteen."

"Ramen and Kraft Dinner kind of life?"

"We didn't really have ramen back then," he said. "But those blue boxes have been around for a while. And if I wanted something better, it was up to me."

"I know the feeling. I used to be able to pull something together from eggs, a stack of lunch meat, and a hunk of onion."

"At seven?"

"Girl's got to eat, so did the old man."

He pulled the steaks off the stove and set them to the side, letting them rest. The kitchen smelled wonderful, a thousand times better than when she got here yesterday. And the man in front of her didn't look terrible either. As intense as he was, and he really was, there was something familiar in his icy eyes. She didn't want to think about it too hard, and she looked away, nodding to the sliding door.

"Want to eat outside?"

"It's pretty muggy. Will it bother you?"

"I'm getting used to it," she shrugged.

"Do you like fish?" he asked.

"Fried."

"No," he said, pointing at his shirt. She looked down at her chest and saw the word Phish and almost slapped her head.

"I don't know if I've ever listened to them."

He went to the living room, fiddling with a few CDs. Jazzy, almost funky rock music came on. If Phish sounded like that, she did like it, and she nodded in approval when he walked back in. 

"It's hooked up to the speakers on the deck."

"Nice."

"I didn't do it. But I'm glad someone did."

They ate outside together, and he finished her plate when she couldn't eat anymore. Her unsweet tea and his can of beer sat next to each other, both sweating from the heat. Clarice was getting used to it, leaning back in her chair when a breeze came in from the surf.

"It really is nice out here," she said. "I could get used to the quiet. It almost reminds me of home – no city sounds, no light pollution."

"Nature as God intended it to be, except for the crazy sons of bitches running around in it."

"Makes you wish for the times when it was easier to be alive."

"You thinking about work?"

"Yeah."

He pushed his plate away and leaned back, too, taking his beer with him. "We can't escape it. Murder is as old as humankind if you believe what the Bible says."

"I know. I grew up in church."

"Baptist?"

"Lutheran."

"Even if it isn't true, it's a book that gives a history of a people, and murder being around as long as we have is something I believe."

"Me too," she admitted. "I wish I didn't, but someone once told me that everyone has thought about killing someone else, at one point or another."

"Who said that?"

"You did," she said, winking at him. "Back row, center. Thick glasses and an attitude. I got rid of the glasses a few years ago but kept the smug expression."

"I hate to say I don't remember you," he said, looking like he meant it.

"I didn't figure you would. You weren't there much. Dr. Bloom taught most of the lectures. It was around the time that… that happened."

"Huh."

"Plus, I was at the gunnery most of the time. It's where Johnny and I became friends."

"Were you one of the cadets who tried to figure out what his tattoo said?"

"Yeah," she said, blushing. "But I found out when we started working together. I'd hoped it would be something racy instead of Semper Fi, but the latter fit him better."

"You were close, more than partners."

She took a sip of her tea and nodded carefully. 

"Did you ever –"

"No," she said quietly. "He would have liked to, but… he asked me once, and I turned him down. Then he asked me if we could be friends. I knew he meant it, and I said yes and meant it. Just because we didn't sleep together didn't mean we didn't have a bond that no one could sever. He was good people. He shouldn't have died the way he did." She couldn't look at him anymore, not with that look on his face. Even if she could pity him, she for damn sure didn't want him to pity her. 

"What happened at the raid?"

"Off-limits and classified. But if you want to know, TattleCrime can get you up to date pretty quickly."

Will breathed and turned to the ocean. "I don't pay attention to that anymore. Not after seeing my name in the headlines."

"I don't either. Mine's been there a few times, enough to tarnish my name. It doesn't help that I've got a world record."

"For what?"

"I've killed more people than any other female agent in the FBI thanks to that fucking raid," she said bitterly.

"How does that make you feel?"

She quirked her mouth and told the truth. "I try not to feel anything about it."

"You'll have to, eventually."

"And I'll deal with it then," she said. She held up her glass. "Here's to the record holders, however dishonorable they may be."

"Cheers," he said, holding up his can before taking a drink.

"I better head back," she yawned. "I'm beat."

"Would you keep me company a little longer? I can pull out the laptop. We could watch a movie."

She opened her mouth to say no, then really took a good look at his expression. He was a little hopeful and a whole lot of lonely. Before she could think the better of it, she said, "Sounds great."

She sprawled out on his couch after they cleaned up, laughing at the movie he selected. "I haven't watched that in years."

"Me neither, but… do you mind?"

"Hell no, it's one of my favorites."

He smiled and sat in his chair, watching her more than the screen when the opening titles for Hot Fuzz appeared.

Chapter Text

Clarice woke with the Florida sun on her face. There was a ceiling above her, but it wasn't the same one in her hotel room. She closed her eyes, trying to remember what happened before she fell asleep. They'd been watching a movie, both of them snorting at the appropriate times though neither of their voices rising to a laugh. She'd gotten sleepy somewhere during the second act, stretching out after he brought her a pillow and blanket from his bedroom.

And here she was, waking up on Will Graham's couch and feeling like she'd gotten a better night's sleep than she ever had in her own bed in Virginia.

Turning her head, she opened her eyes again and scanned the room. His laptop was on the coffee table, shut and facing… Will, asleep in his chair, feet on the ottoman.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. It was cold; the air had been on all night, and goosebumps rose on her arms as she walked to the big window. The tide was low. A flock of birds was passing overhead. They looked like seagulls, and their pure white feathers glowed in the morning sun.

It was time to run, but she didn't have the right shoes. A walk close to the ocean might work, another challenge with her feet sinking in and out of the wet sand. 

There was a spare toothbrush under the sink, and she took care of most of her morning routine before leaving Will a note. 

Going for a walk. Be back soon. 
Clarice

Her earbuds were in her bag, and she put on some music as she started to walk. It wasn't too hard to plunge through the surf, but the challenge was going slow instead of fast. Usually, crack-sharp cadences or fast music ran through her head as her shoes slapped on the pavement and hard dirt on the trails. But here… she'd almost have time to think if she wasn't focusing on the music instead of the images in her mind.

She stayed out for an hour until the sand and water washed the chipped paint from her toenails, and her heels felt as soft as a baby's hind end. Instead of ramped up, she was calm, and she didn't hate the peace that had settled over her when she stood at the bottom of the stairs, washing off her feet with the spray hose. Will was sitting on the deck when she climbed the top step. She'd seen him there when she walked back to the house, first a speck on the horizon until she could see his eyes on her. It had been hard not to notice him watching her as she watched him, but she'd done her best to ignore it.

Clarice sat next to him, not needing to catch her breath as much as she simply needed to be.

"Nice morning," he said.

"Yeah, it is."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. It's supposed to rain over the weekend."

She shrugged. "I've run in the rain before. It doesn't bother me."

"I can't remember the last time I took a walk on the beach," he murmured.

"You should. It's good for the heart, good for… well, good for a lot of things. You could always walk with me while I'm here. I like having someone to set the pace with."

"I'd probably set you back."

"Offer's on the table," she said. "I'm supposed to go to the Bimmel's at noon, and I need to wear something other than your shirt and shorts. Do you want to come to the hotel and look at the files with me?"

"Sure," he said.

"Thanks for letting me stay last night."

"You were more worn-out than you thought. I was afraid you might fall asleep on the road."

"Never happened before," she said.

"There's a first time for everything."

"I guess so." She stood and stretched. "Let's go. Daylight's already burning. Bring your own beverage. All I've got is water and tea."

They rode into town in silence, but the bottle of Jack Daniel's and a six-pack rattled in the sack on the back seat. She glanced at him a few times, finally speaking when his face got grim.

"Are you worried?"

"Yeah."

"Which part?"

"All of it," he admitted.

"It'll be different. You and me, a shitty hotel room, and a ton of paper to sift through. No Quantico, no brass breathing down your neck, no bullshit. Just you and me. Nothing to be afraid of."

"Fear is what I know," he said. "It's what keeps all of this at bay."

"All of what?"

"The thoughts," he said. "Knowing the drive, the compulsion… the need."

"Was it all the time, or when you were on a case?"

"Before? When I was on a case," he said.

"And after?"

Will looked at her as she pulled into the hotel parking lot. "I used to have the vaccine most people make against those compulsions. Mercy. I forgot how to make it for a while."

"What about now?"

"I hope it's coming back. There are times when I feel it."

She touched his forearm. The hairs raised up against her hand, and she gently rubbed his skin before turning off the car. "You don't have to do this. I can take you back home and still check on you while I'm here."

"I want to do this," he said. "I need to see if what's left can fight against the virus."

"Are you sure?"

He chewed his cheek, taking a breath as he nodded.

"What do you do to blow off steam, besides drink?"

"Nothing."

"What did you used to do?"

"Walk my dogs." 

Something in his voice made her tear up, and she looked away, wiping her eyes. Her hand was still on his arm, and she squeezed it. Then she moved her hand to his and squeezed it too, hard enough that he responded in kind.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Fishing."

"Let's do that tonight. I don't know anything about fish, but I'm a quick study."

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He squeezed her hand again. "What do you do, besides run?"

"Clean."

"And?"

She swallowed. "I think about my mom."

"Tell me about her while we go fishing. Deal?"

"Deal." She squeezed his hand one more time and pulled away, getting out of the car. She couldn't look at him when she walked up the steps, and when she opened the door of the tacky hotel room, the dead were staring at her, the women asking her what the hell she wanted so badly that she'd left them. 

It'll be worth it. I promise. We'll find him, and I'll make sure he pays for what he did to you.

Will was walking up the steps, and she moved fast, turning on the AC. She pulled her laptop from the big pouch on the side of her bag and plugged it in, taking her PIV card from her wallet and sliding it into the side. Will was at the door, staring at the faces of the smiling women, capturing them whole with his cold, blue eyes.

"They were beautiful," he said.

"They were more than that," she said. "Hard-working, intelligent women who were in college or new grads. Six were in STEM programs. Cindy wanted to be a doctor, had just applied to med school when she vanished, and Fredrica was finishing a doctoral program in literature."

"How long did the unsub have Fredrica?"

"Two weeks."

"What did he take from her?"

"Her fucking breasts." Clarice connected to her federal email with a secure broadband and bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

Will shut the door and put the bag on the counter of the kitchenette. "Where are the glasses?"

"There are some plastic cups by the sink next to the bathroom."

She listened to him rummage around, pouring the Jack neat and tossing it back. "You said there was tea?"

"What you brought the other night is in the fridge if it hasn't soured."

He opened the fridge and sniffed it, shrugging as he split the tea between the two plastic cups. Giving her one, he turned back to the pictures of the women. "Do you have any more pictures of them? What they looked like outside of a glamor shot?"

"In the files," she said. There was nothing in her email that couldn't wait – everyone knew she wasn't supposed to be working outside of the interview with Mr. Bimmel. She shut the laptop and set it aside, opening the box that was labeled Cynthia Knight. There was a picture of her playing soccer close to the front, and she worked her way through the rest, taping a picture of them as they had really been in life underneath their faces. She and Will stared at them, but it was Will who kept looking closer before backing away again, over and over, until he gazed at Fredrica Bimmel.

"I didn't know her," he said. "I don't know many people here." His finger trailed over her graduation gown, silky black with more ropes around her neck than Clarice had ever seen, except for her own. "A lot to prove?"

"Yeah. Her dad used to be a fisherman before he got injured when she was little. Living on disability. Her mom died when she was twelve. She got all the scholarships she could, worked two jobs to keep herself at Auburn."

"And the others?"

"Same story. Grew up poor or working poor, all with something to prove."

"Not a lot of time for fun."

"Everyone makes time for fun, even if you're busy," she said, grimacing at the tea. It was too close to sour for her comfort. She walked to the sink and poured it out.

"What did you do for fun at school?"

"Tried to avoid getting set up by my friends. The ones I couldn't avoid were a way to pass the time on Friday night."

"Sticky fumblings in the back seats of old cars?"

"Something like that." She was glad her back was to him. He's seen her blush once, and it wouldn't happen again. "What about you?"

"The same. Gets tedious after a while."

"And dangerous, if you're a woman."

Fuck it up and shut it up.

"Dangerous for men, too. You should broaden your view of things."

"So I've been told."

"By men?"

"Yep."

"Be glad you got rid of them when you did."

"I am. I've got bad taste in men, and that taste isn't kind."

Goddamn it, Clarice.

"What about these women? What do you think about their tastes?"

She turned back to the pictures, her mind flipping through their files as she looked at them and then back to Will. "All straight. All bright. All too busy. No long-term relationships that we know of, not even a boyfriend to be found."

"Boyfriends are one thing, dating is another. And I think Billy got tired of all the sticky fumblings, too. Of the frustrations and the tediousness of the game. He's got a type, and we're looking at it."

"We know that," she said with frustration. "Half the blonde women in the South are dying their hair trying to keep him away."

"But you don't know the why."

"Do you?"

He shook his head. "Just a glimmer. Point me to the file on Fredrica Bimmel."

It was the one closest to the bed, and she hauled it on the mattress, suppressing the giggles when the springs groaned.

"How did you sleep on this thing?" he asked.

"I've only had to do it once," she said. "And I had to stay very still."

"That's no fun."

"Especially if you flop around as much as I do."

"You were pretty still last night."

The hairs on her neck prickled up with unease charged with –

Nope.

"I need to change," she said. Her suit was hanging in the closet, and she grabbed it as she walked into the bathroom. She sat on the commode and put her head in her hands. 

Even though she hadn't walked ten steps, she was out of breath and felt like a sick puppy for even edging on the thoughts in her mind. It was easy to stuff them back and pretend they hadn't been about to happen. Easier still to look at her suit, counting the buttons on the black jacket, just to make sure they were all there. No need in looking like she didn't care about her appearance, even if it was the last thing on her mind. She took off Will's clothes and put on her daily uniform for work: black slacks, black jacket, blouse of varying colors, holster over her shoulders. The loafers on her feet were leather and good quality, one of the nicer pair she owned. She felt more like her real self when she walked out, tossing the clothes in the hamper. Hair combed and pulled into a twist, swipe of lip gloss on her lips. If she'd had her gun, it would be any other morning, and when she pulled it out of the lockbox in her trunk before leaving, she'd be who she really was: Special Agent Clarice M. Starling.

Will did a double-take, then smothered a wry smile. "My my, Clarice. How quickly you change from the girl next door to a badass FBI agent."

"They're just clothes," she said.

"It's more than an outfit."

"Maybe. I don't know."

"You know better than anyone that the clothes make the man. Or the woman."

"Tell that to a poor kid, and they'll punch you in the eye and spit in it."

"What about you, all grown up and no longer poor?"

She considered it. "I'd be inclined to agree with you. Mostly."

"I grew up poor, too. And threw a few punches," he said.

"I'm going to make a sandwich. You like peanut butter or tuna?"

"Either. Doesn't matter."

It didn't matter to her either, and she picked peanut butter since it wouldn't smell. The hotel wasn't allowed in her room, and she didn't want the tuna to stink it up if the maid was already gone. She made a mental note to pick up some fresh towels from the desk when she handed Will a sandwich. He was sitting in the chair by the window, flipping through a thick file she'd bound herself in the copy room. He set it down and took what she offered.

"Do you want me to go with you to the Bimmel's?" he asked.

"No reason for you to be there," she said, then cursed herself. "I mean, without credentials, it wouldn't look right. Jack could probably scare some up some real quick if you want them, though."

"Doubtful, not with my record."

"I thought you had immunity, everything expunged."

"Still won't pass clearance."

"Think or know?"

He chewed thoughtfully. "Think."

"You don't know until you ask," she said and sent Jack a text.

He laughed. "You're a real firecracker, aren't you?"

"I've been called worse," she said. "Usually a ball buster."

"It's a front."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Just like your big scary drunk thing is a front."

"It really isn't, Clarice. You should be scared of me. You just don't know it yet."

Her phone vibrated, and she checked Jack's text: Pick up in Miami by 1800 if he's serious. Special Investigator, limited privileges. I'll work on compensation. You are his official babysitter if he says yes, but you need to rest. No more work after today, not for you. I mean it. 

Clarice rolled her eyes and nodded at Will. "Special Investigator, limited privileges, and he'll work on pay. Sound good?"

Will closed his eyes and nodded.

He said yes.

Chapter Text

The Bimmel's trailer was in a small park five minutes out of town. Clarice got out of the car, hating the sweat that started to collect on the small of her back. She'd left Will at the hotel, deep in thought as he continued to work through Fredrica's file. He'd gone silent after they finished eating, and it had given her enough time to work through her emails and answer a few before leaving.

She wished he was here with her, his eyes looking over the property with her as she walked around. It was nice enough, nicer than the one she and her father had moved to after her mother was killed. Little pansies planted around the grate on the bottom, grass freshly mowed, and a sign out front was painted with a friendly Welcome. The man who answered was just as welcoming, freshly shaven with warm, brown eyes.

"Agent Starling?" 

She nodded and held out her badge for him to look at. He invited her in and offered coffee, which she accepted to be polite. It was hot and a little weak, but she drank it like it was the best thing on Earth.

"I don't know what else I can tell you. I gave the state police a statement last month."

"I'm trained differently than they are," she said. "I'm not a cop. I study people who do the things that happened to Fredrica. Sometimes it's the details we don't think to tell that can help make the sketch of who they are, without ever meeting them."

"What do you want to know?" Gus Bimmel asked her.

"What was she like? Tell me the things you'd tell her if you had a chance to talk to her again."

Gus's brown eyes got red, and he puffed several breaths before he spoke again. "She was as good as they come. Kind to everyone, never met a stranger. The smartest thing you ever saw. She could remember everything she ever read like she'd just finished the book. I'd never seen anything like it – me and her momma barely finished high school."

"What did she like to read?"

"Everything. Books I ain't never heard of. She left some here in her room over the summer. She said she wouldn't need them the next term. If you want to look at them, they're still there. Everything is still there like she left it."

"I'd like to do that, thank you, sir."

"Whatever you need, Agent Starling."

"Did she have many friends?"

"Not around here anymore. She's been gone too long to keep up with 'em."

"What about in Alabama?"

"I don't think so. She didn't talk about anyone other than her roommate."

"Kathleen Johnson?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes. "She's a good one, that girl. Been by three times since my baby… She brought me a casserole last week, all the way from Auburn. Said she was thinking of me and liked to drive. Fredrica was like that, too."

"Their mommas raised them right. And their daddies, Mr. Bimmel."

Gus nodded and smiled, shaking his leg so hard that Clarice's coffee cup started moving across the table. He needed a break, likely to go outside and cry where she couldn't see him. Men like him still did that, and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with it in her book.

"I'm going to go look in Fredrica's room for a minute if that's okay with you. I won't bother anything unless it's something we might need to take a better look at."

"Alright. Last room down the hall," he said. He didn't get up until she left the room, and he almost made it to the door before a sob left him.

Clarice pretended not to notice and walked down the narrow hall until she faced a pull open door. It was covered with a façade that looked like wood, but it was metal underneath like hers had been. She closed her eyes and touched it, remembering the way her door had felt late at night. Cold and hard, squeaky when it rained, and too thin. 

She could hear Mr. Bimmel was crying out in the yard like her daddy did when his dreams got bad. 

The Bimmels were poor but proud like the Starlings had been, and everything was as nice as it could be. Nothing to see here, nothing but dreams gone wrong and a dead woman who everyone missed too much.

She opened the door, opening her eyes as she looked in the sun-filled room. Bedspread bright blue and cheerful, faded from a hundred washings at the laundromat. White sheers on the window, letting in the hazy light but not hiding the sunshine. Books, so many books lining every surface: Dante, Homer, Chaucer, Faulkner, O'Connor, Hemingway, Austin, the Brontë's… no one left out.

Escape. Someone else's life, not hers. 

Away, far away from a life she wasn't happy with.

How did she buy the books? None were new, but they were well kept. 

She looked in the closet. Nothing there except for two checked blue uniforms, one with a name-badge that read Fredrica in all caps. Did she work at Kay's Diner on breaks? If she was a good worker, they were probably glad to have her back, even for a few weeks.

No journals here, only a few dusty legal pads with notes about Chaucer. Master's degree or doctoral work?

Jewelry box on the dresser, containing a thin gold band. Her mother's wedding ring. Too precious to sell, and too precious to take to school. Things that belong at home until there was a new place to call home.

The book with the most worn binding stood out to her, and she took it from the shelf, flipping through it until a piece of folded paper fell out. Unfolding it, she found a profile for heavenlyconnection.com. It looked like a dating site, and she noted Fredrica's username, ChaucerL0ver, before setting Light in August back as it was. 

So many books, including lighter reading with pictures of legs and desserts on the front. Never a whole woman or the whole picture: a hand holding coffee, a leg in a pool, a foot in the sand, faces hidden behind big hats. Parts of a life, but not the whole story.

A roll of film flickered in Clarice’s mind, pictures of women. Their meaty muscle where their skin had been removed. The look of terror that was forever frozen on their faces as the mask of death was pressed into the remaining skin.

O'Connor, a gothic Southern writer who wrote grotesque tales of how hard it was to find a good man.

Faulkner, who wrote stories about tragedy and loss in a world divided by race and class.

Chaucer, documenting archaic tales used to teach lessons to the masses.

What tales would your life teach, Fredrica? Stay home, stay safe. Because the goblins will get you if you don't watch out.

There were old yearbooks off to the side, stacked up on a makeshift desk made from an old card-table, covered in antique tatted fabric. English Club, French Club, Honor's Society – all the academic clubs accounted for. No sports or band, only Fredrica's shining face in the back rows, smiling for the camera. Always smiling, even if her eyes shone like rhinestones. Pretty but cheap, a dime a dozen in a world where everyone else thought they were diamonds.

But you were the diamond, weren't you?

Loneliness tore through her, and she wished Will was here again. It felt like a betrayal to Johnny's memory, but Will would understand this. Johnny was from a good family, the All-American boy. Football, Key Club, Most Likely to Succeed. Popular, healthy, and happy about everything. Even with her decision to be his friend. Will would understand the low level of this pain, the empty ache she felt when she looked at this room.

She couldn't stay here much longer. She had what she needed, and she would come back if she didn't.

Mr. Bimmel was in the front yard, spitting a cheek of dip when Clarice walked out. "Did you get what you were looking for?" he asked.

"I think so. And I didn't have to take a thing."

"Good," he said, not looking at her.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me about her? Anything at all?"

"It would take hours," he said. "I could fill a book about her if I could write like she did. Just find the monster who done this to her."

"We will. And maybe one day, someone will write a book about what a fine girl your baby was." 

She held her hand out for him to shake, but Mr. Bimmel pulled her into a hug instead. Clarice froze from the touch, then hugged him back just as hard. 

"Bless you, Agent Starling," he whispered. "God have mercy on us."

"Do you need someone to pray with you?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, his voice breaking. 

She kneeled in front of him, holding both of his hands in hers. Fuck regulation, fuck working for the government. She took the memory she held of her paster praying with her and her dad at the old house after the Sheriff came to talk to them. They'd come as a team, killing two birds with one stone. 

Except they'd only killed one. 

The other never died and flew far away, all the way to the FBI.

"Lord Jesus, you came to this earth to bear our griefs and carry our sorrows. We are grieved by many things – most often by the changes in this world and by the loss of the people and things we hold dear. Remind us that you are our greatest treasure, our dearest friend, our faithful Savior. Amen."

"Amen," he whispered. "Thank you."

"Do you want me to call someone for you?"

"I'll be alright. Kathy always comes by to check on me ‘fore she goes to work."

"Kathy from the diner?"

"Yeah."

Clarice smiled. "She's keeping unsweet tea for me, in case I come by."

"You ain't –"

"From around here, no. But I didn't grow up too far off," she said, giving his hands a squeeze. "Do you have my number?"

"Yes'em."

"You call me if you think of something. 'Kay?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Call me Clarice, Mr. Bimmel."

"You can call me Gus."

"Thank you, Gus." She waved as she walked to her car, holding a smile until she reached the end of the street. The smile stayed plastered on her face until she got to the highway, melting into a frown. 

She'd wanted Will with her, even though she should have been craving Johnny like her own air. Johnny had been good and kind. A man of his word, even when that word had been hard. 

And Johnny had died to keep her alive.

When she got back to the hotel, she was crying, and she didn't bother hiding it from Will when she walked in.

"Clarice?" He jumped up from the chair and followed her until she shut the door to the bathroom and leaned against it.

"I'm fine." 

"Liar."

"I don't like feeling this way," she said. "You don't need to see it."

A beat. "Come on out. I've already seen it worse than this."

She opened the door and let him hold her like Johnny would have. It was safe. He was safe, or safe enough.

Safe and sound.

"How far is it to Miami?" she said, sniffling.

"About two hours if the traffic isn't bad. And the traffic is always bad."

"Fuck," she said. "I want to go fishing with you today."

"Night fishing," he said. "Maybe we'll catch a shark."

"I'd rather catch Buffalo Bill."

"We will," he said. "I promise."

"And some fish."

"I'll fry them up myself, even if it's two in the morning," he whispered. "Aren't you supposed to start a vacation tomorrow?"

Yep.

"No?"

"Clarice?"

"How did you know?"

"I called Jack after you left. I've been assigned to babysit you while you're here."

"I was supposed to babysit you first. Per Jack."

"Figures," he muttered. "Check out of this dump. My couch pulls out. You can stay with me. We could babysit each other and look through the files together. I won't tell Uncle Jack if you don't."

She looked up at him and nodded. "Yeah."

Will grinned and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's pack you up. And maybe they won't charge Uncle Sam for another night if we work fast."

Clarice's room was in such good order that it took all of ten minutes to pack her bags and boxes, and another ten to stow everything in her rental car. She argued the hotel manager into refunding the night to her credit card, a minor victory she enjoyed winning. A quick gas up, and they were on the highway, heading to Miami.

It took two and a half hours to get there, spent in an easy silence while they listened to NPR, not talking about why Clarice had come back to the room in tears. She appreciated it, but she was so distracted by her inner monologue that she didn't notice the car that had started following them once they passed Coconut Grove.

Someone had heard through her wide network of sources that Clarice Starling would be in Florida for an interview before she took some much-needed personal leave. And when she'd gotten an urgent text telling her that Will Graham was being re-credentialed today, hush-hush and on the rush, she'd taken the first flight to Miami, getting lucky when she saw the rented car with Clarice's bright hair shining like the afternoon sun. She parked close to the field office, snapping pictures and keeping this major victory close to her when she saw Clarice and Will walk in, more so when his hand protectively touched the small of her back as he opened the door for her. That was more than enough for Freddie Lounds, and she wrote the article as soon as she got back to her hotel room after losing Clarice's car in the heavy Miami-Dade traffic. 

That didn't matter. 

If they were working together, The Death Angel and the free half of the Murder Husbands, then she'd have enough traffic on her site to pay for the trip twenty times over. Freddie smirked at her computer when she finished the article, telling what she knew and what her 'sources' had told her. She'd run it in the morning before she flew back to Washington. 

All good things to those who wait, and this one would be worth it.

Chapter Text

"This picture is worse than the last one," Will said, looking at his new badge before tossing it in her glove compartment.

"If you'd let me stop by your house so you could put on a decent shirt, it would have been better."

"It's not the shirt as much as…" He waved his hand over his face.

"You need a haircut?" she asked, stone-faced.

"No, more of the –"

"You can use my razor to shave the scruff if you don't mind that I use it to shave my legs."

And other places.

"My scars, Clarice. I look like Frankenstein's grandfather."

"Well, not his grandfather. Second cousin's uncle twice removed."

"Stop it," he said, though he hid a smile.

"I could cut your hair if you want me to. I used to cut Johnny's when he got too busy to run to the barber."

"I might take you up on that," he said. 

"No promises, but he never complained about my lack of skills."

"I bet few people complain when it comes to you."

She scoffed and changed lanes. "You'd be surprised, Will Graham. I've made a few enemies along the way."

"Like who?"

"Does the name Paul Krendler ring a bell?"

Will shook his head. "Not really."

"He took over from Kade Prurnell at Justice when she got the ax."

He shuddered. "Dumbest name in history given to the biggest idiot I ever met."

"Pretty talk."

"I speak the truth."

"I feel the same way about Paul Krendler, but not for the same reasons. Prurnell was a poor imitation of what was coming. Paul doesn't know his ass from his mouth, and he talks out of both ends often enough, so same difference."

"Pretty talk."

"Takes an asshole to know one," she laughed, feeling no humor. "I have my moments, Will. You've barely seen them. When you were on trial, I got loaned out to the forensics team working on... that."

"You have a forensic background?"

"Yep – ERT in New York. Krendler was a state attorney then, working with the prosecution. And he and I butted heads over the — what was found in your sink. I found a smudge I could prove was from a glove, and he fought to get it suppressed. I got censured for what I said to him, officially. But when I was proven right… it magically went away."

He stayed silent for a while, then shook his head and looked out the window. "Do I want to know what you said?"

"I called him a mealy-mouthed baboon assed bastard. I heard it in a movie once and thought it sounded just right."

Clarice had almost ended her career before it started, standing up for the evidence and standing up for the man sitting next to her, who taught her to stand up for the evidence. 

"Oh my God," he said, genuinely laughing for the first time in the last three days. It sounded foreign coming from his mouth, and her lips twisted into a grin, proud that she could give him such a simple gift.

"He's also grabbed my ass a few times. Somehow my complaints with the union never seem to see the light of day. Weird, isn't it?"

"That's not right," Will said.

"Johnny caught him once and almost tore his head off. It's why we-"

Confidential. Don't talk. Keep the secrets.

"Why you were sent on the raid?"

"Can neither confirm nor deny," she said quietly.

"Paul Krendler is responsible for your partner's death, and you can't talk about it?"

"Not if I want to keep my job, and I want my job. I fought like a hell to get where I am, despite what he's done to try to keep me down," she said through gritted teeth, silently thanking Jack Crawford for being a saint. "Off-limits."

"Would John Brigham say the same thing if he was in your shoes?"

"He was faithful to the Corps and to the FBI. I bet he would."

"And I'd bet diamonds for dollars that he was more faithful to you than the job."

"You didn't even know him. Not like I did."

Paul telling her that she was a corn-porn country pussy after she told him to go home to his wife. Johnny yelling until he was red in the face and had to be escorted from the Justice Building. Clarice taking him home, sitting with him until he cooled off. Ardelia coming over with food, sitting with both of them until she drove Clarice home. Crying with her the rest of the night, helping her make plans in case the worst happened. No one imagining that the worst would be a raid gone FUBAR.

"How mad are you right now?"

"Mad enough that we need to call a truce before I blow my top."

"I'll drop it."

"Good."

Her hands were shaking on the wheel, and she gripped it tightly, taking a couple of breaths to calm down. She glanced at Will and noticed his hands were shaking, too, though probably for a different reason. 

"Do you mind if I stop?"

"For what?"

"I need to use the restroom," she lied, not looking when he made two fists and relaxed them, then made them again when they didn't stop shaking. They were out of town and back on the highway, and it was a quick turn off to pull into a gas station. "Be back in a sec."

The bathroom was decent, and she splashed icy water on her face, over and over until the boil cooled down to a simmer. 

He was more than faithful to you. But you wanted Will Graham with you at the Bimmel house. Goddamn it, Clarice. Piece of shit, no count, poor trash of a girl. All you are and all you'll ever be, isn't it?

Her eyes were all wrong, watery and red, blue and cold like Will's.

You made a promise, and he made a promise. Keep the promise, keep the secrets.

Keep going until you find him.

Eyes blue and pink, like a baby shower for twins.

They both made a promise to you. 

Eyes blue and white, like the dress uniform she'd laid Johnny in for his funeral. Blue and white, until Jack quietly touched her arm as the guns began to fire. Pink again, shifting to red, and she'd wept for her work husband after the flag was given to her. Jack had stayed after everyone left and prayed with her by his casket.

Promise?

Will was standing next to the passenger door, newly credentialed and drinking in public. He smiled when he saw her, and it wasn't Johnny's smile, all cocky and sure. It was crooked from the big scar on his right cheek, but it felt more right than Johnny's ever did.

Keep going, Clarice.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, drinking the rest of his beer. "What about you?"

Not really.

"Let's get back on the road. I could be hungry by the time we get back to Marathon."

"We can stop at the diner. Split a shake before we go fishing to tide us over."

"Do they make pineapple?"

He nodded, and the smile deepened. Crooked and weird and just right. "Have I told you I like you today?"

"Nope."

"Well, I do."

"Glad to hear someone does," she said. 

NPR was still good. He didn't ask her why her shirt and hair were wet when she got back in the car, and she didn't mention that she smelled more than beer on his breath. Everything was fine, thank you very much. And when they rolled into Kay's Diner, she ordered the shake to go along with one of those mammoth cups of unsweet tea. 

"How much do I owe you?" Clarice asked, looking back to the car. Will had another beer in his hand, drinking it as fast as he could before she got back. Drinking in public, even though the credentials were new and the ink on his badge was still wet.

"You don't owe me anything, honey. I stopped by Gus's today. It's the first time I've seen him with any kind of hope since Fredrica –" 

Kathy with a paper napkin to her mouth, unable to speak. 

"God bless you, Agent Starling. You're an angel sent to us."

Ten men around her, all dead. 

Ten armed men who had been firing at the team. 

John Brigham with his back to her, covering her corners and catching a bullet in the neck that was meant for her.

Ten bad men with families they would never go home to because Clarice had shot them all, trained so well by John Brigham that she never pulled the trigger unless she meant it.

Johnny on the ground in front of her while she performed CPR with a DEA agent whose name she'd learned an hour before the raid. Giving him the breath of life, giving him the only kiss they would ever share.

"It's my job, Kathy. I'll help find the man who did this to her."

Kathy nodded and walked to the back, hiding her tears in the way women do, even when the woman she mourned had been more than a friend.

Johnny gasping one more time, whispering the last words he'd ever say.

"You come back, and we'll talk about Fredrica, okay? She was like a daughter to me, and Mike too. Come back with Will, and we'll tell you all we know about her."

Kathy, with three cups in her hands, sharing love the best way she knew. 

"He used to be like you before all that bad stuff happened to him."

"Love… you." 

Blood in Johnny's mouth, mixing with her spit and tears. Clarice unable to say it back until after he stopped breathing. 

Silence. 

No heartbeat, more CPR until three paramedics had to pull her off of him.

"Call me Clarice. We'll come back soon. I promise. And we'll talk about your girl." 

Clarice, with a sympathetic smile on her face, taking a clumsy hug from Kathy before walking out of the door. 

Her gun was heavy on her shoulder, and she was ready not to be herself anymore.

"Jesus, she gave you a triple order," Will said.

"This is a nice town," she said automatically, looking behind her as she reversed the rented car. "Word travels fast when you're looking into the murder of a local girl. Maybe you should try living here."

"Haha, hoho," he said, taking a sip from the cup and pulling a face. "That's your tea."

"Put it between us and give me my shake," she said. It was tangy and sweet and cold, but it tasted like ash on her tongue. "Actually, swap me for the tea." 

The flavor of Will's mouth on her straw, beer and bourbon. Bitter and cold, and just what she wanted. Johnny swapping drinks with her on the commute when she couldn't make up her mind. The flavor of Johnny's mouth on her straw, minty and clean and warm.

"It's still light enough outside that we should be able to fish for a while before the sun sets. Fried fish before two in the morning."

"That would be great. I probably won't catch anything, though."

"As little as you eat, it won't be a problem if we don't catch much."

"And if we catch nothing?"

He shrugged. "There's always a fish hungry enough to get hooked."

Johnny's eyes on her while they jogged in the morning, covertly watching while she laughed.

They pulled into the drive, carrying all of her boxes and bags in until she sat on the couch, looking at all the shit that now sat in Will's non-living room. Clarice moved into her after-work routine, changing into running shorts and a t-shirt, one of her own that had the UVA crest over her left breast. Will brought her a bottle of bleach and a scrub brush when she asked for it and didn't say a word when she scrubbed the bathroom clean again. 

Gun locked and stowed in the hall closet, badge sitting in her bag on the kitchen counter. 

Just Clarice again, like she would have to be for another seven days.

She was a quick study and caught a trout on her first cast, a big one that would be enough to share for dinner. It went in the ice chest between them.

"Tell me about your mom. What was she like?"

Will's eyes on her whenever she was in his eye line, covertly watching as she fell apart. 

She cast the line into the waves and closed her eyes.

Don't think.

Chapter Text

"Mom worked dispatch at the station in town. She loved it, called it directing traffic, not that there was much. But she got to boss the boys around when there was, and she got a kick out of it."

"Was she popular?"

"Oh yeah. The guys at the station came around when they were off. Always loud laughter and good times, poker games, and enough beer and food to go around back then."

Will nodded and reeled his line back in. She didn't know what the hell he caught. The fish was ugly as fuck and looked as mean as a damn snake. He threw it back and winked at her. "No need to keep them all. Just what we need. Keep going."

"She… Daddy was a veteran."

"Army?"

"Yeah."

"Vietnam."

"Are you a psychic or something?" There was a tug on her line, and she reeled it in. This fish looked friendly, and she looked to Will for guidance. "Keeper?"

"Throw him in the chest."

She did that, though she hoped she wouldn't have to eat that one. "You didn't answer me."

"Not psychic. I know how to pay attention like you do. The way your routines are set out lets me know that someone in your house was in the military, but your mouth lets me know someone cursed like general infantry. With everything… Vietnam fits. Did he ever go to the VA?"

"At least once, I think. Momma said he wouldn't go back, probably because he was sick of being told what to do."

Will raised a brow and sat on the cooler, cracking open a beer. "So she took care of him."

"Yep."

"And you learned from watching her do it."

Fucking psychic.

Fucking profiler.

Just like her, before all the bad shit happened to both of them.

"She was good with him. Knew how to talk sweet and talk right, not get on his bad side. I could never do it. I was born with a smart mouth. Probably two weeks old the first time I got in trouble. But she could mediate it, made sure the spankings weren't too harsh and made sure I stayed in line. Took care of him, took care of me, took care of all her boys at the station, even the ones half her age. She was pretty darn perfect, Will. Daddy sure thought so, too."

"What was her name?"

"Joanie. My dad's name was Jim. I was born a little late for them; Momma didn't think they could have kids. She was five months pregnant before she realized I was there."

"I bet she didn't ignore you after that."

"Hell no," Clarice said. Her arm was sore, and instead of pretending that he wasn't watching her, she reeled in the line and sat down her pole, sitting next to him on the cooler when he scooted over. "Mom sewed all my clothes. Made sure my hair was combed and neat. Did homework with me, read with me before bed or when I got up depending on what shift she worked that week."

"Apple of her eyes."

"Center of her world," she agreed. "Well, off-center. Dad came first, but it was a close tie."

"I had a mother, but I never knew her. You were lucky to feel that kind of love."

"Maybe. I don't know if it's harder never to know or to have it disappear on you."

He was quiet for a while, quiet and thinking hard before he scooted closer to her and took a sip from his can. "What happened the day she died?"

"She stopped off at the gas station after work. She and the guys were going to play poker with dad, and we were out of beer. The attendant was already dead when she walked inside with her wallet. Daddy made her carry a gun outside the house, but it was in the front seat at the bottom of her purse. The unsub shot her in the head and took off."

"Did they catch him?"

"No. The security camera wasn't working… no one living saw a thing. I didn't even get to see her before they buried her; she was too messed up. Just a box with roses on the top and a lot of men in uniforms trying not to cry. Half the station had to walk out before the service was over. They couldn't handle it."

"They thought a lot about her."

"She was everybody's mom," Clarice said. "Not just mine."

"Did your dad walk out, too?"

"No, but he held my hand so hard that it was bruised for a few weeks. I've never seen him cry, not even when I was…"

"What?"

Taken away by the men who had been his friends. 

Given to the state to raise up right.

"Off-limits."

Will patted her back and rubbed the spot between her shoulders that was aching from keeping the rest of it in. She wondered how he knew, realizing that he must hurt there too, especially on days when he checked the mail. Her feet in the warm sand, hair catching the warm breeze, and Will's warm hand on her back… if they hadn't been talking about a dead woman, it would have looked a lot like a vacation.

She'd have to write a report about what she saw today. She'd do it tomorrow morning and send it to Jack with a wicked smile on her face, needling Dad again to see what kind of trouble she could make.

But not really working, not with the sand on her feet and the ocean in front of her. 

Not really a vacation, with the files of the dead women in the non-living room, filling up the space Will called his home.

His hand on her back, inching down to her waist, holding her close. Offering support in the best way he knew.

She was hungry and tired but not too lonely or angry to make bad choices. But Will felt so good by her side, warm skin and the warm waves rolling in front of them. 

His fingers on her waist, tightening enough to make her heart race. Testing the waters, searching for boundaries, seeing what might happen.

"Why were you going to stay here on your personal time, Clarice?" 

His hand on her hip, their hips pressed together on the cooler. 

"You could go anywhere. Why here with me?"

"Because I've never been to the beach," she said. She opened her mouth again, wanting to add something more profound, but it was a simple truth. 

Clarice Starling was thirty-five years old, had worked on an island for five years and lived within driving distance of the ocean for three, but she had never taken the time to look at the sea. Looking for who Fredrica was what brought her here. It was the last stop of her odyssey to discover who the dead women had been, Jack's way of getting her out of Washington and Quantico until the firestorm ended. And she'd stayed at the cheapest, tackiest hotel in Will's town because she wanted to know what walking on the beach felt like without everyone staring at her.

The Death Angel.

"I'm glad you decided to stay."

Her hand on his knee, feeling muscle over bone as her fingers traced an old scar. 

As thin as he was now, there was a wiry strength about him, similar to her own. She had hauled him to his bathroom even though he was a foot taller than her, and she could take him down if needed.

Would she ever need to?

Would he hurt her if he had a chance?

Those girls had trusted someone enough to get close to them. Close, closer, so close that he could cut up their shirts and whisk them away.

Her hand on his thigh, wondering where the scar ended and almost too afraid to find the answer.

His hand on her hip, possessively pressing his fingertips into her warm skin.

His lips in her hair, gently placing a kiss on her temple.

Her hand on his thigh, sliding higher, an inch away from something warm and terrifying and wonderful.

"We need to stop," Will said, his lips still on her temple.

"We've only known each other three days," Clarice said, her hand a breath away.

The wall between them rising back up, though with enough spaces between the bricks that they could see each other through the cracks.

"I'll fry the fish. What we have is enough."

"I'll make some tea. I saw some yesterday."

"I own tea?"

"Yep."

"Will you put some sugar in it?"

"Not a chance in hell."

Her hand on his knee. His cheek on her temple.

He laughed again, and she memorized the sound. "I'll have beer. Do I own rice?"

She laughed, and it scared her because it had been so long since she'd heard its genuine sound. "Actually, you do."

"And milk. I can make rice pudding if I still remember how."

Her mom used to make that. They made it together on Sundays after church, leaving out the raisins because Daddy hated them. Poor folk's food, easy to make but not easy to make in a tasty way. 

Wanting to know what Will would taste like, warm and sweet in her mouth.

"I'd like that. What can I make?"

"Tea."

"And?"

His hand on her hip, shaking as he squeezed it tighter.

"Nothing. Sit on the counter by the stove while I cook for you."

The cracks getting wider, vibrating until a hand could reach through.

"I can do that," she said.

Her hand on his wrist, bringing a scarred palm to her mouth so she could kiss it.

His hand against her lips, trembling as she slid it to her neck.

Her hand over his, holding it to her breast as his thumb grazed over a tight nipple.

"Promise?" he asked in a husky voice that made her melt.

"Promise," she moaned, wanting something that she'd never thought to ask from anyone else. Because good girls didn't, but then again, she wasn't a very good girl at all now that Johnny was dead.

She closed her eyes.

Don't think.

Will sensed the change in her, kissing her temple before he stood and walked to the waves. Now she watched him, letting her eyes move over the man she'd thought was an old scarecrow. 

But he wasn't. 

Will was stronger than he ever knew, especially now that his demon had been buried in a cell deep within the earth. 

But Clarice was weaker than she'd ever been, now that her hero was buried in a coffin at Arlington National Cemetery.

Don't think.

Clarice stood, walking eleven steps to stand behind him. She placed her arms around Will's waist and pressed a kiss to the center of his back.

"Do I own wine?"

"There's some in the back of the pantry."

"White?"

"Red, I think. It's in a box, so it was hard to tell."

"I'll drink that instead. Better for the heart, and… other things."

"We could go for a walk after dinner. That's good for the heart, too."

He put his hands over hers and squeezed. "I've heard. And if I can't keep up?"

"I'll slow down, but only for you."

When he chuckled, she could feel it vibrate against her cheek. "Then we'll take a walk in the dark. Do I own a flashlight?"

"I saw a few."

"Batteries?"

"Those too."

"Good," he said. "We can go snipe hunting while we're out there."

Clarice laughed again, the giggles pressing her chest snug against his back. He smelled like the fabric softener she used on his clothes yesterday, off-brand and a lot like home. "I may have been out of the country for a while, but not long enough to fall for that shit."

They carried the cooler back to the house, and he sat outside, cleaning the fish while she found what he needed to cook dinner. When she walked outside to check on him, the sun was gone, leaving a blue-black sky studded with a million stars. Wonder crossed over her when she realized their stars had been the same more often than not. But in the city, she'd never taken the time to stare up at the smoggy, light-polluted sky to notice.

Buffalo Bill's stars might be the same too. 

She closed her eyes, trying to see life through his lenses, trying to see the sky that was darkening over his house. 

Do you look at the sky at night, hoping your next victim is as lonely as you are?

Visions passed before her, visions of women who were dead and alive and frozen in time. Bright and ambitious, who longed and ached for something outside of their reach. An emotion they pushed back, a relationship that they didn't want to waste precious time in developing, except on their own terms.

Connection.

You want a connection too, don't you? But your terms change the moment you get close enough to slice open their shirts, demeaning them to the only thing you are capable of understanding about them.

Skin. Flesh. Warmth. Need.

Fish blood and guts were in the bag that Will carried back to the sea, giving back to the water the remnants of what they had taken. Warm blood and flesh that would feed the shark they didn't catch.

She sat on the counter by the stove, noticing that his hand rested on her thigh as he watched the rice simmer. A juice glass of red wine was in his other hand, making his breath sweet as he spoke to her about the dogs he'd left with Wally. 

A boy needed his dogs so much more than a man who was dead inside.

A man deprived of touch could be so cold and cruel, almost as cruel as a man touched with a cold hand. But Will's hand was warm, and she put her hand over his, wanting to continue the connection as she squeezed his thumb between her fingers.

Fish frying that had been wriggling through the waves an hour ago. Sweet, sticky rice cooking in a kettle on the back burner. A man with a hand on her thigh and a glass of wine in the other, shyly smiling at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and it almost felt like a vacation.

Chapter Text

Clarice sat on the deck and finished her report, sending it to Jack with a smile not unlike the Cheshire Cat. She could almost hear him in his office, slurping a midmorning cup of coffee as her email appeared. And if she closed her eyes, she could see the murderous expression on his face when he looked up at the computer screen.

It was Friday, which meant the cafeteria would have coconut cake, big slices cut thick and square with creamy icing on the top. They set them out early, and Jack was always the first one downstairs at nine-thirty sharp, picking up two and slyly slipping Clarice a piece on his way back to that dark office in the corner.

The time on her phone changed to nine-forty, and Clarice was about to eat her cake exactly the way she liked it.

She licked her lips and started counting.

Five, four, three, two…

Her phone vibrated, and she picked it up on one.

"What did I tell you about working?" Jack asked.

"I had a report to finish," she said innocently, crossing her fingers and placing them behind her back. "We got back from Miami too late to do anything other than go fishing."

"Will took you fishing?" Jack had the nerve to sound satisfied.

"He did."

"What did you catch?"

"Trout."

"And how much did you eat, Clarice?"

Half of the smallest filet and enough rice pudding to make her belly ache, and she'd slid her plate to Will when she couldn't eat the rest.

"Everything on my plate, Dad."

"Are you at the hotel?"

"I-uh… Will offered to let me sleep on the couch. Oceanfront property, private beach…" she drawled, offering the bait. 

"Sounds like paradise."

"It is. Especially for two babysitters who can watch each other better without the drive."

Caught you red-handed, didn't we?

"What was that? I'm sorry, Clarice. Director Noonan just walked into my office. Hi, Gloria, how are you…?"

"I'll bet she did," Clarice said. "Bye, Jack." She ended the call and set her phone down, pursing her lips before she picked it up again.

"Zeller."

"Hello, Brian."

A pause on his end and a quick shuffling of papers. "What do you want, Clarice?"

"Do we have the data dumps on the laptops yet?"

"No, but tech says it'll be ready by the end of the day."

"Can you send them to me when they come across the wire?"

"Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?"

Goddamn it, Brian.

"Yes."

"Jack would kill me. You know that, don't you?"

"What Jack doesn't know won't hurt him. And he hired me a real nice babysitter to make sure I get plenty of rest."

"No."

"Brian Maynard Zeller –"

"Nope. Huh-uh. Don't pull that Mom bullshit on me. I'm not in the mood."

"Alright," she said, leaning in as she went for the jugular. "Then I guess I'll finally have to tell Jimmy about the time that Johnny and I found you in his office, jacking off to a picture of the First Lady. We let you live it down, but he never will. Especially when he finds out that you couldn't figure out exactly where the money shot got flung to."

She could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed before Brian Zeller whispered, "I hate you, Clarice."

"So you'll give me what I want?"

A long, drawn-out sigh. "Yes."

"Thank you," she said sweetly. "You're a peach. A Georgia peach. I'll stop and get you a bushel on the drive home."

"Fuck you, too. You know I'm allergic."

"See you soon, Peaches."

"Hey, Clarice?"

"What's up?"

A pause. "Tell Will that Jimmy and I said hi. He never answers the phone when we call him."

"I will," she said.

"You okay?"

"I went fishing last night, Brian. Caught a big one and ate him up fresh."

"Sounds great."

"It really was."

"Take care of yourself. It's not the same without you keeping everyone in line."

She bit her lip. "I know. I'll be back before you know it, with a tan and a bloated belly from all the fish we're gonna catch."

"See you soon."

"Bye," she said, hitting the red button. She closed her laptop and took it back to the house, placing it back in her bag before walking to the non-living room. 

Will was still asleep, where she should have been if the dreams hadn't been bad enough to wake her up before her alarm would have gone off if she wasn't on vacation. They'd walked on the beach until the moon rose, then walked in the other direction until they'd almost been too tired to walk back. She and Will had sat up and talked most of the night about nothing and everything, avoiding talk about her hero, his demon, and the boxes of files around them. 

But it hadn't been enough to wear out her mind.

She'd lain in bed, Will's bed that he'd graciously given up in favor of the sofa. The sheets were fresh, but they smelled like him. Even though she'd felt so safe, burrowed underneath a blanket that was teeming with the scent of a warm man… it hadn't carried over into her unconscious mind. That morning, she'd woken abruptly, sitting straight up as she tried her damndest not to scream.

Don't think.

She needed to run, run and not think about anything for a while.

Clarice pulled on her shoes and stuffed her earbuds in, drowning out the world as the world flew by around her.

Out here in the fields
I fight for my meals
I get my back into my living
I don't need to fight
To prove I'm right
I don't need to be forgiven

The sky was blue, the sun hot and bright in the humid heat. Rivers of sweat ran down her forehead and into her eyes. It stung, and she wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt, not slowing a step as she continued running down the beach. She went further than she did last time, but she didn't want to stop, not when the dreams were bad, and the rubber band inside her was about to snap in half. 

She wondered if any of the women had been able to run from Buffalo Bill. If they'd been aware enough of who he really was that they'd tried to break away, running down the road without a shirt to protect them from the eyes that traveled over them. It made her angry, and she pulled her shirt from her head, tossing it to the side as she continued to run. Fuck it, if even one of them had been able to run away with nothing but a bra on to protect them from the world, then so could she, even if hers was a thick sports bra that hid everything and revealed nothing. She had nothing to protect her, nothing to wipe her face with, and she was so angry that she didn't see the piece of driftwood before she tripped on it. 

Clarice fell, hard. Not enough to break her skin, but enough to hurt her pride so badly that she started to cry on the hot sand, pissed at herself, and pissed at the man who had cut the shirt from Fredrica Bimmel's back.

Fredrica hadn't wanted that. She'd wanted something more, someone who would unbutton her shirt from the front after having been invited to remove the cotton blouse. 

Tenderness. Respect. Affection. Connection.

Tears and sweat stung in her eyes, and she wiped them with her sandy hands, crawling to the surf to wash her gritty face. The water was cool and clean, salty enough to sting, though gentle enough to ease the sting away. 

Like a partner or a lover, or a friend who loves you enough to let you be.

A good man is hard to find, ain't it?

Especially when they've been at your side the whole time.

Clarice closed her eyes and continued to splash the cold seawater on her face as she wept.

Don't think.

She ran back to Will's house, thinking of nothing but the ground beneath her. The sun was directly overhead when she wobbled up the stairs, almost unable to bear her own weight. 

Shoes off at the back door, too sandy to bring inside.

Shirt missing, blown away by the sea breeze.

Skin red and golden, kissed by the morning sun.

And the files of ten women inside who would never feel the way she did now, not ever again.

It was never going to be a vacation, was it? 

She needed a drink, and she walked inside, grabbing a glass and filling it with the cold tea in the fridge. It was sweet, dammit, after Will had snuck some sugar in the pitcher before they went to bed. But she drank it all, filling another glass before walking into the non-living room.

The sight in front of her made her heart rise to the roof of the house, but it sure as shit felt a lot like falling when she took another step closer.

Will Graham stood in the center of the photos of the dump sites, wearing a pair of glasses she'd never seen. He was in khaki pants –

Does he own pants?

- and a blue, button-down shirt from the back of his closet. His eyes were closed, hand under his chin as he took a deep breath and softly hummed to himself. She knew the song from her parent's old records, and she could see the album in her mind, the writing partners in focus with flowers in front of the lens, hazy and bright and out of focus.

He didn't know she was there, as lost as he was in the terrifying world his mind could create. And as quietly as she knew how to be, Clarice sat on the floor between the kitchen and non-living room, silently watching Will as he dove deeper into his thoughts, the song growing more sinister with every note.

He opened his eyes and stared directly at Clarice, and her whole body stiffened. He was and wasn't Will Graham. In his eyes, there was a predator who hadn't been there when he kissed her cheek before tucking her into his bed. She took account of everything around her and remembered that she could take him down without flinching. When she stood, meeting his gaze, Clarice was not afraid. 

Not even when he started to speak.

"I am a lover. I offer the promise of desire, and I ask for one thing in return. In exchange, I give back what was given to me, dressed in a gown of the finest muslin and crowned with wildflowers and herbs. Befitting for a medieval bride, though what I have made is their funeral bed."

He stopped speaking and closed his eyes again, retreating back into the insane world the pictures had made. She didn't want to speak and break the spell, but she was too compelled not to answer him with what the victims had wanted.

"I want to be loved. I desire the creature comforts that have escaped me and want to be desired for who I am. I am drawn to you, but my desire ends the moment I see what you have planned for me."

"Why are you drawn to me? What about me calls your name?"

"You're… you're lonely, just like I am. And I think we can ease the ache we feel in each other."

"But how did you find me? Because you found me. I need to be needed, to be sought, to be loved… and the mask I wear is designed to draw you in," he asked quietly, his eyes still closed.

"I found a profile from a website called HeavenlyConnection in Fredrica's room. There were advertisements for that website in the rooms of Judy Coleman and Laura Walster. Zeller is sending me the data from their computers this afternoon. I'd bet a dollar for every speck of sand there is outside that we'll find hits to that website on all ten of them."

"Good," he said. He opened his eyes, and it was over, though this might have been worse. His eyes moved around the room, calm and so very cold. Clarice walked through the maze of photographs and touched his shoulder. Tense muscle relaxed, enough to make her relax for now.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"A drink."

She poured him three fingers of Jack, adding another since her fingers were small. He nodded when she brought it to him, and with shaking hands, he tossed it back.

"You've been running," he said smoothly.

"Yes."

"The second time this morning."

She shrugged. "I needed to clear my head."

"What you need is a shower," he said, his voice as cold as his eyes. "I could smell you the moment you walked into the house."

"Fuck you," she said, wanting to hit him.

He shook his head, setting the glass on the coffee table. In the center of the pictures of the dead women, he kneeled in front of her, buried his nose between her thighs, and breathed her in.

Oh god.

"Pheromones are the most pronounced when we sweat. Adrenaline, fear, lust… it enhances us. Makes us more attractive to our mate. Do you know that I like you?"

"Yes."

"Tell me then, do you want to know why I like you?"

"No," she whispered.

He tutted, and it didn't sound like his voice. It was too sophisticated, too cultured, and it turned her stomach. "That's a pity. I didn't take you for a coward."

Bastard.

"You know I'm not."

"Then why don't you want to know why I like you? A curious woman like yourself wants all the answers when generously offered. And you want to know, don't you?"

No. Maybe.

"Yes."

"Because I can smell how much you like me," he whispered. He stood up, towering above her, as menacing as a viper about to strike. "Across a room, across state lines… the stench of your desperation wafts to me like a sweet, delicious prize. As sweet as the cunt I can't bring myself to plunder. I want it to the point of my own desperation, and yet I can't bring myself to defile you in that way. Not after that first time. Not after I tasted that sweet meat with my own lips and found it wanting."

She knew it wasn't about her, but she was fucking done. Clarice punched him in the jaw, hard enough that the fine bones in her hand throbbed. His eyes shifted, and his hand moved to his jaw. Will was so dazed that she knew he hadn't been himself, but it didn't matter now that she'd bruised his already scarred skin.

"I'm going to take a shower," she mumbled, turning from him and carefully stepping around the photographs. 

When she closed the bathroom door, she sank to the cool tiles and put her head in her hands. 

"You're his babysitter," she whispered. "You know he processes evidence in ways no one else does. That's why Jack wants him – to feel out the edges of the unsub that we can't find. But this is why Jack asked you to stay put – to make sure he doesn't crack up. And you just punched him in the fucking face."

Goddamn it, Clarice. You had one job.

She tried to stand, but her legs were too unsteady to hold her. 

Fuck it up, buttercup.

For the second time that day, frustrated as hell and too hungry, tired, angry, and lonely to care, Clarice Starling burst into tears.

"Shit," she whispered angrily. "You fucking loser. No count, white trash, weak, pathetic –"

There was a soft knock on the door. "Can I come in?"

It was his voice, his real voice, and she nodded dumbly before saying, "Yes."

Will walked in and quietly sat on the floor next to her. His glasses were off, and he held an ice pack to his jaw.

"You own an ice pack?" she asked.

"For emergencies," he said. "I thought this would count."

"I'm sorry. I know it's part of your –"

"It's fine," he said. "I don't know if I was even in control at that point."

"I wasn't either," she admitted. "Obviously."

"Truce?"

She nodded and leaned against his shoulder, needing to breathe in who he really was. "Jack called after I sent in my report."

"Is it Friday?"

"Yep."

"Coconut cake."

"Uh-huh."

"You ruined Jack's favorite snack."

She grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time."

But it might be the last.

"Zeller and Price send their love."

"Whatever," he mumbled.

"They miss you. Everyone does."

"No one misses me. I was nothing more than a smear on the name of the Bureau by the time… by the time it was all over."
 
"You weren't," she said. "Maybe they use you as a cautionary tale to scare the cadets, but you aren't an embarrassment. Even with what it cost you, you did incredible work, and God only knows how many lives you saved."

"It didn't just cost me," he said hollowly, his eyes moving to his left hand. 

She wasn't the only one who'd made a vow without knowing the price their partner would have to pay.

Don't think.

She looked at the boxes in his living room and wondered if they would fit in the hall closet, out of sight and out of mind. And maybe this really could be a vacation.

"You don't have to do this." 

"Would you stay with me if I didn't?"

"Yes," she said. She meant it, and she found his hand. Hers fit in it almost perfectly, and she laced her fingers in his, listening to his breath speed up.

"Because you're my babysitter."

"You're mine too, in case you haven't forgotten."

"I haven't. Jack is worried about you. I could hear it in his voice. Same voice he used to use when he was so worried about me."

She closed her eyes when she whispered, "I'd stay even if we weren't assigned to watch each other."

"Being here with me won't do you any favors. You know that, don't you?"

"Maybe," she said. "Do you want to take me fishing, Will?"

"Yeah," he said. "Can I take a walk with you when we're done?"

"Yep, but I need to order more groceries before we go. You're almost out of milk."

"Do I own oysters?"

She quirked her brows. "No."

"I used to like oysters."

"I'll order some."

"I could take you to dinner, instead. There's a place in town that has oysters, red wine, and drippy candles on every table."

She lifted her head to look at him better. "Are you asking me on a date, Will Graham?"

"Yes." His eyes were his own, and they were as pleading and uncertain as a little boy who wasn't sure if he'd just gotten in trouble.

"I'd like that."

Do I own a dress?

"Yeah?"

Clarice nodded and asked, "Do you like me, Will?"

"Yes," he sighed.

"Why?"

Because you aren't like her… or him.

Clarice closed her eyes.

Don't think.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the kind of place that Clarice had ever been taken to for a first date, if that’s what this really was. Somewhere in the back, old country music was playing, the kind her Momma used to listen to in the kitchen when she cooked dinner. Drippy candles were indeed on every table, in little hurricane lamps that she wondered had ever weathered through a storm. As beaten up as the place looked, she didn’t doubt it, but the scent of fresh seafood permeated the wood in a way that let her know that this was the kind of place that endured, no matter what came around.

She had brought a dress, something packed at the last minute in case she wanted to eat somewhere besides a diner or fast-food place. Bought at Costco more for function than beauty, the sundress was thin cotton, white with tiny rosebuds printed on the fabric. With a pair of sandals on her feet, she almost felt pretty. 

Will was back in the khakis and shirt he’d worn earlier, after an afternoon spent on the beach. His hair was still wet from a shower, curling around his neck in a way that made Clarice’s heart flutter. He looked wholesome and kind, a far stretch from the man he’d been when she had come back from her run. But this man she could handle, and to prove it to herself, she laid her palm over his as he drank his second glass of red wine.

“I like this place,” she said.

“I used to like it, too. No pretension, just some pretty good damn food.”

“Well, a penny of pretense is worth a pound of shit, or something like that,” she said, a little giddy when his lips twisted into a grin.

“Have I told you that I like you today?”

“A few times.”

“I meant it,” he said.

“You never did tell me why,” she said.

He took a sip from his glass and eased back against his chair. He took her hand with him, their entwined fingers on his thigh as he glanced at her, first shy then at ease.

“Because of what you just said. Have you ever had to live in a world that made you feel less than what you are, full of the kind of pompous assholes you hated when you were a kid?”

“I can’t say I have. When I get put in those situations, I tend to show up with mud on my shoes, either literally or figuratively. Then I turn tail and leave before I get my hind end in trouble.”

Except for the times I don’t.

“I guess that’s why. You’re smart enough to see past the bullshit. Sometimes I think you’re like me, but even with –“

All the bad shit that’s happened to us.

“- everything that’s happened, you’re still trying to do something good. I wish I could have done that.”

“Who says you haven’t? You did say yes.”

“I guess I did,” he reflected, looking out of the window behind her before catching her eyes. “But I wouldn’t have volunteered without you showing up at my door.”

“Uninvited.” She sipped her tea, noticing the way his leg was brushing against hers instead of the fine tremor in his hand.

“I let you in,” he countered.

“I more busted in and rescued your sorry ass.”

“And I asked you to stay with me.”

The corners of her mouth lifted, but when she opened her mouth to speak, a waitress plopped a tray of oysters on the table, freshly shucked and on the half-shell.

“Holy guacamole,” Clarice said. “Please tell me we’re taking some of this home.”

Home?

“It’s not as much food as you think. You’ve eaten an oyster, haven’t you?”

No.

“Sure have.”

He shrugged and let go of her hand, taking a lemon wedge from the side of the tray. “Do you like lemon?”

I have no fucking clue.

“Yep.”

Will cut his eyes at her and did a piss poor job of covering a grin when he spritzed the shells a few times. He was used to being the rube in a room of cultured assholes; she knew that. But she didn’t expect him to look like he was having so much fun when the shoe was on the other foot, even if it was about a plate of fucking oysters.

Goddamn it, Will.

“Tabasco?”

“Love it.”

“Horseradish?”

“Load it up, cowboy.”

His lips quivered, chest soundlessly heaving as he tried not to laugh. He dotted everything with the condiments and leaned back in his chair, casually slurping a shell as he watched her. She took an oyster from the tray, looking down at the poor thing.

“All you have to do is put it between your lips and suck, Starling. You’ve done that a few times, haven’t you?”

Don’t think.

She closed her eyes and slurped it into her mouth, giving it a gentle chew before she swallowed. It tasted of the sea, of the spices he’d placed on the top, and the way it slid down her throat made her understand why so many people thought that eating them was an aphrodisiac.

If there was one thing Clarice Starling wasn’t, it was dumb. 

Maybe Will genuinely wanted the kind of food he hadn’t had in a while. And it was true that red wine was good for the heart. But there was also the simple fact that those things tied together with the bow on the back of her dress meant that he was trying to get into her pants. Or he was trying to get what was in his pants in a good enough mood to see what might happen.

Wasn’t he?

Here’s the bigger question: would you really mind?

“Those are the best oysters I’ve ever had,” she said truthfully.

He raised a brow and took another one, crossing his legs under the table. “Can I finally call bullshit on you?”

“You could try.”

He shook his head. “I have a feeling I’d lose.”

“You know me so well,” she smirked, taking another. This one had more Tabasco, and she decided she liked the heat. With a more experienced hand than she should have, she dotted two more with the pepper sauce and slung them back like he did his beer.

At least there were benefits in being a quick study.

“What do you do for fun?” he asked. “Besides carry the best poker face I’ve ever seen?”

“What’s fun?” she asked. “I go to the range, go for long runs. John and I used to –“

Stop it.

She shook her head, trying to clear out the painfully sweet memories. 

“Used to what?”

“Hurts,” she said. “Off-limits.”

“Whatever you did together, did it make you smile?”

“Yeah,” she said. She was stronger than the pain, and she decided to open up one of the locked gates in her memories. “Johnny and I used to run around with Ardelia and her boyfriend –“

Do thirty-six-year-old women have boyfriends?

“-on the weekends.”

“What did you like to do?”

“Nothing special,” she said. “Grill in the backyard. Watch movies.  Sit around and play cards. That kind of thing.”

“Cards?”

“Yes.”

“Poker.”

“Yep.”

“Texas Hold’em?”

She shook her head. “Good old-fashioned five-card stud.”

“How often did you win?”

“Often enough that no one liked to play with me, just like on the playground.”

No count, white trash -

“Anyways, those days are over,” she said softly. “Now… I’ll either be the third wheel or the lonely only.”

“At least you have a babysitter for a while, all to yourself.”

“And so do you,” she said. “Ain’t that funny?”

“Two babysitters with nothing to do this weekend other than watch each other.”

Because he wasn’t working on the weekend, he’d made that clear when they went for a walk. Done with that shit, thank you very much.

“We could watch a movie.”

“Yeah.”

“Dressed to Kill?”

He snorted and shook his head. “No murder, unless it’s-“

“Beverly Hills Cop.”

“Now you’re talking,” he nodded.

“And fishing.”

“And walking.”

She sized him up, liking what she saw enough to cast a different line in his direction. “What about skinny dipping?”

He almost spit out a mouthful of wine, and she felt proud, resisting the urge to pat herself on the back. But his cheeks were so pink that she held still, deciding that Will liked seafood and wine, and she was still the dumbass after all.

“Did you just –“

“No.”

“But you said –“

“I didn’t say anything,” she lied.

He looked her over. “Did I mention that they have cake?”

“Cake?” Just like Jack, it was her biggest weakness, and if he told her that they had –

“Yellow cake with chocolate frosting.”

“Shit,” she said, licking her lips.

“Upset that it’s not something fancy?”

“Order me a piece of damn cake, Will.”

“I might if you ask me again about skinny dipping.”

She blushed this time, and when he took her hand, she didn’t pull it back, not that she ever had before.  

He leaned close to her ear, close enough for her to feel the heat of the flush on his cheeks, and whispered, “Do I own a beach towel?”

“You do,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she knew his question was deeper than what he let on.

She shouldn’t want him. Right now, she could be in the country home of one of Washington’s fastest-moving power players, assuring her future while trying her best to be anyone other than herself. If things were different, she could have been –

Stop it.

She could have been a lot of things.

But those paths had ended, not that she’d wanted to take them in the first place. And she wanted this man, this man, who made her feel things she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt until now.

“I’m sure,” she whispered.

He leaned close, his lips hovering over the edge of her jaw. “Would you be upset if we skipped the cake?”

“I have a feeling our night might end up pretty sweet without it.” She stroked his arm, focusing on the coarse, dark hair covering them and not the scar tissue underneath. “At any rate, I got some ice cream when I ordered the groceries.”

“Ice cream?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Chocolate?”

“Lemon.”

Will’s lips hummed on her skin as he kissed her cheek. She felt it vibrate deep within her, down in her belly and even lower, in that place she had invited few to explore with her. Would he be a gentle lover, or would he be the intense man he’d been this morning when he’d smelled her? She wanted to know, now, and when the waitress put the check on the table, Clarice almost crowed with delight.

At the bar, a tourist glanced around the room, pulling a comical double-take when he saw Clarice Starling and Will Graham sitting in the back, staring at each other like they wanted to sweep everything off their table and start fucking in front of everyone. The tourist read TattleCrime every day, even on vacation, and had seen the picture of the pair in front of the FBI building in Miami. With the subtlety of a spy, he took out his phone and pretended to text his wife, snapping pictures of the couple in the back all the while. He held his breath and kept snapping until they left, then ordered a double bourbon and logged onto TattleCrime, commenting under the article Freddie posted this morning titled Death Angel and Murder Divorcé Team Up: A Match Made in Heaven or Hell? The best pictures went in his comment along with the statement, “More than working on the Buffalo Bill case if you ask me. If they ain’t making it yet, they will be before sunset.”

And over two thousand miles away, deep within the cool Earth and housed inside a cell created just for him, a monster had finished his shower a mere second before the timer went off, toweling dry as he waited for his dinner. The guard, a pleasant man named Barney, was running late, having glanced at his phone to look through TattleCrime and finding the pictures MarathonMan posted minutes before he started his coffee break. Clarice’s gentle smile and the flush on Will’s cheeks had brought a smile to his face, one he kept as he carried the tray of food down to his favorite prisoner. Barney enjoyed working in the dungeon, considering it the best job the warden could dole out in this hell hole. He opened the pass and shoved the tray through, raising his brows at the half-dressed man on the other side of the glass.

“Looks like Will Graham’s got a girlfriend,” Barney said.

There was a sharp intake of air, though his charge said nothing.

“She’s an FBI agent who works in the BAU. A real looker too, if you like redheads.” Barney had kept his phone in his pocket. It was against policy, but Barney understood that he would have to know what she looked like. “Do you want to see?” 

A nod, and Barney took out his phone, turning it around when he reached the saved picture of the couple, a good one that showed Will’s lips flush against her rosy cheek. 

There was another breath drawn deep through the cruel mouth, as though the man could taste the pair despite the many miles that separated them. His eyes held the question that Barney was only too happy to answer.

“I’ve told you about her – she’s the one TattleCrime calls the Death Angel. Special Agent Clarice M. Starling.”

Chapter Text

In the ten-minute drive back to Will's tiny house on the beach, Ardelia Mapp called Clarice twice. She ignored the first one, giving her phone a cursory glance before tossing it back in the cupholder between her and Will. When her hand was settled back in his, the phone rang again, this time from Ardelia's work phone. It was their code for 911, and she pulled over and gave Will an apologetic glance.

"Something's wrong," she murmured, picking up the phone and accepting the call. "What's new, pussycat?"

"Have you been online?" Ardelia asked.

"Not since this morning," Clarice answered. "Why? Has the Annoying Orange gotten in trouble again? That's not enough to call me on your work phone about. That's news for a Tuesday."

"It's not the Annoying Orange." Ardelia's voice didn't sound right. She was pissed off and doing a bad job of trying to hide it. "Put me on speaker and pull up TattleCrime."

"I'm on vacation, Ardelia."

"That's part of the problem, girl. Do it. Now."

Clarice hit a few buttons and turned on the speakerphone as she went to the internet search engine.

"Hi, Will," Ardelia said.

"Hi?" Will asked. "How did you know –"

"You'll find out in about ten seconds if Clarice doesn't –"

"What the actual fuck?" If it wasn't Johnny's old phone, she would have chucked it out of the car window. But because it was Johnny's old phone, and the only one the papers and tabloids didn't have the number to, she kept it between her hands and held it tight.

"Don't lose your shit, baby girl."

Clarice looked at Will, hating what she was about to do to him, and showed him the article. His skin went ashy underneath the tan as he looked at the headline, worse when he read through the article underneath. 

"How does she know I'm in Florida?" Clarice asked, almost too quietly for the phone to pick up.

"It gets worse. Someone took a picture of you at a seafood place in Marathon, which means –"

"He knows where I am," Will said, his voice too calm. 

"Doubtful. He's got access to religious channels and carefully picked out extras, just like the rest of the men at the SuperMax. But it means that Freddie Lounds knows where you are."

"I'm calling Jack." 

"Are you sure he's not the leak? No one knew where you were outside of the BAU. And me. And you know I ain't telling no one."

"I'm sure," Clarice said. "There's a lot of places for leaks to spring nowadays."

"Be safe."

"I will. Bye, Dee."

Clarice kept a hand on Will's arm, feeling the fine tremor amp up into a strong shake by the time Jack picked up. 

"When did you find out?" Jack asked.

"About thirty seconds ago. Ardelia called. When did you find out?"

"After I spoke to you this morning."

"And you weren't going to tell me?"

"You have other things on your plate, Clarice, and I was hoping those would come first."

It was never going to be a vacation, no matter how much we were fooling ourselves.

"They still can," she said. 

"Price's brother has a house in North Carolina, near Buxton. Pack up and get on the road. He'll send you the address and instructions on how to get in."

"Okay."

"If you leave now, you should be there tomorrow afternoon. Can Will help you drive?"

Not likely.

"I'm good. I can always pull over for a nap if I need to."

"Be careful."

"Always am."

"Call me when you get there."

Sure thing, Dad.

"I will."

She hung up and put the phone down, then she took a good look at Will. He had gone quiet, too quiet, and that ashy tone had gotten worse. She lifted the armrest and slid next to him, putting an arm around him. He held onto her, drawing her close until they were wrapped around each other, not caring about the cars passing by on the highway. 

"Price's twin has a house on the Outer Banks."

"He hates his brother."

"Yeah, well. Family is family, especially when we need a favor."

"Family…" Will said. "That's not a word with the kindest connotations."

"Take the kindness folks offer. Unless we want Freddie banging down your door while we're trying to work, I don't think we have a choice."

Will shook his head. "I knew this wouldn't last - the peace I've had out here."

Clarice opened her mouth to tell him he hadn't had too much of it with nothing but a constant source of alcohol as his chosen companion but changed her mind. "You'll find it again. This will blow over soon, and our names will be nothing but a fading memory. We need to make a stop after we pack up."

"Another shake?"

"Yep. I want a grape one, and I promised Kathy that I'd sit down with her and Mike to talk about Fredrica. You okay with that?"

"Sure."

"There's good fishing up there if you're interested."

"It'll be cold."

"Then I guess you better pack some pants along with your fishing pole, Will."

"I don't want to go fishing anywhere other than my backyard. And I wanted…" He swallowed noisily and ran his hand over her back, finally noticing that she hadn't worn a bra. "You and me."

"I know," she said, that wave inside her tightening with the raw sound of his voice. "I wanted that, too."

The hand on her back tightened, fingers tracing her spine through the thin fabric of her dress. 

Her lean body, too lean from too much running and not enough food, his lean body from too much to drink and not enough care. 

Hard on hard, with minds softening until the wall fell and turned into rubble.

"I want to kiss you so much that it hurts to hold back," he whispered. 

"Then kiss me," she whispered back, lifting her face to his.

Their mouths met, a brush of lips at first.

Testing the connection and finding it to be even stronger than they thought. Satisfying and enough for them to dive in for more.

Tongues touched, asking for permission, wondering if the spark would turn into a flame or burn out. Clarice felt it grow, getting hotter as she lazily explored him, licking a scar on his gums, chasing it to the roof of his mouth. All scars, painfully hard but yielding when she placed her hand on his chest, inside his shirt, feeling the ropey skin that covered his belly. His hands were on her too, touching a breast that had gotten too small in the last month, hard in his hand but gentling when she broke away and kissed her way to his neck, the stubble on his cheek and chin rubbing her skin in a way that made all of her nerves tingle.

It had been years since she'd made out with someone, longer still since anything else had happened. She could feel it in him, too, the low level of fear that was always with him, along with a higher level that came with unsure arousal. 

It almost felt like a vacation again until there was a knock on the window.

Clarice closed her eyes, knowing that sound, having made it herself a few times while training at the Academy. Will knew it too, and he tensed, easing her onto her side of the car as they looked at the officer on the other side, knocking on the window again with his flashlight. The flush on her face deepened when she straightened the top of her dress before rolling down the driver's side window.

"You folks need any help?" The name on his shirt identified him as Johnston.

"No, we were just getting back on the road," Clarice said.

"Didn't look like it from here," Officer Johnston said. "Did it, Will?"

"We're leaving, Dan."

"Uh-huh. Take the feelsies home, wontcha?"

"Yessir," Clarice said. 

The officer waved them off and went back to his vehicle, touching his cell phone as he slammed the door. He couldn't resist adding to the comments that were growing underneath their picture on TattleCrime, typing: I just saw them out on Highway 1, necking like a couple of teenagers in heat. They'll be lucky if they make it back to the shack Will Graham calls a home.

It took them an hour to pack the house, Clarice checking it over twice to make sure nothing had been missed. They grabbed ice at the gas station, hoping that the food Clarice had bought that afternoon wouldn't spoil by the time they got to North Carolina. Both had known hunger, and neither of them wanted anything to go to waste. When they pulled into the diner, they were tired and sweaty, but Clarice felt a second wind pop into her when she walked in, seeing Kathy's face light up a little when Will followed her through the door.

"You and Mike have a minute to talk?" Clarice asked.

"We'll make time. Come on to the back, and we'll talk until you're tired of hearing it," Kathy said. She spoke quietly to a young woman at her side, a younger version of herself whose name badge read Judy, and opened the swinging kitchen door for them. 

The kitchen was what Clarice expected it to look like, as she'd once worked in a diner to help pay the bills during grad school. Flat top seasoned hard from cooking a thousand burgers, knives sharp enough to cut a finger if you weren't careful, and the scent of hard work hovering close to the grill. It was a welcomed sight, and she trailed her fingers over the cool aluminum surfaces before sitting in the folding chair Kathy brought for her. Mike was cooking off to the side, his apron cleaner than she expected, but with food as good as his, she understood that his pride extended past the plates he filled up.

"What d'ya want to know 'bout her?" Mike asked. "Fredrica was quiet as a church mouse. Didn't never hurt a fly, that girl. What happened to her weren't right."

"No, it wasn't," Clarice agreed. "You said she was quiet. Was she shy?"

"Pretty shy, yeah," Kathy said. "But she was good with waiting tables because she could put on an act when she wanted to. Pretend she was the most popular girl in school if that's what she read that those customers wanted."

Reading. Understanding. Knowing.

"Was that the way she was with everyone?" Will asked.

"No," Mike said. "I known her since she was a kid. Both of us did. Her daddy and I go way back, same as Kathy and her mom."

"She had her nose in a book whenever it was slow. Quiet and sweet and just…" The napkin was back, covering Kathy's emotions.

"Don't get too worked up, hon. Won't do no good," Mike said, touching Kathy's shoulder before turning to a pile of hamburger meat next to him. He was the kind of cook who hand-made every patty, pressing the meat between his hands to make sure they weren't too tightly packed. An art form of its own, and one often missed in favor of speed.

"Was she lonely?" Clarice asked.

Kathy looked at Clarice and nodded. "She was about to turn twenty-five, not long before… Anyway, she came home last summer. She didn't talk about it, but then again, Fredrica didn't talk about much. She had that look in her eye whenever a young couple would walk in, especially ones with kids. But I knew what she wanted."

"She could have had both," Will said.

"Not in her mind," Clarice said. "I remember those days, thinking anything more would create too much of a distraction."

"Her best friend got pregnant right out of high school. Her family couldn't help her, and she lost her scholarship to State. I think it affected Fredrica more than she let on."

"Did she date or use any dating sites?"

"I don't think so, but she wouldn't have told us if she did. Real shy, you know? She'd start blushing up a storm whenever she caught Mike and me –" Kathy looked at Mike, blushing herself when Mike smiled softly.

"Inexperienced?" Will asked.

"Yep," Mike said. "Daddy's little girl."

"Did she mention what her dissertation was on?"

"Something about… Chaser?" Kathy said.

"Chaucer?" Clarice asked.

"That's the one," Kathy said. 

They spoke for another hour, not as much getting information as they were letting Mike and Kathy grieve for the girl they had lost. When Clarice mentioned she and Will were leaving town for a while, Kathy looked genuinely sorry that they were going, and Mike started adding extra food to the grill on top of the orders he had been cooking as he quietly spoke.

"For the road," Mike said, handing Will an old onion box filled with food before they left. His eyes briefly met Clarice's, though it was long enough for her to feel the pain he was holding in.

Mike, escaping his sorrow the only way he knew.

"When will you be back?" Kathy asked Will.

"It'll be a while."

"Come and see us when you get in, okay? What about you?"

Clarice stared at her sandals instead of Kathy's earnest face. "I'll be back when I can."

"Then let me hug you again before you go," Kathy said, giving Clarice a harder embrace than she had the previous day before whispering, "Thank you."

"Welcome."

They put the food in the back and drinks between them, Clarice sipping at a purple shake as she pulled onto the highway. Will had added several glugs of bourbon to his, and they touched their cups together as Clarice started to drive into the dark sky that loomed ahead.

Chapter Text

Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment's pleasure
Can I believe the magic in your sights
And will you love me tomorrow
- Carole King -

Buxton, North Carolina
March 2020

In the day it took to drive to Philip Price’s vacation home, Clarice Starling learned more about Will Graham than she’d ever known about another person, other than Ardelia. And she might have known more about Will, being pent up in the rental car without her mind distracting her from the pain in his voice when he spoke about his father, their frequent moves around the country from boatyard to boatyard, and the motivation he’d once felt to get out and do anything other than wither away in his father’s oppressive shadow.

Clarice spoke little, keeping her mind on the road and on the man next to her, who steadily drank from the bottle of bourbon in the back seat. It should have bothered her, and with anyone else, it would have. But she felt she understood the man sitting next to her and his need to keep drinking, even if he never spoke about what had happened to him in the aftermath of his acquaintance with the man who had wanted to own his body and soul.

They were passing the North Carolina state line when her phone chimed. It was Price, sending her the address.

Price: 2819 North Carolina 12. Dumbass keeps a spare set of keys inside the porchlight. Unscrew the bottom, and any burglar can get in. The security code is 12345. Mother swore I shared a womb with that idiot. That was the last time he was close to anything resembling intellect.

Will laughed as he read her the text, adding, “I guess Price got the brains, and his brother got the looks?”

Clarice said, “Send that back to him, but don’t let him know you wrote it.”

Grinning the entire time, Will did just that, laughing louder when he got a responding text.

“What?”

“He said I got everything, Big Red, and don’t you forget it.”

Clarice groaned, hating that nickname even more now that Will knew it. She was almost deliriously tired, and by the time they pulled into the driveway of the house on NC-12, she thought she must be hallucinating. No one lived like this, especially not people who left their spare keys where anyone would know how to find them.

“What the hell?” Will said.

“Holy fucking shit,” she whispered, looking up at all three stories of the beachfront home. It looked like a damn castle, and she could have sworn she saw a gazebo out back at the end of the bridge that led to the beach. “Give me my phone, Will.”

She tried to send a text to Jimmy, but when her fingers wouldn’t cooperate, she pressed the call button.

“Hello, gorgeous,” breathed a low, cynical voice.

“Jimmy Price, as I live and breathe. You answered your work phone on the weekend.”

“Only for you. Did you pick up some peaches on the way in?”

“I did, actually.”

“Let’s sneak them in his morning coffee and see what happens.”

“If he didn’t send me what I wanted, I just might. Price, you never told me you were rich.”

“I’m not. Good old Phil made bank with the dot com’s and got out before everything went south. What you are seeing is only one of his obnoxious displays of wealth. There’s a penthouse in Manhattan, but I didn’t think you’d be up for another day on the road.”

“Hell no. What on Earth do you have on him that he’d be so generous to let us stay here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“It’s my… well, it’s his pleasure to keep you off Freddie’s radar. She wrote an article about Phil a few years ago, accusing him of being on Fuckface Von Clownstick’s donor list. He might hate her more than you and Will combined.”

“Then tell him thank you, from us. And if he likes peaches –”

“I’ll tell him to call you.”

“Is he single?”

“He is, but he doesn’t swing your way. Runs in the family.”

“Shucks.”

“Give Will a big kiss for me, won’t you? Right smack on his –“

“Bye.” Clarice hung up and looked at Will. Her hands started to shake when she tossed her phone in her bag, and she clenched them into small fists to cover the momentary weakness.

“Do I need to carry you inside?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “I probably need a stretch for a minute, though.”

“Have you ever run a marathon, Clarice?”

She shook her head.

“I think you just drove the equivalent of one. If I had a medal, I’d give it to you.”

“No medals for me, just a good sense of feeling like I’m about to drop.”

They almost made it to the door before her legs gave out on her, and Clarice fell in a heap, though the landing was eased by the soft grass mixed with sand. She really had pushed herself too hard this time, and when she tried to stand, she found that her legs weren’t strong enough to hold her. They were cramping up, and tears stung her eyes as she tried to tough it out through the worst of it.

Goddamn it, girl.

She flopped back on the grass, cursing at herself when Will came into focus above her. 

“Do you need some help?” he asked. 

“I don’t know if I could even crawl at this point.”

He set his drink next to them and picked her up. 

“You could carry me piggyback,” she offered.

“Wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to do, now would it?” he said, kissing her forehead before walking them to the porch. 

Clarice unscrewed the bottom of the light and shook out the keys, giving them to Will to unlock the door. The alarm klaxon was shrill and quickly ended when Clarice punched the numbers in quick succession. 

“How close are you to passing out?” he asked.

“I’ve never fainted a day in my life.”

“You know what I mean.”

She leaned her head against Will’s shoulder and sighed. “Probably the second I close my eyes.”

“Let’s find a bedroom.”

It took several tries, though they did discover the billiard room, the sunroom, and a massive hall closet on the way. By the time Will opened the door to the master bedroom, she was ready to be deposited on a couch and left to her own devices. But she was happier to land on the soft bed, and by the time Will removed her sandals, she had passed out cold.

Clarice slept for twenty-four hours.

“I didn’t think you’d be so nice,” Catherine Martin whispered.

“Why didn’t you think so?”

“All the guys I’ve met online have been jerks. Nice up until we meet, then…” She looked down at the joined hands and shrugged.

“After one thing, aren’t we?”

“Are you?”

John Grant smiled. “Not always. And I have the benefit of being something those men aren’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“Genuine. If you’d honor me with a second date, I’d love to show you how genuine I can be.”

“I think I’d like that,” she said. 

“How about Tuesday?”

“Not a Friday?”

John shook his head. “What I want to share with you can’t wait that long.”

“It must be special.” Catherine tilted her head in a way she hoped was coy.

“It is. Will you join me? It’s up to you.”

She blushed. “Tuesday, then.”

“Marvelous.”

When Clarice opened her eyes, she didn’t know where she was. She sat up in the bed, looking around at the unfamiliar room as she tried to replay the last things she remembered. There was driving and driving and more driving, Will offering to drive and her giving him dirty looks, calling Price and…

Well shit. She fell asleep in a castle before having a chance to look around.

And she hadn't called Jack or Ardelia. 

Mom and Dad are going to be pissed, oh honey, aren’t they?

The spot next to her was rumpled, and she realized Will must have slept next to her. He was probably as worn out as she was, having kept her awake with a thousand stories to pass the thousand miles. She tested her legs, found them sturdy again, and then walked around, opening doors until she found a bathroom. He’d unpacked her things, and she found what she needed for her morning routine –

Is it morning?

- set out for her, down to her running shorts. 

She showered, feeling grimy as hell and definitely not in the mood to run. Teeth brushed, hair combed and pulled back with shorts on, and she almost felt human again when she left the bathroom. The bedroom was still empty, and she opened the door to the hall, wondering if she could find Will in this vast house.

It didn’t take too much effort. Clarice could smell coffee, which led her to the kitchen. A big mug sat next to a coffee pot that looked like it belonged in an Italian restaurant, along with the bottles of supplements she bought for him in Marathon. She took the ibuprofen, then shrugged and took one from each of the remaining bottles, swallowing the pills between sips of the strong coffee. 

What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.

Windows were wrapped around this level of the house, and Clarice spotted Will on the deck behind the dining area. She walked outside and joined him, plopping down on the Adirondack chair by his side.

“I was starting to get worried,” he said.

“I made it, but I’m going to need breadcrumbs.”

“I looked around while you were asleep. Bedrooms and a home theater upstairs –“

“You’re shitting me?”

“Nope. Popcorn machine and everything. Downstairs is another bedroom and a big den we can…” He bit his lip and looked back out to the sea.

“Use to set up shop?”

“Yeah. And keep it out of sight when it needs to be.”

“Sounds good,” she said, shivering when the wind kicked up. He passed her a blanket from the box behind her. “I was just getting used to the heat. Now I miss it.”

“You wouldn’t miss it in the summer,” he shrugged. 

“Probably not,” she agreed, wrapping the blanket over her shoulders. “Do you have my phone?”

He nodded and gave it to her. “Jack and your friend called. I told them we made it in but that you were too exhausted to talk.”

“Was Ardelia nice to you?”

“She didn’t have a reason not to be.”

Not yet.

“Let’s start work tomorrow. I’m too tired to think right.”

“Ditto,” he said. 

“What should we do today?”

“Do we have to do anything?”

She thought about it and finally said, “I guess not.”

“You’ve been in motion since you showed up at my front door, and when you haven’t been, it’s because you’ve been asleep. There’s a library down the hall from –”

“A library?”

“With every book you could imagine. We could read. Sit outside and watch the tides.”

“Watch a movie?”

“That too,” he chuckled. “Escape for a little while longer.”

Before Monday, unless it’s already –

“It’s Sunday afternoon,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”

“A little while longer,” she murmured. “Lethal Weapon?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t see it.”

“Solace.”

“No work.”

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, peaking at him when she said, “9 ½ Weeks.”

Will grinned, taking a sip of his coffee before murmuring, “Are you trying to seduce me, Clarice?”

“Weren’t you trying to seduce me before?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding as he set down his cup. 

“I need to eat,” she said. “But after that, all bets are off.”

“How about canned ravioli?”

“Love it.”

“The ice cream didn’t melt too much; we could have that after.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

“But let’s be still for a while first.”

“Can I be still in your lap?”

He pretended to think about it, then waved for her to join him. She fit easily in his lap, her cheek flush against his chest as he held her close.

“Did you sleep next to me last night, Will?”

“I did.”

“Hmmm. And did you change me out of my clothes, or did I sleepwalk?”

He kissed her forehead again, though she would have liked for him to kiss a little lower. “I promise that I didn’t look at the places you wouldn’t want me to see without your permission. But you are beautiful when you sleep. That was something I couldn't ignore.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Will Graham,” she said. “Did I have any nightmares?”

“I don’t think so. But by the time I got the car unpacked, I was so tired that I wouldn’t have noticed. Do you have bad dreams?”

More often than not.

“If I get too tired, I do.”

“About what?”

Don’t think.

“Normal stuff. Monsters under the bed, that kind of thing.”

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth?”

Because you’re a psychic, and I’m a shit liar.

Will rested his hand on hers, where it sat over her heart. “I’ve told you a lot of things about me. Tell me about your nightmares.”

What the hell.

“I… it started when I was a kid. Something happened before I got –”

Don’t think.

“-got taken from my Dad’s. He… he hadn’t been able to work since before I was born, and with…” 

She could taste the memory of moving out of her childhood home after the bank foreclosed on it. It was bitter and as deep as the debts her dad was in without her mother’s income.

“It came to the point that we were almost out of food. Daddy didn’t want to take charity, so we lived from month to month until his disability check came in. And sometimes, that was gone before it even arrived, so food was what I got from school and what my teachers slipped home with me. There was rarely any meat on the table. We had vegetables from the garden and cornbread, lots of hot water cornbread since cornmeal was cheap. He took me hunting with him once when there wasn’t anyone to watch me. He thought I was too little to stay home by myself.”

“Did he kill anything?”

“He got a doe and the…” She closed her eyes and tried her damnedest not to think about it too hard. “It must have just had a baby. The little guy didn’t know any better and leaped out of the brush when his mother fell. Dad killed it, too, said it was out of mercy more than anything else since there wasn’t much meat on it.”

“Jesus. How old were you?”

“Nine. Old enough, but… I’ve never forgotten the sound that damn faun made before Dad shot it. Crying for its mother, and I just… I don’t know,” Clarice said. “Anyways, we had meat on the table that night, and sometimes when I dream, I…” She wiped at her eyes and couldn’t finish, seeing the accusing, lifeless eyes of the faun staring at her. 

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he said gently. Will held her close, rocking her with his body.

“It’s fine. If you keep sharing a bed with me, you’ll find out eventually.”

“I have them too, about other things. It’ll be nice to wake up next to someone who understands.”

“Maybe. Or maybe one of us will wake up with a shiner.”

“Could be worse. At least with us, there might be some kissing and making up if that happens.”

“That might make the dreaming a little sweeter,” she agreed. Her stomach growled, and she patted his arm. “I happen to like ravioli cold and out of a can, in case I forgot to mention it.”

“You really are after my own heart, aren’t you?”

She grinned, then started to beat his arms when he insisted on carrying her inside. He was a lot stronger than she’d initially thought, depositing her on the counter next to him while he busied himself with opening a can of ravioli, setting two forks in it before turning to her. 

“Ladies first,” he said.

She took the one she wanted and chewed, sighing happily with the familiar flavor. “Fuck fancy, give me this any day of the week.”

“Well, if you want fancy, there’s a huge wine rack downstairs,” he said, spearing a ravioli of his own. “Some pretty pricey offerings from what I could see.”

“I don’t really drink, except for special occasions.”

“Making it through that drive might count as one.”

“I guess so,” she said, bringing another to her mouth. “But it would be wasted on me. All wine tastes the same. I’d rather have tea or water.”

He got out a glass and poured her a glass of tea from the fridge, watching her as she took a sip. Still sweet, dammit, and she narrowed her eyes. 

“Did I add too much sugar?”

“Any sugar is too much, and you know it,” she said, downing the glass in one gulp. She ate a third ravioli when Will turned to get her some more tea, pushing the can towards him when she took the full glass. “Eat the rest, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

He watched her as he ate, grabbing her fork and his when he was done. “Ice cream now or later?”

“Later,” she yawned. “Movie now.”

He walked her upstairs, keeping a hand on her back as she climbed the flight of steps. Clarice balked when she saw the small home theater with more shelves of DVDs than she’d seen anywhere else other than an old Blockbuster. 

“Are they alphabetized?”

“Looks that way.”

“All this, and he doesn’t own Lethal Weapon?”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, Clarice.”

Phil didn’t have 9 ½ Weeks either, so they settled on Before Sunrise, Clarice sitting close to Will on a big sofa in the back as the opening credits started to play. This time they both fell asleep, curled in each other’s arms before the onscreen lovers reached Vienna. As cerebral as both couples were, it was no match for a dark room and the simple comfort that human touch could bring.

Chapter Text

Shit.

The room was almost pitch-black, the movie screen having gone to sleep not long after they did. Clarice opened her eyes and could see the outline of Will's face above her, sharp angles and scars caught in the light that gathered around the door. She looked at her phone and saw it was almost ten o'clock at night, and she was instantly thankful they hadn't lost another day. This is what always happened when she got too still and was probably why she liked the excuse of watching a movie over doing anything else. It always put her to sleep at some point, and if she was around other people, the sleeping was a little easier.

Briefly, she considered rolling over and putting her arms around him, staying here the rest of the night until morning. It might be safer that way, especially since there was one thing they both wanted to do.

There was danger in the stillness, and Clarice let her mind wander as her head lay in Will's lap in the cool, quiet room. Her attraction to Will was on her list of least healthy occurrences, probably somewhere close to the top. He had a drinking problem along with a whole host of other issues she wasn't sure he could begin to cope with, and from what she could tell, there might be a dangerous man that still lived inside him, just waiting to come out. He said he'd had a vaccine against it named mercy, and didn't she wish she could give him a shot in the arm and fix him right up. 

The Will who carried her around like she weighed nothing and the man who tucked her into his bed and sweetly kissed her cheek was the one she desired. But she knew that if two personalities lived in a man, the darker one would eventually win. Clarice had seen that enough with her father and with Paul Krendler, for that matter. That slick, smiling face went cold whenever they were in a room together, alone.

What if it could just be sex, something two people who were attracted to each other did when they had an itch that needed to be scratched? She'd never really felt that itch, and when she did, there was a small vibrator in her room back home that took care of things quite efficiently, thank you very much. 

But that little machine couldn't replace this, not by a long shot.

Nothing could replace the sensation of being held or the warmth that radiated from Will's skin like he had a furnace inside of him. Nor the scent – that wonderful fragrance of skin that isn't yours. 

She'd had that with Johnny, everything up to but excluding the fucking. 

And it had been all she thought she wanted, even if -

Don't think.

Clarice should be sleeping. Sleeping in Will's lap and not thinking about anything. But his scent drew her in, and she wondered if he was dreaming about her, hoping that the dream was as good as they could get. She took a breath and looked at the dim outline of her hands, weighing her options, but neither felt particularly heavy. It was when she turned again, her palm accidentally brushing over his lap, that he groaned lightly and not in sleep. His eyes were open and staring down at her, and though Clarice couldn't see his expression, she understood enough about need that the scales tipped in favor of forgetting everything she knew.

Like a panther, she slid out of his lap, taking off her old t-shirt from track before straddling him on the sofa. His arms slipped around her, sleep completely gone when her lips met his neck, continuing the path they had started two days ago. A mumbled word, something soft and dear, came from his mouth as she unbuttoned his shirt, needing to feel skin on skin, wanting to smell more than the fabric softener that fragranced his clothes. 

Will's hands went to her sports bra, the clips snicking open, and their skin met fully, her nipples sliding over the rough hair that peppered his chest. She felt present and in control, not like the after of those terrible dates that left her unfulfilled and wanting. There was sensation, the cool slip of her shorts and panties from her body, the stiff fabric of his shorts scratching against her until she needed something more to ease the itch that was growing hot, burning up in the fiery lake pooling in her belly. Then they were gone, and she could feel him push against her, stiff skin pressing against slick skin until there was a giving met with a groan from both of their mouths.

"Ohhhh," she cried out. Her lips closed over the word as he started to move, holding her hips as though he wanted her to make a home inside of her for him, creating a composite that could forever rock like the gentle movements of the waves outside.

It didn't matter that this probably wasn't her best decision, not when she felt like she was flying. Not when he took her hands in his after she frantically tried to grab the sofa, guiding them to his shoulders to absorb every aspect of her pleasure as her moans became whimpers of delight. Not when she could feel him swell within her before he gave in to his own little death.

Damp skin. Air scented with lust along with something deeper that was steadily forming. Clarice rested her head on his chest, softly humming in the dark room as she listened to his breathing slow in time with hers. 

Distantly, in the halls of her mind, an unfamiliar voice warned her that Will had never spoken her name. And a part of her began to wonder whose body he felt in the dark as his fingers trailed over the flat plains of her body. 

Even if she'd been present for this, how present was he able to be?

Don't think.

It didn't occur to her that at that very moment, he was wondering the same thing about her.

Routine, routine, forever in routine, Clarice woke before dawn, carefully moving Will's arm from her waist. They'd moved to the master bedroom downstairs after the glow of good sex faded, easily falling asleep as the waves lapped to the shore outside. She walked to the door that led to the deck, seeing brilliant orange kiss the horizon in the east. 

Teeth brushed, hair combed and pulled back, running shorts on, sneakers tied, and she was ready to run, even though the air would be brisk this early. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out her address book, tearing out a sheet and scribbling a quick note.

Out for a run. Don't wait up.
Clarice

Her pen lingered next to her name, almost wanting to add an x. She decided against it, shrugging as she propped the paper on the chest of drawers. The air was cold when she opened the French door, but as she jogged across the wooden bridge, her muscles started to warm nicely, and by the time she hit the beach, her pores opened with the beginnings of a good sweat.

She didn't want to think of Johnny, not this morning. Not when she could smell Will, along with the musky scent of sex on her skin. She flipped through her selection of morning music, settling into a rhythm set by the bass instead of downbeats of a marching cadence.

I can answer your questions,
If you won't twist what I say.
Please respect my opinions,
They will be respected some day.

She checked her odometer. After Will's comment about marathons, she'd started to wonder just how far she was running in the morning. When she wasn't too tired after eight miles, it seemed like a goal to work up to, and she turned back to the house, reaching the back deck in time to catch the sun jump above the waves, turning the sky pink and blue and violet. It was breathtaking, and she cooled down slowly, watching it as she stepped back to one of the chairs close to the kitchen.

"Hi."

Clarice jumped, then relaxed when she saw Will walk out of the house with a bottle of water, looking cozy in a fleece pullover and dark jeans. She took it from him and kept her eyes to the sky as she sat down. Shyness wasn't something she was used to, be then again, she'd never shared a bed with someone she slept with. Or a house, for that matter. 

And no one had ever held her after, making her feel like they'd given a damn about what had just taken place. Too much new, and a blush crept across her cheeks until she cleared her throat, wanting to talk about anything other than the thoughts in her head.

"When do you want to get started?" she asked.

"How about nine? It would give us plenty of time to eat… set up an office," he said.

"A home big enough for an office. Who'd have thunk?" she said, laughing lightly.

"Not me, that's for sure. Not after…" he said, taking a drink from his mug. It was steaming enough to be coffee, though not steaming enough for it to be the only thing in there.

"Can I have a sip?" It was what she used to ask her father when she wanted to know how Irish he was taking it.

"You wouldn't like it," he answered, the same statement her father gave her when the Jim or Jack was tipped too far in the wrong direction.

Clarice nodded and took a drink from her water bottle. "I need a shower, though I might take a swim in that bathtub instead." Standing, she stretched lazily and walked towards the bedroom, glancing back when she reached the doors. He was watching her, silent and still as his eyes moved over her legs. She hesitated before turning the nob and said, "I liked what happened last night."

His expression changed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a crooked smile touched his lips. "I did, too."

She smiled back, still feeling shy as she entered the bedroom, but mentally preparing herself for the day that lay ahead of them.

The downstairs great room slowly morphed as the sun passed over the sky that day. Autopsy photos covered the far wall, dumpsite photos hung on the wall next to it, and they'd removed the flat-screen television from a third to showcase the pictures of the women as they'd been when they were alive. The case files were neatly stacked on two coffee tables between the couches, the empty boxes now stowed in a closet down the hall. 

With her in a violet blouse that Ardelia told her clashed terribly with her hair, and Will in the clothes he'd saved from his previous life, it could have been another day at the office, and when she logged into her laptop and brought up her email, it sure as hell felt like it. At the very top, marked as High Importance, was an email from Paul Krendler, sent to the Director with her name and Jack Crawford's cc'd at the bottom, complaining about what a poor representative Clarice was for the FBI.

"With such a public name, one would hope that Special Agent Starling would learn to control herself better in public, especially while cavorting with a face as well-known as Will Graham's. Considering his reinstatement as an officer of the law within her department, their outing together could be viewed as fraternization…"

"It's not like you'd even care if you didn't think I might be sleeping with him," she said, not realizing that she had spoken out loud.

"Everything okay?" Will asked.

"Fine," she said. "A little interoffice conflict with Justice. Nothing I can't handle."

The data from the laptops were available at least, and she scanned through the Internet histories, nodding when she caught the name HeavenlyConnection in six of the victim's servers. 

"Now that's something," she said, logging onto the site. It was a regular dating site with more of a romantic angle, and she sent Jack an email to see if they could pressure the owner to get access to their accounts.

When she looked up, Will was standing in front of the autopsy photographs, flipping through the written reports after examining each picture.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, walking to his side.

"Every one of them was poisoned."

"Cyanide. Not the most creative on that point, but effective. No needle marks. Ingested, along with ketamine."

"It's so… passive," he said. "This man loves his victims. Carefully trims and braids their hair, makes gowns for them. Weaves flowers together to create a wreath for their heads. Excises portions of their skin with surgical skill and precision. There's almost a…" He looked carefully at the picture of Laura Walters, pointing out her short, trimmed nails. "They weren't like this when she lived." He rushed back to the image on the other wall, his fingers touching the long, glittery nails she'd had less than two weeks before her disappearance. 

"Maybe she had them removed," Clarice said.

"I don't think so. Look at everyone after Lacey Roberts. The first three had longer nails when they were found, two of them painted, but after her, something changed."

"I wonder if she tried to hurt him," she said. She looked at Lacey's face. From what she'd heard from her mother, Lacey had been scrappy as a child, sent home from school several times for playground fights. If she'd been close enough to fight him after she was taken, then that meant –

"He's keeping them close, isn't he? So close that he can touch them."

"And tend to them," Will said. "No one was starved or even dehydrated. Food in all their stomachs, eaten a few hours before they died."

"They had the same last meal. Roast chicken and green beans. Apple pie. Nothing ostentatious, but –"

"Nutritious."

"That doesn't make any sense," she said, sitting on the couch as she looked at the pictures as a whole. "You see this kind of mutilation with sadists. Yet they were dead when he removed the skin. All well cared for before death. He clothed them instead of humiliating them further by dumping them naked after he'd taken what he wanted. This ritual… it's some perverse version of love. He raped Cindy Knight, brutalized Janet Stone and Lisa James, and then stopped."

"They weren't what he wanted. They may look like her, but they didn't sate his desire, not like -" Will's eyes shifted, and he sat on the sofa next to her, looking at the pictures as a whole.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"Did you play with dolls when you were little, Clarice?"

"I did," she said. "Most girls do at one point or another."

"Some boys do too," he replied. "But Buff – let's call him Billy instead, I can't stand that nickname."

"No objection here."

"Billy has a collection of dolls with these women. That's all they are – not real beings with souls. Not like she was. This is play, but it's not pretend. He once had what he wanted, but now she's outside of his reach. What he wants is…" Will closed his eyes, and the hairs on Clarice's arms stood on end. "Perfection."

She could sense it, feeling the answer on the tip of her tongue, but it wouldn't form. What Billy was doing was almost too terrifying to comprehend. "And he's trying to reimagine it with lesser beings, isn't he?"

"Not just reimagine. He's using them to make the one he wants."

Chapter Text

“He’s making a doll, Jack. We didn’t see it before because he’s excised the same areas of skin on three of his victims. He must have made a mistake, or maybe he’s trying to perfect his technique,” Clarice said as she paced. Will was on the other side, circling around the room with his own quick stride.

“Who is the woman he’s making the doll in the image of?” Jack asked.

“A girlfriend or a wife – someone he loved outside of his family unit. I don’t think he’d disrespect his mother or a sister this way,” Will said.

“How could you be so sure?” Jack asked.

“It’s the measure of love he affords them. If this was about a family member, there wouldn’t be this level of… romance,” Clarice said. “There isn’t anger in any of this, nothing disorganized or frenzied by rage. What he’s doing makes him feel –” She looked at Will for help.

“Peace,” Will said. “He feels peaceful whenever he’s at work. Perfecting the ritual, normalizing his routine.”

“It makes him happy. Maybe happier than with the end result he thinks will give him the ultimate prize,” Clarice said. “She would have died tragically. The way he lays their bodies in the water, it reminds me of something I saw once, but I can’t…” She tried flipping through the pictures in her mind, something she would have seen in school in passing and not pondered on too long. 

An art appreciation class? 

That wasn’t it. Clarice looked through the books she’d read and the illustrations that accompanied them but came up empty.

Not college Literature, but something familiar that most students would read.

Shaking her head, she looked at Will across the room, knowing his memory was far better than hers. “Tragedy. Flowers. Water.”

“Ophelia,” he said. “Her death was doubtful, and, but that great command o’ersways the order, she should in ground unsanctified been lodged till the last trumpet.”

“How the hell did you pull that out?” she asked him.

“My teacher made us read it out loud in high school English.”

“Mine did too,” she said, finally pulling up the memory she wanted. Her teacher had displayed a painting on the whiteboard of a woman floating amongst the water lilies and reeds.

“So beautiful in death, even more so than when they lived,” Will murmured, looking again at the photos of the victims in their muslin gowns. “Imagine what this would have looked like right after he left them there. Hair floating in the water, fabric beginning to saturate with the water. He would have stayed to watch them; he would have had to watch them as they floated away from him.”

“I’ll advise the local police to reexamine the areas he left them and go upriver,” Jack said over the phone.

“They won’t find anything. Billy wouldn’t be that sloppy,” Clarice said.

“Unless it excited him,” Jack interjected. “And excited people get sloppy. It’s worth a look. Anything else to add?”

“Not yet,” Clarice said. It was nearing four, and she could sense that Will was at his limit. “We’ll check in tomorrow.”

“Can I speak to you privately, Clarice?”

She walked to the coffee table and took her phone off speaker. “What’s up?”

“How is he?”

She glanced at Will. He was rubbing his neck, but today went much better than the last time they looked through the files. “Good to go.”

“Call me if anything changes.”

“Will do.”

“What about you? I seem to remember telling you to stay off this.”

“Yeah? Well, you can shit in one hand and wish in the other. Guess which one gets fuller, faster, Jack."

“Clarice –”

“I’m fine. I promise. I need to keep working. Maybe one day I’ll have to sit and think about what’s happening, but it’s not going to be right now. I work better when I have someone to bounce off of, and he does too.”

“Did you check your email?”

“You know I did.”

A beat. “All of your emails?”

“Especially the one from Justice, sir. We’ll deal with it when I get back. As we’ve discussed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Let me know when you hear from the domain owner of HeavenlyConnections, won’t you?”

“Stay close to your computer and your phone. For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“We knew this wasn’t going to be a vacation,” she said softly. “I’m okay with it.”

“Will you eat something decent for dinner?”

Probably not.

“Sure.”

“Are you lying to me, Clarice?”

Yep.

“No.”

“Hmmm. Would you pass the phone to Will, please?”

Goddamn it, Jack.

“Dad wants to talk to you,” Clarice said, tossing Will the phone as she walked out of the room. There was a bathroom two doors down, and she splashed her face with ice-cold water, trying to calm the fuck down.

Jack Crawford, showing his affection the only way Clarice would let him.

Hand on the sink, she looked up at the mirror, taking a deep breath, humming it out along with the anger that had tightened in her chest. Even though part of her enjoyed his concern for her, knowing he was the only person outside of her foster parents and Ardelia that acted like they gave a damn about her, other than–

Stop it.

She looked at the water in the sink, clear and cool as it trickled down the drain. Plops of water dripped from her face into the puddle, disturbing her reflection until it looked like an image from a funhouse. 

There was a knock on the door, followed by a quiet, “Can I come in?”

He’s almost too much of a country boy for his own fucking good when he wants to be.

“Sure,” she said. 

He walked in and stood behind her. When she finally looked up from her skewed reflection, she saw that he was staring at her in the mirror. The look in his eyes was more curious than concerned, and she was thankful that he wasn’t examining her reaction too closely.

“Jack’s worried about you,” he said.

“He worries about everything.”

“He didn’t use to.”

“Jack isn’t the same man you used to work with,” she said. “Finding you on Chesapeake Beach half dead scared him more than he’d ever care to admit.”

“How do you know that?”

“Who do you think helped work the scene after he found you and those fucking monsters?” she huffed, turning the water back on and splashing her face more vigorously. “Pete Arnstein needed help, so he called in all of his favorite geeks. It’s how I met Jack. He was wandering around that vacation home like a sad old ghost while I was collecting trace from the master bedroom.”

Will leaned against the door and folded his arms over his chest. “Exactly how long have you been in my life, and I didn’t even know it?”

“Since I walked into your classroom and hid in the back,” she said. “As I’ve said.”

“Is there anything else I need to know about?”

She turned off the sink and grabbed a towel, drying her face and neck. “That’s it.”

He nodded and looked at the ceiling, showing off a scar under his chin. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing past him as she walked out of the bathroom. She walked up the steps to the main floor and hurried to the bedroom, taking off her work clothes after grabbing her shorts from her bag. 

“Where are you going?”

Her temper was rising with every second. She closed her eyes and started to count, answering after she reached ten. “I need to go for a walk. You game?”

“No,” he said, taking her clothes from her hands. “Let’s be still for a while instead.”

“Be still and drink? No, thank you,” she said. She was in a camisole and her trousers, but she muttered, “Fuck it,” quickly rolling her pant legs up to her knees and turning to the sliding door.

“Stop,” he said.

Stop? Who the fuck does he think he is?

“I will not,” she said over her shoulder. “You aren’t my father.”

“No, I’m the man you slept with last night.”

“Keep this up, and it’ll be the first and last time.”

“Stop it.” When he grabbed her shoulder, she shrugged him off, walking faster to the bridge. 

“I’m fine,” she said again. The wind was picking up. She’d forgotten to tie her hair back, and it whipped around her face, the strands stinging her cheeks.

“No, you aren’t. You’re the opposite of fine,” Will said to her, his eyes scrutinizing her so well that she had to look away. “Why are you so angry? It’s not your father. Is it because I’m not Johnny?”

“You hit the nail on the head,” she said. It was part of the reason, but if she could just get out in the air and not have to think about it, she really would be fine, and she’d be able to keep going for a few more hours.

“I can go home if that’s what you really want. I don’t give a fuck about Freddie Lounds. She’s written worse about me, and at least that was true!” he yelled after her.

Clarice was so glad her back was to him. He’d seen her cry more than anyone else in her acquaintance, and she didn’t want him to see the tears rolling down her cheeks yet again. 

“Then why don’t you go home?” she yelled back. “We got enough from today that I can work it with the rest of the team when I get back next week.”

“Is that really what you want?”

No.

“Yes.”

The steps behind her stopped. “Then I’ll make a few calls. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Good,” she said. 

“Alright then,” he said. “Goodbye, Clarice.”

“Bye,” she said, waving at him without turning around. There was silence, and she almost made it to the gazebo before she could hear rapid footfalls. He grabbed her and turned her around to face him.

“Why don’t you like me?” he asked.

“Why do you want me to?” 

He opened his mouth and closed it, setting his jaw as he turned back to the house.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she said, following him. “You started this, and by God, you better pony up. I need to cool off. You know I cool off by moving. Do you want to see me mad? Well, you got it!” She grabbed his arm, but he shook it off. She sped ahead of him and blocked his path, centering herself on the bridge and facing him head-on. But Will’s expression confused her. His eyes were red, and he was biting his lip as he turned his head sway.

“I’m going,” he said. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

No.

She tried to tell him to go and not let the door hit his ass, but the words she wanted wouldn’t come. Her emotions deflated, the anger reducing down to a simmer. She should tell him to leave, just as she should have wanted Johnny with her at the Bimmel’s. Putting her own shaking hand on his chest, she whispered, “No.”

He placed his hands on her face, thumbs caressing her cheeks and wiping at her tears. “Why don’t you like me?”

Because you drink. 

Because you have two men living inside of you, and I’m not sure either of them has my best interest at heart. 

Because I like you a lot, despite those things.

She shook her head, looking in the other direction as the lie slid easily from her tongue. “Would it be enough if I told you that I want to?”

“No… but I guess I’ll take it. For now.”

“Will you let me go for a walk?” 

Thick drops of rain started to fall around her, and she shivered in the cooling air. 

“Do you really think it’s the best idea? It’s freezing, plus it looks like the rain followed us after all.  You’ll catch your death if you aren’t careful.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“But I do,” he said. 

No, you don’t.

The sky cracked as the rain picked up, and Clarice felt miserable as she looked at the dark clouds rolling in from the south.

“Let’s order something for dinner. There’s a stack of menus in one of the drawers in the kitchen.”

“Is there pizza?” she grumbled.

“I think so.”

“I like pizza,” she said.

“What do you like on it?”

“Anchovies and mushrooms. Onions.”

“Have I told you I like you today?” he asked, half-serious and half-playful.

“Not yet,” she said.

“I do.”

She nodded, her eyes still on the sky. “I’m going home when we’re done. I enjoyed last night, but I don’t think either of us can offer anything else to each other.”

He swallowed and asked, “What if…?” 

“What if what?”

“Never mind,” he sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“As long as we’re on the same page about… this,” she said, motioning between them. “Are we?”

Whatever happens here, stays here. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Is there?

“Yes,” he said. 

“Good. Let’s order pizza.”

“If I got one with black olives and pineapple, would that bother you?”

She licked her lips.

And there’s the man who’s after my heart and soul.

“Only if you didn’t share.”

Will gave her a tight smile and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear, leaning in to kiss her. Her mouth tingled by the time he broke away, and she was so lightheaded that she had to resist the temptation to lean against him for support.

“Do…” He cleared his throat and raised a brow. “Do you own condoms?”

Oh, fuck it up.

“No,” she said, wanting to slap herself for not thinking about it last night. “Do you own condoms?”

“Other than the one that’s been in my wallet since I was fifteen, no.”

“A memento of hard times?”

“Basically, yeah,” he said, the corners of his lips turning up.

“I’m on the pill,” she said. 

Did I take my pill? 

He let out a breath and half-laughed, but his expression was still off. Clarice didn’t like it, but she was too cold to press him about whatever was going on inside his mind.

“Let’s get inside. But stay out of my way while I clean the kitchen, okay?”

He nodded. “I promise.”

They had to change into dry clothes, as the light rain became a downpour before they reached the house. Clarice took her time cleaning the kitchen, her mind finally shutting down as she contented herself with scrubbing the inside of the fridge. When she was done, Will hopped up on one of the clean counters with a glass of wine in hand.

“Let me try it, and don’t say no,” she said. Will held it out to her, and she took a sip, grimacing as her tastebuds protested. “That tastes terrible.”

“That came from a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet,” he said, taking the glass back.

Of course, it did.

“And that’s why I hate wine,” she said. “One of the reasons. Did you order the pizza?”

“It should be here any minute.”

She sat on the counter next to him, this time leaning against his shoulder when she yawned loudly. Will put his arm around her, his hand resting on her hip. It wasn’t as shaky as it was yesterday. Maybe switching to wine wasn’t so bad, after all. She took one more sip, trying to taste what those rich shits did at the few banquets she attended with Ardelia in Washington. But all she noted when the wine filled her mouth was the sour flavor of bitter ends. 

Clarice politely spit it in the sink. A little unsweet tea was still the best choice, except –

“Did you put sugar in the tea pitcher again?”

His expression was entirely too smug.

Goddamn it, Will.

Chapter Text

Clarice fell asleep with a copy of Hamlet in her lap, a leatherbound edition from Phil's library. It was hard to be still and relax, especially when she was running on little more than adrenaline and guilt. She woke as Will carried her to bed, limply lifting her arms when he undressed her and tucked her next to him. He took the copy of the book from her hands and picked up where she left off, reading out loud the pages she had bookmarked.

"There's fennel for you, and columbines.—There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it "herb of grace" o' Sundays.—Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.—There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end," he recited.

"It's so sad," Clarice said. 

"Which part?"

"Their predicament. It's what I wrote about when we had to write an essay on the play. Was he mad, or was she, or were they both? Folie à deux. What's worse was that their madness was due to events beyond their control, different forms of grief. Loss of a father. Loss of a lover. Poor decisions made by men ruined their lives beyond measure until they were buried in their own graves."

"Big thoughts for a mountain girl."

"I didn't have much to do besides think."

He closed the book and it on the nightstand, rolling to his side to face her. "You could have done anything, Clarice. Why the FBI?"

No one had ever really asked her that before. In her interviews, she'd given a pat answer that had suited the occasions, except for the one she'd had with Jack. But even that answer hadn't rung true. She couldn't come up with a response, even now, and shook her head helplessly.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Why not?"

"If you're someone with a lot to prove, the best way to show yourself that you are advancing in life is trying to work your way through all the grades in the Federal Government."

"That sounds less like empathy and more like someone who has been in my shoes."

"Is it less true for you than it was for me?"

She thought about it and answered honestly, "No."

"Why Jack and the BAU?"

"It's where I wanted to be, after listening to you and Dr. Bloom teach at the Academy. I was happy in forensics and could have spent my career there, despite psychology being my first love. The tediousness and fiddliness of the lab always helped keep my head clear. But at the house on Chesapeake Beach, one of the local cops acted like an ass. I was the only woman there, and he treated me like dogshit on the bottom of a scuffed loafer. Jack gave him the what for, and… I don't know. After seeing him take up for me, and he didn't even know me –"

"You would have killed for him, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," she said.

"He has that effect on people. Present company included, once upon a time."

"Jack liked my work, liked the way I thought as I worked the scene. He saw past my write-ups and brought me home – or closer to it than New York."

"Do you consider Quantico your home?"

"It's the first place anything ever made sense," she said. "And I'm trying my damndest to keep it that way."

"Arm yourself with your best protection," he said. "It'll have to be something more than running and keeping things clean."

"I know. I used to have my own vaccine against the anger, but –"

He died to keep me alive.

Her face must have changed because he was by her side, stroking her hair as she let out a deep sigh. 

"Did you love him?"

"Not like…" She took a breath. Maybe it was being naked in bed with him with nothing to hide behind, other than the sheet that covered them. She felt utterly exposed yet somehow safe to speak. "Not like he loved me. You can make a deal to be friends, but it doesn't mean that feelings might not grow for the other person."

Will wasn't satisfied with the answer. She could tell by the way his eyes danced in the low light of the room. But he didn't press her, turning to click off the lamp instead of questioning her more about John Brigham. She moved to the far side of the bed, hugging the corner rather than curling against him. This wasn't something she needed to get used to or miss, no matter how cold and lonely her side of the bed might feel. 

When his hand touched her arm, she squinched her eyes shut, moaning when the tips of his fingers found a nipple, teasing it before softly rolling it between his fingers. Foreplay wasn't something she routinely participated in, and she felt shy. It didn't matter that the room was dark. He could see her through his hands, and he seemed intent on touching every inch of her chest, his palms moving down to her belly when she turned to lay on her back.

"Relax," he whispered into her ear before kissing her. This she did like, and her thoughts crept away when their lips met. He had quickly learned what she enjoyed: a nibble to her lower lip, a caress to her cheek when his tongue slipped into her mouth. Gentle, open-mouthed kisses that didn't intrude, whispering promises to her with the sweetness of his lips. She was upset when they moved to her neck, but the disappointment was replaced by the wonder of his lips against her breast, drawing a tense nipple into his mouth before moving lower, until –

"Don't," she gasped, pushing his head away.

"Don't what?" he asked. "Hasn't anyone ever done this?" He moved back to his goal, placing an insistent kiss over her clitoris. 

A man who can find it in the dark might be a keeper.

"No," she admitted, giggling nervously when he rested his cheek on her thigh. She could almost see him in the low light of the room, the distant lightning briefly highlighting his face. Will was amused, excited, and a little smug.

Dammit.

"Can I be the first?" he asked softly.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she nodded, resting her head on the pillow and closing her eyes as his mouth descended, licking her as though she was something too delicious for words. Distantly, she could hear unfamiliar laughter in her head, warning her that a man who had tasted and abandoned human flesh shouldn't enjoy eating her this much. The thoughts of his past made her tense, but the giggles took her over again when his fingers skittered over a ticklish spot on her thigh. She scooted up the mattress until he pressed her hips to the bed with both hands.

"If you don't keep still," he warned playfully, "I'll have to tie you to the bed."

The edge in his voice aroused her until a rapid series of images flicked through her brain. Crime scene photos, some that had crossed her desk only a few weeks before the raid. Her body chilled as her mind froze on the faces of the dead.

Will crawled up the bed, understanding her in that quiet way he had. He wasn't upset, not like the last loser she dated had been when she locked up after a casual mention of gagging her. Will simply held her, taking her hands away from her face when she tried to hide her tears.

"They do more than call out to you. Don't they?" he asked.

"Words trigger a lot of junk if I'm not careful. I'll be okay in a minute."

"Will you?"

She didn't answer, knowing he understood and perhaps felt it himself. Her head found a pillow on his chest, and though they remained still for some time, she didn't fall asleep. When she felt calmer, she said, "It gives you some kind of moral injury, the things we see. Knowing that for every case we can give an accurate profile on, there are dozens more where no one will ever be caught."

"What about karma?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore," she admitted. "Not when I look at the evil that we are capable of. My faith was always a little lax after my mom died, anyways. Combine a girl who wonders why God would take the best woman in the world from her with a woman who wonders what kind of God would allow His children to suffer such needless pain, and you get a slightly neurotic agnostic."

"I knew someone once who collected church collapses. Recreationally," he said. "He especially loved the ones where people suffered as the roofs fell over their heads. He was one of the sanest men I've ever met and sometimes one of the kindest, even though his versions of evil will be studied until men and women are exhausted from searching for the meaning of the word."

She didn't want to talk about… him. Not when Will's arms were wrapped around her as she listened to his heart steadily beating in his chest. It felt wrong. Dirty. When she shivered, he pulled the sheet over her.

"Do you find any comfort in considering that for every desperate act, there's an equal measure of goodness somewhere in the world?"

"Maybe. There's a part of me that understands that… I don't know, cancer and flamingos were made by God if He exists? At least they trace back to that ancient beach where a creature flopped on the shore, thought, 'Fuck it, I'm too tired to go back,' and found a partner stupid enough to do the same thing instead of returning to the safety of the ocean. Sometimes I wish I could cure cancer and raise a flock of flamingos in my back yard, just to spite whatever made us. Still, I never cared for cellular biology, and the flamingos would just shit everywhere. I'd probably break their necks for it, so I guess even beauty has a price. Better to get the plastic ones and donate money to research for a tax write off. At least it makes me feel better about life not being perfect."

He chuckled. "Have I told you I like you today?"

"Once or twice," she said.

"I mean it."

"I know." She lifted her head and kissed him, hoping she could make him forget that she hadn't said it back. This was something she could do, something she knew she was good at. She took him in her hand, stroking him until his kisses became more like panting groans. Then she slipped him into her mouth.

"Oh…" he panted, his hand touching her shoulder.

The sounds he made urged her on until he started to tap her urgently. She didn't let up, not until he pulled her off of him, spreading her legs as he pushed inside. She didn't think she would come, but he looked so fucking happy that she decided that she wouldn't miss that little detail. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper when he started to move faster, hips thrusting until he hit the right spot.

"That feels so good," she whimpered, trying to focus on the pleasure and nothing else.

"Are you close?"

"Don't talk, just –"She couldn't finish speaking. Will pulled out, his mouth finding her, sucking the sensitive skin between her legs. She almost screamed, her hands clutching the mattress until he grabbed them in his, holding on tight as she came down from one of the best orgasms she'd had without the help of her bedstand boyfriend. Her muscles were loose and relaxed when he hovered over her, pushing back inside and circling his hips until it happened again, except this time he joined her when toppled over the edge of desire.

"Clarice," he whispered, groaning deep in his throat. 

Her chest warmed when he spoke her name, and she held him to her, sighing as he lazily kissed her skin. 

I like you so much, Will.

She was so close to saying it, but she held still, combing her fingers through his hair while she waited for her heartbeat to slow.

"Do you ever wonder if there's someone out there who was made for you?" he asked.

She took a breath and kissed the top of his head. "I don't know. I try not to think about it. What about you?"

"I used to be afraid to think about it, but… opinions change. Blur and converge, separate and reform."

"Big thoughts for a man who just had sex."

She could feel his grin, and it made her smile with him.

"I don't ever not think. It's what I do best."

You aren't the only one.

"Well… ditto," she murmured.

"What would you do if you found that person, Clarice?"

"Probably run as fast as I could in the other direction. What would you do?"

"Hold on as long as they'd let me," he said, his arms tightening around her. 

Oh shit.

"I… bathroom," she said. Will released her reluctantly, and she kept her pace slow until she shut the door behind her and turned on the light. She squinted as her eyes adjusted and looked in the mirror, seeing the livid red spots on her neck and breasts. A faint smudge of drying semen was on her thigh from when he pulled out. She felt marked. And while part of that excited her, it also scared her to death.

Will it excite him, when he sees the faint, purpling bruises tomorrow?

As she looked for a washcloth to clean herself, Will walked in behind her, no longer asking for permission.

Is that a rule? Fuck me once and ask to come in, fuck me twice and open the door?

She tried not to show her impatience, turning the faucet to hot when he walked to the toilet. He was completely nude, and she could see every inch of his body for the first time. The scarring wasn't as bad as she thought, though the one on his belly still looked as angry and red as it must have the day he received it in the good doctor's kitchen. The water was hot when the toilet flushed, and she placed the washcloth underneath it.

"Let me," he said, taking it from her and lightly wringing it out. Will was checking her out too, maybe more covertly than she had done to him, taking his lip between his teeth when his eyes lingered over the red marks on her left breast. "I guess I got a little excited."

"I didn't complain."

"I would have stopped if you had," he said, rubbing the cloth on her thigh before moving in between. The water had gotten too warm, both soothing and stimulating her when he moved between her legs. She must have moaned because his expression darkened. He dropped the wet cloth and rubbed her with his fingers, slipping them inside as he kissed her shoulder, biting gently.

She could see him, all of him, as he helped her ride his hand. The tensing around his eyes while he watched her reactions, the way his lips went slack when she clenched around his fingers. For a man who thought himself to be so ugly, he was beautiful when he made love.

Clarice, don't -

Her back was to the mirror, and she wondered what he saw when he looked at her right now? Did the ugly, broken, white trash, shiftless woman come through, or–

Don't think.

Will thought she was beautiful when she slept. When they settled back into bed, his arms snug around her waist in the dark, she wanted to know if he ever saw her with wildflowers crowning her head as she floated away from him in a rich, muslin gown.

Chapter Text

Will had reached the last file, looking through the pages that told the sad tale of Cynthia Knight. Clarice watched him out of the corner of her eye while she looked through her emails. It seemed like the owner of HeavenlyConnections was going to be cooperative and promised to give them access to the profiles as early as tomorrow. She turned her laptop away from Will and pulled up TattleCrime, crossing her fingers that Freddie had moved onto something more substantial, like the fallout from the impeachment trial. 

But it appeared that soft news still sold more ad space, and she groaned when she saw a picture of Will's beach house in one of the side articles. 

Sea Shanties and Sociopathy? Really, Freddie? You sound like a Jimmy Buffett album.

"What?" Will asked. 

"You might not want to know," Clarice said, snorting out a laugh when she skimmed through the words, reading: It's notable how spotless it appears from the outside. Someone seems to have adhered to the rule that cleanliness is next to godliness, or perhaps he's using industrial solvents to absolve himself of his greater sins.

"Freddie took some pictures of your house," she said.

"What sucks is that I genuinely liked living there," he said bitterly. "Now I'll have to start over somewhere else."

It wasn't really living, though, was it?

"Where do you think you'll go?"

"I don't know," he said. "I'd like to stay in Florida, but I don't think that's an option at this point. I don't care what the warden says about his access to the outside world."

"You could move to my hometown," she said. "You'd blend in easily. Getting lost in an old cabin close to a lake or river? Might be your idea of heaven."

"Maybe," he said, grinning at her when their eyes met. "Where do you live, by the way?"

"Annandale," she said. "Ardelia and I rent an old house that was converted into a duplex. Halfsies all the way, except we have to share a kitchen and laundry room."

"That's not so bad."

"Especially when you live next door to someone who cooks as well as she does."

His eyes roamed over her a little longer before going back to the page in his hand. His brows furrowed together, and he shoved the page at the table with agitation before standing and pacing the room.

"What?"

"How long have you had this case?" he asked quietly.

"We were invited a week before the raid, so a month a half?"

"Did the raid rattle the entire unit, or just you and John?"

"Everyone, I guess. We tried to fight it and got nowhere – it was either go or quit. When John decided to go, there was no way I wasn't going with him. It shook everyone up. Why?"

"Because you missed something. I knew I should have started from the first. But number ten was so close to home and… FUCK, how did you miss this?"

She took a breath and willed her temper into submission when she asked, "And what, pray tell, did we miss?"

"He weighted down Cynthia Knight. She was the first killed and the fourth found. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

"There's a lot he did to her that he didn't do to the other girls. It takes a lot of time and effort to conceal a body the way he did hers. He changed after her, tidied up his process."

"No, he didn't," Will said, shaking his head. "If anything, his ritual is getting more elaborate as time passes. He's learning what he likes, what he doesn't like. Keeping them longer and enjoying his time with them. That's not someone who is tidying up. That's someone who is honing their craft and loving the nuances that come with experience. The rest were found in almost pristine condition, like works of art. But she was weighted down and… hidden while she rotted. Like a Christmas ham bought in July."

"Why?"

He walked in front of her and took the laptop from her, tossing it to the side. Then he placed his hands on the back of the sofa, trapping her with his body. He was angry and worked up, and Clarice swallowed as she tried to calm the fear rising within her.

"Think, Clarice. I won't answer it for you. You need to cultivate your empathy. You asked me to help you think like me, and I refused because I thought understanding a murderer would undo you. But you have tasted blood, and you should know what it's like to do it from a state of rapture instead of defensive moves."

"Okay," she whispered. "Tell me how."

He shook his head. "You'll tell me how, and you'll learn from what the unit overlooked. I want you to think about the things you hide from the world, all those things you look at and want no one else to know about until it's time for them to be revealed."

Her breathing picked up as she imagined designer shoes in glossy magazines, the award she'd lost for marksmanship at the Academy, and…

Don't think.

"It hurts to think about some of them, doesn't it? Those things you want the most."

"What does this have to do with Buffalo Bill?"

"Look at Cynthia Knight through his eyes. Look at her," he said, motioning behind him. Clarice beheld the picture taped to the wall. Cindy's big smile lit up the entire room, pale hair piled on top of her head like a glorious crown. She'd been so young when she died and so achingly pretty - a doll herself with rosy cheeks and lips and bright blue eyes. Clarice had never been attracted to a woman, but if she was, she could see herself longing to look at that face every day. She closed her eyes, imagining that she could see her beauty through the eyes of a predator. Stalking her, watching her. Creating chance encounters, just to have a chance to see that smile lift the gray away from the space they shared.

"You're so close to it. You know that, don't you? What does he do, this man you seek? What is the first and principal thing that his elaborate fantasies serve to extinguish?" 

"Sexual gratification, frustration, social –"

"Wrong, Clarice. You'll have to do better than that if you want to catch this man. Open your mind and look around you. I know you feel eyes on you wherever you go, long before the raid made you a pariah. How could you not? You're the most beautiful thing in the room, even surrounded by the faces of all these women."

"He…" She opened her eyes, almost having it, tasting the answer on her tongue with nauseating purity. "He wants."

"More than that. He covets. What is the thing you covet the most?"

Her across the street neighbors. That simpler life they had. Both schoolteachers, with two children whose laughter made the trip from her car to the front door a painful joy. She watched them from her window one day last year, a sweet family raking the leaves in the front yard. Something she had and lost and still longed for so badly that it ached.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My neighbors," she said. "They're married with two kids, and I watch them sometimes and –"

"You covet their life, don't you? You understand that need deep in your belly to have something that isn't yours to take. Think about Billy, wanting these girls – and this girl in particular. What made her so special to him that he would need to hide her shine?"

"He…" She looked at the ceiling and tried to think.

"The answer isn't up there. It's been in these pages the whole time, but everyone was too anxious about the raid and too grieved from the aftermath to see it. Think."

What if she ever did something to the cat that prowled around their yard and walked across the street to beg for food? She'd have to hide it well, considering she lived across the street. She'd have to –

"Oh, holy shit. He knew her."

"He knew her," Will agreed. 

"Goddamn it, Clarice," she whispered, covering her face with her hands. "SHIT."

"He's somewhere in Georgia. He wouldn't have left her too far from home. She's not the one he's modeling his dolls after, but he loved her no less. And Billy would have needed to go back to visit her until she was found."

"I need to call Jack."

"Not yet," he said. "How angry are you?"

"On a scale from zero to ten? About twenty."

"If Jack's changed that much, you're going to scare the hell out of him if you call him now. Think about what we know. And tell me about Buffalo Bill."

"He's from Georgia. He has some surgical skill – if he's not a medical doctor, he could be a veterinarian or maybe a mortician. And he can sew outright – the dresses aren't anything we've been able to trace, and the fabric is sold at thousands of different stores. He's intelligent, organized. He finds them through dating sites, likely a number of them, but he hit HeavenlyConnections a few times because women go there looking more for a relationship than sex. He waits for them to come to him; it fits his need to be desired by the object of his affection. And he's got a fixation with either the story of Ophelia or the art related to her death. Cultured, somehow, but not so much that he wouldn't fit into a small town. He wouldn't stand out too much; he couldn't do that. He'd get caught too easily that way. He's got something to explain his quirks, though, and if people think him odd, they just shrug and say, 'That's Billy for you.' When we find him, he's going to look like the average Joe but be more terrifying than anyone who knows him ever dreamed."

"Is he insane?"

"No," she said. "Honestly, I think he's in a severe depression. This is the only thing that gives him any joy. He cares for these girls in his mind. Tending to their every need gives him something to look forward to. And he mourns when it's time to let them go. It's why he dresses them up so fine after he takes what he needs. I think part of him is genuinely sorry, but not sorry enough to stop. He's almost got what he needs."

"And what's that?"

"A face," she said. "The doll is almost done. If there's a next one, and she doesn't have her face missing, I'd be shocked. She is going to need to look almost exactly like his Ophelia, maybe more like her than she did in life. A hyperreality that he can preserve with his methods."

"Why do you think he took Cynthia's scalp and hair, Clarice, when a wig would have sufficed?"

"He took Cynthia's hair because…" She frowned. She was genuinely stumped again, and she looked to Will for help.

"Because a doll can't move without encouragement. But he can watch that hair in a breeze or when the air conditioning kicks on. It keeps her alive, more alive than her cold, dead skin would."

"Hot damn," she said.

"One to ten, how angry are you?"

She checked herself. They'd eaten a late breakfast, splitting a bagel after sleeping in. It was still raining, so she hadn't run this morning, but she felt alert instead of twitchy. And Will was with her, somehow that was important to her mental state. "About a six. But I usually run around eight on a good day, so that's progress."

"Let's write the report, and then call Jack. He'd be happier if he had it in his hands while we speak to him."

"He's going to be so pissed that he missed this."

"A unit under stress will miss what's under their nose. It's happened before," Will said. "Recently enough that he should have called in some fresh eyes sooner."

"Believe me, he was tempted. He even talked about asking… let's just say that if you'd said no, my next stop might have been Colorado."

"God."

"Desperate times, Will."

"He's been there before, and using him came with a terrible outcome."

"Not with me asking the questions."

"I don't know if you could outwit him, Clarice. No one can."

"Maybe it isn't a matter of outwitting than outwilling. And I've got a will made from titanium steel."

"If it ever had come to that, you'd need it. My spine wasn't strong enough not to bend when it was encouraged." 

He was still standing over her, but she hadn't noticed since her mind had lurched ahead. Now it felt awkward again, and she cleared her throat.

"Am I in your personal space?" he asked.

"A little."

"I like being in your personal space." A strand of her hair had come loose from her ponytail, and he took it between his fingers, playing with it. "It's even prettier in the sunlight. Your hair looked like it was lit from within when we were on my beach."

"I miss your beach," she said.

"I miss it too. Do you think we might get it back one day?"

It had almost felt so much like a vacation that she'd thought about giving her heart away until the northern shores had brought cold reality. 

"I heard in a movie once that if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. Maybe you can get it back if you want it enough. You'll have to make your mind up about him, though, and decide what you really want."

"Yeah," he said, backing away. Clarice felt like she could breathe again, and she took several deep breaths before retrieving her laptop. 

"I want to go back to the start and take a look around Peachtree Corners with different eyes."

"It might not be a bad idea," he said. 

"Would you come with me?" she asked, hiding her face behind the screen.

"Considering that we're each other's babysitters, we'd probably get in trouble if we split up now. It seems like that always led to problems in the old Scooby-Doo cartoons," he said, ducking when she threw her shoe at him.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Let's go Thursday. Maybe the rain will let up by then."

She nodded as she started to type, not looking when she took a glass from the table. The alcohol stung her mouth, more bourbon than coke, and she spit it out, looking up at Will when he stopped pacing and stared at her. 

"Sorry," she said.

"It was time for a new one," he said sheepishly. He took the glass and went upstairs. She'd run to a liquor store after lunch and bought three massive bottles of Jim Beam. She'd said that she wasn't enabling him, but Jesus Christ, it didn't feel like it when the cashier lifted her brow at the purchase.

Reality sucks, doesn't it?

Chapter Text

They sat on the sofa, knees touching as they spoke to Jack on speaker. Clarice could hear the paper crinkle in his hands when she came to their conclusions, though his voice was calm when he spoke.

"You've done good work today. I've got a meeting at four with Watkins and Bradley. Do you want to join us?"

Her nerves were shot, and Clarice shook her head before speaking, "I'll sit this one out if that's okay. Vacation and all."

"I'm proud of you. Both of you. I'd hoped you could work together, but I never dreamed you'd pair up so well. You have a lot to think about, don't you, Will?"

"I guess I do," he said.

"You're going to Peachtree Corners?"

"Tomorrow or the next day, depending on when the profiles from the website come in."

"Keep me updated."

The call ended. Clarice leaned against the back of the couch and sighed, feeling more like herself than she had since the day Paul Krendler had insulted her in front of Johnny. Instead of simmering, her emotions were almost cool, and she smiled at the ceiling before glancing at Will. "Is it still raining?"

"It wasn't when I went upstairs."

"Do you want to go fishing?"

"That sounds like a great idea."

They changed clothes, warmer ones than they'd had in Florida, and dragged a cooler and tackle out to the surf. It was quiet this time of day, or else the rain had driven most people from the beach. Regardless, it was peaceful, and neither of them spoke as they cast their lines into the water, watching the bobs as they popped in and out of the rough waves.

"I could get used to this," she said.

"What?"

"Working from home. Not having to dress up and pretend to be someone important. Be able to think without everyone watching."

"Everyone, or one person in particular?"

"It would change a lot of things if I didn't need eyes on the back of my head," she said, reeling in her line when she felt a tug. The tug turned into a drag, and she fought with the handle.

"Need some help?"

"I think I caught a monster! Grab the net."

She managed to reel it in, turning the handle with so much pressure that she was afraid the palm of her hand was going to blister. But when she saw Will in the waves, scooping up a whopper of a fish that shone silvery blue in the muted light, Clarice decided a blister was worth the pride on his face when he looked back at her.

He sure is handsome when he's happy.

"How much do you think it weighs?" she called out to him.

"At least ten pounds."

She hopped up and down, feeling dumb and schoolgirlish and not caring one fucking bit if anyone was watching. "Should we keep it?"

He walked back to the shore and unhooked it, holding the fish out for her to see better. "That's up to you."

It was a beautiful beast. She almost wanted to throw it back until her stomach rumbled in protest. 

"Keep and eat. But I want a picture with my catch. That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Absolutely." He passed it to her, wiping off his hands as he looked around for her phone. 

"It's under my bra strap," she said, giggling when he ran his hand up her shirt, copping a feel before grabbing it, copping another quick feel before releasing her and taking a few steps back.

"Smile."

She gave a huge, toothsome grin for the photo, feeling too damn proud of herself for words. "Get a selfie with the two of us – three, counting the fish."

"I don't think my arm is that long."

"Doesn't matter. Get what you can."

He stood next to her, grabbing her waist as he snapped another picture.

"Hot damn," she said. "We got anything to go with… what is this, by the way?"

"Bluefish," he chuckled. "We brought another head of cauliflower with us if it didn't go bad."

"Nice." 

"Speaking of which, bluefish will go bad if we don't eat it quickly."

"Then I'll bring my appetite."

"And I'll put this guy out of his misery. He won't fit in the chest."

"Can I help?"

"It's pretty gross. You sure?"

"Might as well learn, in case I decide to keep fishing when I get back home."

Will's throat bobbed for a moment, his eyes darting to the fish when he cleared his throat and said, "I'll need a sharp, thin knife. Can you get one from the kitchen? And a cutting board. I'll meet you at the gazebo."

His voice was so quiet and sad, reaching out to the tenderer portions of her heart that she tried to forget existed. It was the compassion he'd known she had, along with genuine regret that whatever it was that connected them couldn't linger. As bad as he was for her, she understood that someone as angry as she could be wasn't good for him, no matter how much he tried to overlook it.

Are you really going to miss me that much when I'm gone? Find a nice girl to take fishing, Will. 

She kissed his cheek, wanting to make it better and knowing she couldn't, and turned to the house. When she reached the kitchen, she sat on the floor and put her head in her hands. The kitchen had always been her safe space, especially after her mother died. There was something about the cool floor and gentle whirring sounds of the appliances that calmed her, though she now received no peace. 

Clarice reached for her phone, pulling up the pictures Will had just taken. They could have been anyone, two happy people who went fishing after coming home from work. The worst thing of it was that they genuinely looked like a couple, a pair of people at ease in each other's company, and she was torn between deleting or keeping the photos. She scanned through the rest of Johnny's pictures, seeing more images of herself than of him or anyone else. 

Goddamn it, Johnny. Why couldn't I have loved you the way you wanted me to? Would I even be here right now?

She allowed herself another moment of pity before she called Ardelia, straightening when she picked up.

"Play it again, Sam," Ardelia said.

"Hey, Dee."

A beat. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing I didn't bring on myself. It'll be fine. Did the water bill come?"

"It did. The money you left will cover it and the rent. You really need to pay your bills online like the rest of the world."

"Maybe one day," she said, leaning her head against the wood cabinet. "Tell me about something that happened to you today. Anything. What did you have for lunch?"

"Pastrami on rye. Chips, one of those pickles you like."

"You didn't eat all my pickles, did you?"

"I'll get some more before you come home."

Clarice closed her eyes and smiled, imagining Ardelia on the floor next to her, talking about her day. "I could use a cup of your grandmother's tea."

"If you're gone much longer, I'll send you some next-day," she said. "How bad is it? Are you having nightmares?"

"No. I've actually been sleeping pretty well."

Ardelia was silent for a minute, slowly sizing her up. "I've got some news for you when you get back."

"Go ahead and tell me."

"Not with your voice sounding that way."

"I'm fine. I promise."

"Okay," Ardelia said, taking a breath before saying, "Rich asked me to move in with him."

Clarice's heart stopped before it lurched into her throat. "Oh. Oh wow," she finally said. 

"I told him I would, but only if that meant something more permanent was coming down the line. He had no qualm with my conditions."

"How could he?" Clarice said, hoping her voice was steady when she wiped the tears from her cheeks. "When?"

"May. I'm not moving anytime soon with the weather as unpredictable as it's been. Plus, Mr. Clements requires two months' notice."

"At least I'll have you a little while longer," Clarice said.

"We'll only be a few blocks away."

"But Rich lives in Arlington."

"He finally found a house he likes. If you need a cup of tea or anything else, we'll be close by. Close enough to run to."

"Shit," Clarice said. "Why are you so good?"

"It isn't all about you," Ardelia laughed. "But it made the deal a lot sweeter."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. How are you, really? Don't lie."

"Good. Bad. Everything in between. Still on the beach and catching fish."

"What kind?"

"Bluefish."

"What about Will? Is he catchin' anything he wants to keep?"

'Fraid so.

"A mackerel. We'll eat good tonight."

"Double your portion and eat some for me. Okay?"

"We're having cauliflower again. Do you want me to double that, too?"

"Nope."

The door opened, Will's head popping through. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Clarice said. "Phone. I'll be there soon."

"Go, eat some fish," Ardelia said. "Call me when you can."

"I will. Bye."

Clarice tucked her phone into her shirt and took a breath before standing. It was and wasn't better, and she couldn't think about Dee moving until she got back home. But hearing her voice always helped. Will was still at the back door, leaning against it, and she tapped her knuckles on the window until he turned and walked back in.

"Ardelia?" he asked as he shut the door behind him.

"How did you know?"

"You change when you speak to her."

"How so?"

He shrugged and walked to the knife block, pulling them out until he found the one he wanted. "Talking to her makes you… gentle."

Clarice had been told a few times that she had a resting bitch face, a phrase she hated, but she had stared at her face in the mirror enough to know it held some truth. Her expressions could be hard, especially while at work. And Will had seen her work face much more than her others. 

Still…

"Do I not look gentle when I talk to you?"

"It's not about the way you look. It's the words you say and the way you speak. It's different with her."

"She's been my best friend for almost a decade," Clarice said. "Maybe it should be different."

"But –"

"I’ve slept with other men, Will. It doesn't make you special."

"That's not what I meant," he said. "But I doubt you liked any of them very much."

Fair point.

"Does that really matter? It's not the fifties."

"Maybe it should matter," he said. 

"Are you telling me you've never had casual sex?"

Is this really casual sex?

"I have," he said. He put the knife on the counter in front of him, staring at it as he placed his hands on the smooth marble. "I don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight with you either."

"I just wish I'd get to experience the same woman Ardelia does."

"It's different," she said. 

"Because you don't even like me, do you?"

Oh, Jesus. Are we twelve?

Then again, he had a point. It wasn't as though she saved all of her goodness for Ardelia. But she labeled everyone in some way or another, and Ardelia held a sacred, golden circle of trust. Clarice could cry in front of her, laugh until she fell out of her chair, and tell the truth without judgment. It was the same circle Johnny held with her, though she had frozen him into the title of friend. Because boyfriends and lovers she never did trust, not when trust was routinely broken or treated as the gift they'd never asked for and didn't want. 

She placed her hand next to his on the counter, almost touching him. "Can I trust you not to hurt me?"

He didn't look at her when he answered, "I don't know."

At least he was honest, and she appreciated that more than a quickly given lie. "Then if you do hurt me… would you be sorry? Or would it be par for the course?"

"It wouldn't," he said. His pinkie slid to her thumb, caressing it gently. "I can't promise I won't fuck up. I did that once, and… it happened anyways. And when I was able to feel remorse again, it was too late for it to matter to her. So no, you can't trust me not to hurt you. But you can trust me to want to try. That's all I can offer right now."

It was realistic. It was raw and almost ugly. And for some reason, it was enough.

Feeling almost twelve and too scared for words, she asked, "Have I told you I like you today?"

"No," he said, his lip twitching.

"I do."

He turned to her. Clarice thought he would kiss her and was surprised when he wrapped her in a firm, warm embrace. 

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" he asked.

"I'd already planned on it. I even caught the main course."

"I mean, will you wear that dress again? Drink a glass of wine and dance with me in the moonlight?"

"Are you asking me on another date?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I accept."

He squeezed her tighter. At first, she thought it might be from genuine affection until she felt the tremor in his hands that increased every time he tried to let go.

You might not want to hurt me, but this will hurt no matter what we do to stop it.

"Will?"

"What, honey?"

Don't.

"If I asked you to stop something, do you think you could?"

He held on, though he never answered her question.

"I can't remember the last time I went on a picnic," Catherine Martin said. She sat on the checkered cloth and arranged her skirt around her, trying to hide the parts of her legs she didn't want John to see.

"I told you I wanted to share something special with you," he said, pointing at the sky. "Look up."

Catherine looked at the evening sky. A few stars were visible, but nothing was out of the ordinary. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"The moon will be passing Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn tonight. I have a telescope in the trunk so we can see it."

"Wow," she said, taking a glass of wine from him. "I don't think I've ever looked at the stars with anyone."

John sat next to her, reclining on one arm as he looked up at the sky. "It's an amazing thing when you think about it. All those stars and planets, painting the first pictures our ancestors saw. They were so taken by them that they named what they saw for their gods and greater beings. Yet we forget about them and spend so much time looking at our hands instead of at the wonder there is around us."

Catherine inched closer to him, close enough to smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It enticed her, and she moved a little more until their arms almost touched.

"I have some blankets in case it gets cold."

"You thought of everything, didn't you?"

"I hope so," he said, flashing a brilliant smile.

Catherine smiled back and took a sip of wine. It tasted a little off, not like the stuff her mother served at fancy dinners. But not everyone could afford two-hundred-dollar bottles of Chateau D'Yquem. She took another sip, defiantly enjoying a cheaper vintage.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not yet. Tell me more about the stars, John."

He placed his hand over hers and told her everything he knew.

They could have been anyone. A couple, not young and not old, sitting at a table set with some of the most expensive china and crystal Clarice had ever touched. She'd found candles and candlesticks in one of the closets, and light danced around the room in flickers, almost like the stars outside.

The evening sky had turned the windows into mirrors. When she glanced at their dim reflections, talking animatedly about their shared love of low country food, she saw two people who were trying their best to be happy. 

She took a small sip of wine. It was sweet but didn't stick to her tongue like sickly candy. The flames gave the pale liquid a golden hue, and she felt very indulged when she took a second taste.

"I might actually like this one," she said.

"I think people usually drink it with dessert," he said. 

"We still have ice cream."

"Why don't we share a bowl?"

She agreed and took their plates, setting them next to the sink while looking for a proper bowl. Even though it had half-melted, the ice cream held its creaminess, and she scooped out two rounded mounds into a small china bowl studded with flowers.

"Do you think it'll taste better like this?" she asked as she brought it to the table.

"What do you mean?"

"With china and silver, instead of over the sink with a plastic spoon?"

"Maybe, but I know something that might make it perfect."

"What?"

He patted his lap. Clarice giggled as she sat in it, his arm around her keeping her steady. She took her spoon and took a bite, holding the cool, bright flavor in her mouth until it almost melted away. He kissed her quickly, gathering some of the flavor for himself, and hummed in contentment.

Where did he learn this? 

She didn't want to know the answer, not in a thousand years did she ever want to know where this terse man had learned the art of seduction. Even though that bedroom in Chesapeake Beach was branded into her mind, she pushed it far, far away, until it was a distant memory shrouded by fog.

"It's good to be king, isn't it?" she said teasingly, using her spoon to feed him a bite of his own.

He nodded and raised a brow. "What would that make you?"

"Probably the kitchen maid you like to get fresh with when it suits you."

"Don't sell yourself short. If you weren't queen, you'd been the favored courtesan, dripping in diamonds like they were liquid."

"And would you have respected me as your equal or kept me for pure pleasure?"

"Both, Clarice," he said with a grin. "Always both."

She hid a smile and took another bite, receiving another kiss from Will. His lips lingered at the corner of her mouth, tongue swiping a drop from her skin. Her body tingled, every nerve on fire. She set the bowl on the table and reached for her wine, hoping it would calm her. If anything, it made the sensations worse, especially when he kissed her again, tangling his tongue with hers until she had to come up for air.

"I thought you said something about dancing," she whispered.

"I did."

"Then dance with me, Will."

They'd been listening to oldies since they brought the freshly filleted fish inside, and neither of them bothered changing the station. They held each other in the dining room, slowly turning as the music played.

You don't have to worry
Just hold on tight (don't get caught in your little world)
Cause I love you…

John looked down at the peaceful woman. It wasn't the beginning of sleep that made her eyes glassy and wide. A slip of his wrist had easily added a little something extra to the wine he offered her, and it had taken full effect. 

"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Catherine?"

"No," she slurred. 

"A vision of what you are becoming, even more beautiful than what you are." He laid his hand on her neck, the lovely, long neck that had made him want to respond to her message. It was so like hers that it moved him, and he ignored the pulse beating underneath his thumb that didn't feel like hers had, all those years ago.

"What am I becoming?" Her lids were fluttering, growing heavy as she turned to look at him.

"A part of a whole, whose sum will be greater than anything you could ever dream of. Perfection."

"Hmmm," she said, closing her eyes. 

Will untied the bow at her back, even though it was an adornment that served no purpose in holding her dress together. But Clarice understood. It was part of a ritual dating back almost to the beginning of days, the uncovering of the other that signaled desire. His hand was on her hip, sliding down and grasping the hem of her dress, slipping back up to feel bare skin.

"Are you wearing anything underneath this?" he asked.

"No," she admitted, wanting to shock him. She tilted her head back, looking into eyes that were warmer than they'd ever been. Instead of being shocked, he was excited by her forwardness, but hadn't this been the intent of the whole evening? It would have been quicker to jump into bed, hump until the moon rose, and then prepare a midnight meal. But there was something about seduction that they seemed to enjoy with each other, almost as much as the final act.

"Are you telling me you've been sitting next to me, even sitting in my lap… and you weren't wearing any underwear?"

"Basically," she said. Clarice licked her lips and cocked her head to the side, deciding to give him another one of her secrets. "I wasn't wearing anything underneath at the restaurant, either. In case you were curious."

His hand cupped her bare bottom, fingers softly digging into firm muscle. "Is that something you've done before?"

"No," she said.

"Another first saved for me."

Not saved for you in particular, you smug –

"It never dawned on me to do it before now."

He bit his lip, hand moving between her legs from the back, dipping into the slippery warmth that had been growing since they sat at the table. 

"I could fuck you right now, couldn't I? Would you stop me from bending you over the sofa and burying myself inside you?"

"No," she breathed.

"Not tonight," Will whispered. He moved his other hand from her back, sliding it underneath the thin cloth. His fingers moved up, searching until they found the firm nipple of her left breast. The pinch was painful but brief, enough to wake up every nerve in her body until they hummed with excitement. 

Her mind whispered to her frantically, warning her of the danger ahead, but she shut it down as she enjoyed the sensation of him playing with her breast. He molded it to the shape of his hand then released it, his palm catching the slight wiggle.

"Are you having fun?" she asked.

"I like your breasts."

"That's another first," she said, then wished she could take it back.

"Because they're small?"

Thanks a lot.

"Because they're too small." 

"I think they're perfect. They fit," he said, demonstrating what he meant by surrounding one with his hand. A scar on his palm was rough and sharp on her nipple, enough to make her head spin. It was a perfect fit, like they had been made for him to hold.

Don't think.

He gripped her dress and brought it over her head, leaving her nude. Clarice wasn't shy and felt no need to hide her body from him. She caught a glimpse of herself in the window, her skin glowing from the candles and the moonlight. With his eyes on her, accepting what he saw and finding everything pleasing, she almost felt beautiful.

Catherine went slack in his arms, a tiny snore escaping her lips.

There wasn't the need to act fast, not this far from the road. Jame Gumb, a man with too many names to count in addition to the nickname that would have terrified poor Catherine, eased her slack body against his as he looked up at the night sky. 

In a moment of forgetting, it felt like old times. 

His lovely woman always fell asleep before the show began, head nestled on his chest like it was her pillow. In those days, he'd felt like the luckiest man alive.

Now… 

It didn't matter. This night was so close to perfection that he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth radiating from her body. A loose, long strand of hair tickled his nose, and he smiled as he flicked it away.

"You forgot to tie your hair back, didn't you? I keep an extra in my pocket just for you, Bethany." By touch alone, he combed the hair through his fingers and fixed it into a loose ponytail. 

As he opened his eyes and looked up, he could see the stars as they had once been, the light no different than it had been thirty years before. It pleased him so much that his chest felt like it could burst.

His shirt was off, their bare skin pressed together as they continued to dance in the candlelight. Clarice was almost mad for him, and holding in her desire was about to kill her.

Maybe that's what he wants.

The only times Clarice lost control was when anger consumed her. Even in bed, she held back, trying to keep a thin veil of control. But he was inching past it, insinuating himself into her mind as well as the history of her life.

Hasn't anyone ever done this?

Stop. Don't stop.

She moved with him to the oversized coffee table, where he motioned for her to lay down. Her quick breaths made her chest quiver, and her hand moved between her legs, needing to ease some of the ache she felt. He returned with a glass his hand, his fingers dipping into the golden wine as he kneeled beside her. With his trigger finger, he slid the wine along her collarbone, his tongue and mouth finding the sweet skin when he was finished. He hummed, pleased with himself.

He finds you so delicious when he tastes you, doesn't he? But all meat needs a little seasoning to make it taste just right.

She shivered violently, more from the thoughts in her mind than from the air, and Will looked at her with concern. "Is it cold?"

"A little," she lied.

He nodded, taking a sip of the liquid. Then he seemed to change his mind, holding her neck and offering her the glass. Before she could swallow, he placed a finger to her lips, swiping a few drops from her mouth that he placed on her nipples. The drops trembled with her breathing and shone as bright as gemstones in the low light. 

Courtesans did this with sweet wines to further entice their lover, courtesans who would have been dripping in the jewels their lover had given them. Understanding passed through her, and it didn't fill her with shame. 

He feels has nothing to offer you other than making you feel as adored as those intelligent, cunning women.

She lifted her hand and placed it on the back of his neck, encouraging him to continue. When his lips closed around her breast, she whimpered in wondrous delight.

Jame woke with a start, surprised that he had dozed. He quickly assessed his surroundings and found everything as it had been, down to the woman in his arms. He kissed her hair, wondering why she had changed shampoo, and reached inside the picnic basket.

The knife glinted in the moonlight. He rolled the girl to her side, cutting the shirt from her back. It didn't really belong here; the one in the basket had always been Bethany's favorite. He brought it out too, freshly laundered this morning, and dressed her in it. The peasant blouse was a little tighter over the chest than it had been the last time, but that little detail didn't matter.

He tossed the other blouse away, not seeing the expensive label at the neck, and stood, squinting down at this new iteration. If he held his head just so, she almost…

The joy within him flared as he nodded to himself, hoisting her into his arms as he walked back to the car. The trunk was already lifting up when he reached it, and he gently placed her inside, covering her with a warm blanket before shutting it with a gentle thump.

Will brought the candles with them to the bedroom, and this time she could see him as they made love. The light played tricks with his eyes. One moment, she could see the man who could study the pictures downstairs with such invested detachment –

Stop.

And then the man who had licked the wine from her body returned, his hand moving to her face as their hips met in endless circles of motion. Nothing was out of step; their bodies were always in perfect synch when they met here. Maybe there was something between them that her conscious mind wouldn't process, including the odd feeling of surrender moving in and out of her with the same tempo of his thrusts. 

You can't trust me not to hurt you.

Was it so terrible to want everything? There was no answer, and the building pleasure wasn't helping. 

Don't stop.

"Don't stop," she panted, pulling her legs around his waist.

You can trust me to want to try.

"Clarice, I…" he gasped.

He couldn't finish; he was too close. She was so close that her mind was shutting down, and sensation ruled over the higher order. Everything tingled down to her toes, and she arched against him, needing more, just a little more, just right there, where the fire was beginning to burn so very bright. Her thoughts were his were hers were theirs, and he responded to every need without a word needing to be spoken. The dam within her fell; the rest of everything she held close was no longer restrained by that barrier of protection from this unsafe man. 

She would have killed for him, died for him, gone to battle next to him and won the war. 

Is this what love feels like?

There was a rising before she fell, a burst of breath that licked at the flames and made them explode. When it was over, she was surprised that she was crying, but the tears didn't stop. If anything, they ran faster when she glimpsed into his mind, feeling his fear along with the gentle waves of the same emotion that was slowly dancing between them.

"Will," she whispered. "Don't stop."

His head fell to her shoulder, and he groaned her name in response as his own tears fell onto her skin. He shuddered, twitched, and released his anguish with something darker, a fleeting emotion she tried to hold onto as their connection shifted, settling with the permanency of carbon.

In the distance, a monster sighed, turning his cheek to his pillow as the dream unfolded in his mind. 

A connection had changed, though a new one was gained.

More, but not above.

Less, though not lacking. 

Equal. 

In the monitor, his guard could see an angelic smile pass over his face.

Chapter Text

Clarice woke with the sun, as she usually did. But instead of hopping out of bed, she rolled over, nestling herself against Will's thin body.

"Good morning," he said, stretching his legs and letting out a loud yawn. "What time is it?"

"Around six, I'd reckon."

"It looks like the clouds are gone. Are you going to head out for a run?"

"No," she said. "I thought I might stay here a little longer. Be still for a while."

"If I can work up a little energy," he said, "We might not be still for very long."

"Energy? You might as well call it what it is. A nice, thick –"

He pinched her, and she slapped his hand away.

"Still, sex before work," she giggled. "I could get used to that."

"It does come with some benefits, at least for me."

"And what are those?"

"A clear head. Lately, all I can think about is sex, and that's a first."

She wasn't sure she believed him. And it wasn't knowing snippets of his past. She was judging him by the men she knew, and she scolded herself for being unfair. The Will she first met presented himself in her mind, the man who dressed in dull, muted tones. Glasses askew, hair barely combed, eyes that wandered but were too sharp to be absentminded. She remembered thinking, that first day in class, that he needed to get laid and had said as much to Ardelia back in the dormitory. But it was that bedroom that nagged at her, the one she had combed over for almost sixteen hours until she felt she would drop.

"But sex isn't on your mind right now," he said, tugging on her earlobe to get her attention.

Sort of.

"Quit that," she said. 

"I will if you tell me what you're thinking."

"It's nothing important."

Isn't it?

He raised a brow.

"Well… it's nothing you'd want to talk about if you're wanting to get your 'energy' up."

The other brow joined its friend.

"Do you really want to talk about the past, Will?"

The brows fell, drawing together. "That has nothing to do with… us."

Some drink to remember, and others to forget. And it seems like you have a lot of both on your mind when you drink.

He sighed and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. "Do you have any idea how expressive your eyes are? I can tell what you're thinking, Clarice, even when you don't want me to know."

"I could always get some different contact lenses. But a little veil on my thoughts."

"Maybe you should."

"I'll look into it. It'll keep me from spoiling the mood again."

"We won't be together like this for much longer. It doesn't matter."

"Right," she said, biting her lip. An ache started to form in her chest, but she willed it away, not ready to examine it. "Maybe I should go for a run, after all."

"Don't." He held onto her, wrapping a bare leg over hers when she tried to move. 

"You just want to play with my boobs," she said wryly.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he agreed. 

"Do those thoughts bring up your energy?"

"Yes."

She sat up in bed, bringing the sheet with her. It was a tease to get him worked back up, and for a moment, she longed for the simple, hungry fumblings from her youth. This was hard – knowing someone and navigating the rocky parts of life. But seeing his lips curl into a grin when she slowly lowered the sheet on one side, just enough to show the crest of an areola… Clarice decided that maybe it was worth the struggle.

Except neither of you talk about the rough stuff. That's going to matter one day if there is a one day.

There was movement, hands offering food that she ate without question and water that didn't taste right. Cool hands massaged lotion in her skin, something that smelled like herbs, and warmed her limbs.

It felt like she was in a dream, except Catherine knew something was very wrong. She remembered feeling like she was in a coffin and a woman screaming with a voice that sounded like hers.

She tried to speak, slurring out the word, "Mom?" But the hands were back, shushing her. A familiar voice telling her that everything was going to be alright. But the fear returned when the voice kept calling her Bethany.

Sleep was a gift, and Catherine trod the line to unconsciousness with welcomed relief.

They were in the kitchen, sharing a peach over the sink, when Clarice's phone rang. She picked it up when she saw it was Jack.

"Morning," she said. 

"Are you sitting down?" His voice was too severe with an uncomfortable edge that made her immediately sink to the floor.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you remember who Ruth Baker-Martin is?"

Everyone in the FBI knew who Ruth Baker-Martin was. The junior Democratic Senator from Tennessee was on the Intelligence Committee and had openly renounced the firing of their former Director. 

"Has something happened to her?" 

"Not her specifically. When her daughter didn't come home last night from a date and didn't answer her phone, her roommate called her mother in Washington."

"Is she okay?"

"Is Will with you?"

She looked up at Will and said, "We're eating breakfast. And you didn't answer my question, Jack."

"A farmer found a blouse and a purse when he was out mending a fence this morning. Both belonged to Catherine Baker-Martin, and the blouse was split up the back with a knife."

Clarice couldn't breathe. Her chest wouldn't work, even though her mind was trying to force the simple action to happen. 

Catherine Baker-Martin had been abducted last night by Buffalo Bill.

And Clarice had been fucking Will instead of working.

This is your fault. GODDAMIT, Clarice.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Get down to Peachtree Corners today. If you're right, we have a better chance of finding Catherine Martin if we go back to Cynthia Knight."

"It'll take most of the day to get there, even if we fly."

"Drive. We have time, but not much. He keeps them for a week, sometimes two. But for Catherine's sake –"

"I know."

"Travelling mercies, Clarice."

"Bye, Jack." She looked up at Will. "Did you hear any of that?"

Will nodded. If Clarice's eyes were more expressive now, his were too, and there was some relief in knowing the same thoughts she had were passing through his mind. 

"I need to clean up," she said, putting her face in her hands instead of standing. "At least the sheets are in the wash. They shouldn't take too much time to dry."

He didn't argue with her about her need to move, and Clarice was thankful for that. But he sat next to her as she tried to start recalibrating, gently touching her arm with fingers that were still sticky from the fruit. 

"This isn't your fault. This isn't anyone's fault, other than the man who took her."

"Part of me knows that," she said, lowering her hands from her face. "But part of me just –"

"I know," he said. "Believe me."

"What if we'd had our minds together from the start. If Freddie hadn't found us, maybe we could have –"

"He already had her picked out, Clarice. Having a better profile doesn't mean we could have stopped it. But having it now gives us a better chance of finding her before he lays her body in a river."

She nodded and leaned against him. Will held her up, his other arm supporting her as she tried to keep breathing. 

Clarice left the fish in the freezer with a note to Phil, thanking him for loaning the house. As neat as they had been, it didn't take very long at all the sweep and mop. Will packed both of their bags, and they packed the downstairs together, carefully checking to make sure nothing was missed. 

She made a milkshake with the rest of the ice cream, the lemon now bitter as she sipped it in the driver's seat of the car. The Highlander had seen enough miles for a lazy summer trip in the three weeks she'd had it, and as she pulled out of the driveway, Clarice hoped Georgia would be the last stop.

Will turned the radio to an all-news station. Catherine Baker-Martin's abduction hadn't been the first story of the hour; that had been saved for the announcement of the new satellites launching from Florida. But it was the second and contained the full excerpt of Senator Baker-Martin pleading for the safe return of her daughter:

"My daughter's name is Catherine, but you may know her as Catherine Baker. She uses my maiden name. Catherine has been trying to find her own way in the world, without people knowing she is my daughter. She is kind and gentle and is studying to be a teacher. Catherine loves children and can understand things without you needing to say a word. She is my… she is my only child. Please bring her back to us, unharmed. You have all the power. You can bring her back to us. I know you want to keep Catherine safe and love her like I do. You can show the world your immense capability for loving-kindness by letting her come home. I promise you that I will do whatever I can to help you if you are in trouble. I have a seat on the Intelligence Committee and on the Judiciary Committee. If you need assistance, you will be given time to speak to us about your troubles. Please, return my baby to me. Show us how strong you are. Her name is Catherine Baker-Martin."

Dr. Alana Bloom started speaking next about serial murderers. She didn't compare Buffalo Bill to Francis Dolarhyde or Garrett Hobbs. Dr. Bloom didn't compare him to anyone from her experience and refused to use the name Buffalo Bill during the interview. Clarice sighed in relief when Will turned down the radio, rolling her neck as she changed lanes.

"The Senator was briefed well, or the person who wrote that speech was," Will said.

"She's trying to show Catherine as a person, not as a plaything. A woman with goals and ambitions. Someone with a heart, and with a mother who loves her."

"An individual, instead of doll parts."

"That's all women are to Buffalo Bill, isn't it?"

"At the end of the day? Yes."

"Do you think it will work?"

"No," Will said, his voice hollow as he stared out of the window. "It's nothing he hasn't thought of before. He wants his doll too much to care about anything else. He wants her too much. It's the only thing that matters. Everything else is trivial, even Senator Baker-Martin's attempt to tell him that he won't face the death penalty."

Obsession. Compulsion. Need.

"Maybe I was wrong in thinking that he wasn't insane," she reflected. 

"You can be a sociopath and be completely sane," Will muttered. "We've seen that enough."

"With him?"

Will started to nod, then shook his head. "There isn't a word for what he is. I doubt there ever will be. I used to think of him as one of those poor infants born without a brain or so malformed that they are given to their mothers to rock until they die. But he came out fully formed and so beautiful that it's hard to tear your eyes away from him. It's what makes him so dangerous. You want to love him. And he wants to love. But he's simply not capable of doing anything other than destroying everything he touches."

Angel. Devil. Monster.

"Did you want to love him?"

"I did love him, Clarice."

Oh, Will.

"We all did at one point or another. But I probably…" His hands started to shake so badly that he turned to the back and poured himself a drink, using her cup. She didn't see how full it was, and she tried not to notice how easily he could drink the bourbon without cutting it.

"We don't have to talk about it," she said quietly.

"Maybe I need to talk about it," he said. 

She swallowed and looked in the side mirror. Objects were larger than they appeared, and she hastily wiped the tear rolling down the left side of her face, not caring what emotion it came from.

"I'm here," she said. 

"For now."

"Well, I'm here right now. I'm a good listener too, and we've got a ton of miles ahead of us."

"I don't even know where to start."

"Then start at the beginning. When was the first time you met him?"

"In Jack's office. Jack wanted to unofficially figure out what made me tick, and so he found one of the most respected forensic psychiatrists to help him out…"

Peachtree Corners, Georgia 
March 2020

Clarice stopped three times before they finally drove into Peachtree Corners. Each stop punctuated the story that unfolded. The climax came with a fall from the cliff on Chesapeake Beach and ended with the divorce from his wife two years ago. By the time he was done, Will had consumed a fifth of Jim Beam and was a few drinks into the next bottle. She had never seen someone drink that much without passing out, except for her father, and part of her was scared to death by the time she exited the interstate.

It had worn her out, hearing everything. Will had grabbed her hand halfway into it, only letting her go when she needed to pull over to stretch. The hotel wasn't too far off the main road, and it felt like an escape when she drove to the front to check in.

"I'm Clarice Starling," she said at the front desk. "I have a reservation."

The attendant had a badge on her chest, identifying her as Lydia. "I see it here. King-sized bed, no smoking. I have a suite with a jacuzzi tub if you want to upgrade."

She was paying for this one out of her own pocket and said, "Please. We've been on the road all day."

"Here's the key card."

"Can I have two?"

"Sure," Lydia said, coding another card for the room. "Let us know if you need anything."

"Do you have room service?"

"We do."

"How late can I order?"

"The kitchen is open all night, but options are limited after ten. There's a menu in your room."

"Much obliged, thank you."

Clarice went back to the car with a luggage trolley and found Will passed out in the front seat. She might have been irritated last week, but after the weekend and especially after the previous ten hours of conversation, she didn't blame him one bit. Clarice slid the file boxes on the trolley along with their luggage and hauled everything up to the room herself before going back for Will. It wasn't too hard to rouse him, and when she unbuckled his seatbelt, he grabbed her hand.

"You're still here," he said groggily.

"After hearing about what happens to the rude people you've known, I didn't think ditching you in Georgia would be good for my rump roast," she said.

"But," he said. "But… you didn't leave. Knowing."

"I've known most of it the whole time, from a different point of view. Plus, there was more spunk in that bedroom than in the hotel room we're about to sleep in. Jack was right about excited men getting sloppy, and boy howdy... the two of you made a damn fine mess for me to clean up."

He closed his eyes, almost laughing when he turned his legs out of the car and onto the ground. "So, you know everything, and you didn't leave me."

"Why would I?"

When he stumbled, she ducked under his arm to support his steps. Just like –

Don't think.

"You're like a little crutch, Clarice," he said, patting her head as they walked. "My pretty little ginger crutch."

You're just a hot piece of ass, Starling. It's the only reason people like having you around.

Quit your crying, girl, and fix me a damn drink while you're in the kitchen! 

No count, lazy, white trash –

Stop it.

"I don't know if I can catch you if you fall, Will. Look at your feet while you walk and count your steps."

"Alright, Big Red."

Fucking Jimmy Price, I'm gonna piss in your –

"One, two, three…"

Will had reached fifty by the time they got to the room on the third floor. Clarice was too intent on making it there in one piece to see a housekeeper snap a quick shot of them laughing when Will almost tripped over Clarice's feet. The housekeeper was an enthusiastic reader of TattleCrime and had wondered where the odd pair had disappeared to. Quickly, he uploaded the picture to a comment under the article Freddie wrote last week with the username JustPeachy, adding, "Look who just turned up in Peachtree Corners, Georgia."

Chapter Text

Will flopped down on the bed, face first, when they got to the room. Clarice stared down at him and sighed, then looked for the room service menu. It was past ten, but the selection wasn't too terrible. She picked up the phone and ordered two BLTs, asking them to set it by the door if she didn't answer.

The suite had felt empty when she first opened the door, but it was now full of boxes and bags. The disorder made her jumpy, but there was nothing to be done about it tonight. That big bathtub was calling to her, and she stripped her clothes as she walked to the bathroom, leaving a trail behind her. While the tub filled with hot water, she looked in the mirror above the sink. The bags under her eyes were lighter, and the few days of not running had softened the sharp lines of her jaws and cheekbones. She almost looked human again, instead of looking like the ghost that had stared back at her the morning before she marched into Will's house.

Even if he wasn't good for her, something about being with him was.

Did you feel the same way, Mom, when you met Dad?

She got into the tub, inching into water that was too hot but soothing to her sore body. Tilting her head back to the edge, she wondered what her mother would say if she saw her daughter with a man who had been through his own war and was left with the same damage her father had. 

"Love him through it, Reecie," Joanie Starling had once said about her father. "If he knew how to cope with what he'd done in that war, he wouldn't need to drink. And your Daddy loves you, whether or not he knows how to show it."

At least Will didn't use fists to punctuate a sentence or scream harsh words that stung worse than hands. Mom had been the buffer, with a stern eye on her father and a kind hand on Clarice. The peacekeeper, keeping a strong-willed girl and a stronger-willed man from killing each other. But she'd left them too soon, and with her, the sanity that kept their house together vanished.

She didn't want to like Will, much less love him. But after today, hearing everything with all the emotion no one thought he possessed, much less himself, a tiny fissure formed in the most sacred place she had. More sacred than her trust, than the slit between her legs, maybe even more sacred than the torrent of thoughts she never shared with him. The fissure was bright and clean and pure, revealing the only space she had that had never been touched.

How much will it hurt if I showed it to you? Would you want to see more, or would you turn away and search for the darker things again?

Or maybe that's what I'm doing. Seeing the dark in you and trying to find the light?

Stop it. Can't stop it.

Her head hurt. So did her heart. 

She slid under the water, listening to the jets bubble and gush underneath the surface. And it was pretty damn peaceful in her mind until the door opened.

Fucking drunks and their power naps.

"Did you order food?" 

She popped her head above the surface. Will wasn't doing a very good job of hanging onto the door frame and was slowly sliding down to the bottom.

"Why are you out of bed?" she asked.

"Someone knocked on the door. They had food. Easy enough." His words weren't too slurred, and he seemed to be in that happy place of just drunk enough to be his usual snarky self.

"I'll be out in a minute. If you want to eat, go on ahead."

"I'd rather take a bath with you first." He was lying on the floor now, head turned in her direction as he scooted to the tub. She ducked her mouth below the edge, hiding a smile.

"If you can figure out how to get in here without killing yourself, I'll share my personal space. I'll even give you a rub down if you talk sweet."

He started unbuttoning his shirt as he crept closer, and Clarice smothered a laugh. 

"Are you laughing at me?" he asked.

Yep.

"No."

"Don't lie, Big Red. Your eyes do this cute, crinkly thing when you laugh. I can tell."

"Is crinkly the new word for wrinkly? So much for sweet talk."

"I can talk sweet. You seem to like all the things I whisper in your ear when we're in bed."

She clinched, her breath leaving her as she thought about those things. Words she'd heard before from other lovers who didn't mean them, spoken before the act to help achieve the goal. Never during, never when there wasn't a need to pretend.

Darling. Sweetheart. Need. Please.

A hand appeared over the side of the tub, and Clarice peeped over before resuming her cover. He had almost gotten out of his pants and was working on his socks.

"Do I own shampoo?"

She shrugged. "I've got some if you can't find what you packed."

"Good. I want to smell like you for a while, all sweet and yummy. Like… pineapples."

"It's pina colada, actually."

"Did you get it on sale?"

"Sure did. Two bottles for three dollars. I even had a coupon for a dollar off. On double coupon day, I can really rack up."

"Have I told you I like you today?"

"Have I told you I like you today?"

He wrangled out of his socks and lifted his eyes over the edge. They were separated by a few inches and stared at each other until they burst out laughing. When Will started to sway, Clarice grabbed him. 

"Don't fall. You're practically a senior citizen. Think of the headline on TattleCrime. Will Graham Fell and Couldn't Get Up. It would be a national scandal."

"Forty-six isn't a senior citizen," he grumbled with an adorable pout. 

But you've lived a lot of life at forty-six, Will. More than anyone I've ever met.

Will pulled himself into a standing position. She was eye level with his knees, but if she looked up just a little, Clarice had a perfect view of everything in full light. She feigned shock and slid to the other side of the big tub. "Will Graham, can you get me your glasses? If I had a little help, I think I could almost see your pe–"

"Shhh," he said, laughing when he plopped down across from her. Water sloshed over the side, but not enough to make a mess. It wasn't really made for two, and his feet rested against the sides of her head when he tried to stretch out.

"Comfy?"

"Kind of. What were you doing in here?"

"I like hanging out in hotel bathrooms. It's a party for number one and number two."

"Shut up," he laughed.

"Toss me that bar of soap, would you?"

He looked at it and gave it a sniff before handing it to her. "That didn't cost two dollars."

"I guess we all have our little vices. I like fancy soap."

"What kind is it?"

"I'm probably going to say it wrong, but Sapone di mandorle? Johnny got it for me last Christmas."

"Italian?"

"It is. I usually get something organic from Whole Foods, but this is…" Clarice sniffed it before carefully lathering her hands. "This is something totally different." She moved her soap slick hands to his calves. If she was sore from driving, he must be equally as much from riding and reliving those memories. Knots of lactic acid were studded in his muscles, and she worked her thumbs into them.

"Oh my God, that feels amazing." 

"Still good to be king?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "Except you're too far away. Come here."

"Maybe I'm shy."

"I've seen you naked, Clarice. There's not much mystery left."

"Ahhh… you wound me. Especially since you didn't notice my third nipple."

His eyes had been closed, and he squinted them open. "Huh?"

She scoffed and moved up to his thighs. "You missed the best thing about me. Such a shame. If you press on it, you get a prize."

"Stop," he said, biting his lip. He grabbed her hands and pulled her to him. "Let me see."

She lifted her body from the water and pointed to it. 

"I thought that was another freckle."

"Nope."

"Can I touch it?"

"Considering you've had your fingers on my lady parts a few times, I think you can."

He pressed his thumb against it and looked up at her, wagging his brows. "What's my prize?"

"One wish."

"That's easy. I wish for more wishes."

"Doesn't work that way. You only get the one per turn."

"That's no fun."

"I don't make the rules," she said, her lips twitching as she tried to smother a laugh.

"Fine. I wish you would…" Will's eyes got stormy for a minute before he shook his head. "I wish you would feed me my sandwich."

There is so going to be a catch.

"Naked."

And there it is.

"What is it with men and nudity?" she asked.

"Easy," Will yawned, his hand wandering until she needed to slap it. "We're all pigs."

Even…?

"And he was the king."

Interesting.

He touched her nipple again and raised a brow. "Can I have another wish?"

"Sure."

"Could you always be like this with me?"

"Like what?"

"Gentle. You've been this way all day. I like it."

Is this what love does to me?

She nodded.

"Good. Now finish what you started."

"Bossy."

"But you like me bossy, don't you?"

"Shut up," she said, trying to move back to her side. But he held her close, eyes searching hers.

"What kind of prize would I get if I kissed it?"

She couldn't breathe again. They should be planning out tomorrow, but they needed to blow off some steam together in the only way they could so far from the beach.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

"You."

There was more meaning behind that word than asking for a quick fuck.

Was this ever really fucking?

There was too much danger here, and Clarice wanted to talk to her mother so much that she almost called out her name. Had her father once been like this? A man she could see herself loving, except for the brown liquid that ended up taking away every promise they'd ever made. 

If I asked you to stop something, do you think you could?

His lips closed around the tiny coral blip.

Peachtree Corners was a place anyone would want to live. Low crime, good schools, and plenty to do keep people entertained and out of trouble. The murder had rocked the Atlanta suburb that was regularly named one of the best places to live in America, and Clarice could still see signs of the aftermath as they drove around. It was a city big enough that you couldn't know everyone, and yet there was a sign of mistrust from a neighbor watering his lawn as she parked in front of the Knight's townhome in a dark car with out of state plates. 

There weren't bad sides of this town, not like there was back home. Even though the townhouse was small, it probably cost five times what her parent's house had. Everything was neat, tidy, and well-cared for, down to the hedges that lined the path to the front door. Even though Clarice had been here less than three weeks ago, it felt like years, and she half-expected to see a fine patina of age on the shiny knocker when she rang the doorbell.

"Hi, Clarice," Ed Knight said, stepping back to let her and Will into the living room by the front door.

"Can I get ya'll some iced tea?" Judy Knight asked.

"No, ma'am, but thank you kindly," Clarice said.

Will shook his head and sat next to her on the sofa, his eyes darting around the room when Ed and Judy sat across from them in matching, wing-backed chairs.

"How can we help you?"

"Special Investigator Graham and I have been reviewing the files, and we think it's possible that Cindy knew the person who did this to her."

Judy's face went as pale as her platinum hair, and a slight tremor passed through her hand before she placed it on Ed's. "No one who knew her could have done this. She was so good, Clarice."

"I agree with you. But the man who killed Cindy didn't see her value like you did."

"What do you need to know?" Ed asked quietly.

"The police did a fine job of talking to her friends and acquaintances. They even held her lab partner for a few days."

"He didn't have an alibi for the night she went missing," Ed said. "He was home alone, watching a movie. That's all he ever told them."

"Was there anyone else she regularly saw, outside of her friends? Maybe a neighbor or someone from church? Anyone at all."

"Everyone we could think of was in the police report," Judy said. "We've spent three years trying to pick apart her life, but there's nothing else."

"She's not your real daughter, is she?" Will said.

"Excuse me?" Judy asked.

Clarice frowned and covertly snuck her hand to Will's thigh and pinched it, but he wasn't deterred. "Cindy had a cleft in her chin. Neither of you has one. Was she adopted?"

It was soft science, but enough of a push to get the reaction he wanted. Judy stood and straightened her blouse, staring down at Will in that way proud women do when they are offended. "I raised her. She was my daughter. Please excuse me, Clarice." She left the room, half-running down the hall a door slammed shut.

Clarice looked at Ed. He was as calm as he had been at the front door but was staring at his hands. "What don't I know, Mr. Knight?"

"It was so long ago, but…" He removed his glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his sweater, and sighed. "She was my sister's child. Bethany drowned when Cindy was a baby, and we've had her ever since."

"Can I ask what happened?"

"The police said it was an accident. Bethany fell from the old bridge when she went out for a late-night walk."

"But you don't believe that, do you?" Will asked.

"They were being kind," Ed said, shifting in his chair. "She… Bethany wasn't right after Cindy was born. Her doctor said it was postpartum depression, but she saw things that weren't there. Judy and I have had Cindy since she was two months old, after Bethany brought her over one night swearing Cindy was covered in bugs. Poor baby was just fine, but Bethany ran off, screaming that we couldn't see what she could. I went after her, but by the time I found her, she was floating in the river."

Clarice's hand was still in the space between their legs on the sofa. Will found it, giving her a hard, triumphant squeeze.

"What does this have to do with Cindy's murder?"

"I'm not sure yet," Clarice said, even though a rapid series of images were flickering through her mind. "Sometimes it helps to look at things from every possible angle, even the ones we think don't matter. And I'm sorry to bring up all these old hurts, sir. The reports didn't mention that you adopted her or anything about your sister. We're just making sure we didn't miss anything. The devil is in the details, and the man we're trying to find might be hidden there."

"Where is Cindy's biological father?" Will asked.

"I don't know. We never met him. Bethany had been mooning over her high school boyfriend when she announced she was pregnant. She was… let's just say she had a rough time."

"Do you have a picture of Bethany?"

Ed stared at her for a moment and nodded, leaving the room. Clarice avoided looking at Will, but she couldn't stop seeing what she hadn't seen before and what no one had begun to think to ask about.

Affection. Connection. Obsession.

"Our parents' house burned down a year after Bethany died, so there's not much left except what we saved for Cindy." Ed handed her a framed picture from Cindy's room, one Clarice had thought was of Cindy herself. The resemblance was startling, down to the light freckles on her cheeks. There were some loose photographs stacked underneath, of Bethany Knight as a baby, steadily growing into a young woman with an infant in her arms.

Clarice's eyes lingered on that last picture, an odd feeling of jealousy and pity weighing her thoughts. Women grow up so fast, some faster than others. Playing with baby dolls mere moments before pushing one from their body with a great groan of relief. But dolls can't compare to the reality of fluctuating hormones, hips and bellies that don't snap back into place, and a mind that might not be ready to handle the reality of a living, squealing child attached to their breast. 

"Was this her boyfriend?" Will asked, holding up a picture of Bethany Knight in a sequined prom dress with a handsome, dark-haired boy at her side.

"Yeah. He moved off after high school, came back a few years ago to take care of his parents before they died."

"Did he stay in town?" Will asked.

"He inherited his Dad's business. You might have seen it if you've been downtown. Gumb and Son's Taxidermy."

Chapter Text

"I'm taking you back to the hotel."

"Like hell you are. You don't need to go either. What happened to that big talk? We make the profile. We send it back to the locals. Interviews only to help with victimology and profiling," he quoted, mimicking her accent with startling accuracy. "Were you lying to yourself or to me?"

"I wasn't lying to anyone," she lied, checking the mirror before changing lanes. "That's what we do. But I'm here, and I'm going to talk to him. It could be nothing."

"Or you could be walking into your own coffin," he said.

Or my own dress. Twelve in one, a dozen in another.

"It wouldn't matter if I was."

"What?"

"It's not like anyone would actually miss me. I'm just like Johnny. No family, no ties. If anything happens to me, it won't matter. Ardelia gets what was mine and Johnny's, and Jack gets a mess of paperwork to fill out. After that, life would move right along without me just fine. Probably better than fine, considering the headaches I cause Jack. It's the only thing I'm good at."

When he grabbed her arm, she shook it off. And when he grabbed the wheel, she slapped his hand away. But when he spoke low, in a voice she barely recognized, saying, "Pull the goddamn car over, Clarice," she blanched and did exactly what he asked, pulling into the parking lot of a strip mall.

"What?" she asked.

"I would miss you."

No, you wouldn't. 

"You barely know me. You'd miss the sex, but you'll get over it as soon as you realize I wasn't that good. An orgasm tends to blind you from someone's faults, but hindsight always has perfect vision. I'm a lousy fuck, Will, and a worse girlfriend. Ask anyone who's ever gotten between my legs and then went running."

"I have never hit a woman," he said with repressed anger. "But I'm about this close to hitting you."

"Do it. Maybe we'll both feel better."

He went as far as raising his hand, but he lowered it in a smooth motion, closing it into a fist that he shoved into his pocket. "I thought it was me you didn't like. But you don't like yourself very much, do you?"

Who would ever want someone like you, missy? Lowdown, lazy piece of white trash, just like your drunk father.

"You know, I've tried out a few therapists. It don't ever take, and I don't need you playing one in the passenger seat." She pulled her gun from the holster and pointed it at him. "Get out. The hotel is two blocks south of here. Get the FUCK out and go there."

"Are you serious?"

She nodded and slid the safety off.

"Fine. It might be nothing, but you and I both know it won't be."

"Then I'll deal with the consequences. Without you."

Will got out of the car and slammed the door. The Highlander wasn't designed to burn rubber, but she laid an inch on the concrete when she sped away.

Can't you see I'm doing this because I fucking care about you? Goddammit, Will.

Officially, the storefront gave Clarice the creeps, but then again, dead animals had the tendency to run her off. Deer heads were mounted on plaques, so were their hooves. Birds of all sizes were stuffed and studded with new eyes that glittered in the sunlight. There was even a cat, or what was left of one, curled in the corner of the window, posed like it was enjoying the afternoon sun. The store was locked, with a small sign out front that read Closed for family emergency. Call 770-555-0990 for assistance with pick-up or drop-off. 

She took her phone from her pocket and punched in the number, staring at a lifeless raven when a deep, soulful voice answered the phone.

"Gumb and Son's."

"Hi, my name is Clarice Starling. May I speak to Mr. Gumb?"

"This is Jame Gumb. How can I help you?"

"I work with the FBI, and I was looking into –"

Don't say Cindy.

"Into Bethany Knight's death. I was wondering if I could speak with you if you have some free time. The sign in front of your store said you had an emergency, but –"

"No, I'd be honored to talk to you about Bethany. I just got back in town. Can you meet me at my house in fifteen minutes?"

"Sure thing."

"1846 Maple Street."

"Thank you." Clarice hung up and took one last look at the store, catching a glimpse of a doe and her faun posed mid-step. The faun's eyes were too dark, too shiny. So were Clarice's when she got back into her car, punching the address into her GPS before driving away.

Jame Gumb's house wasn't far from the store, in an older subdivision that was shaded with old oak trees. Homes were spread apart, far enough for privacy. Someone would have to scream at the top of their voice for anyone to hear it. No one would know anything about the lives their neighbors really lived – who had stayed up late fighting, whose hearing was so bad that they needed the television turned up to maximum. No problems here, nothing to see if there wasn't someone close enough to witness it.

She parked on the street, walking up a cheerful path lined with irises. Her eyes wandered when she rang the doorbell, taking in the pots of fresh herbs on the porch. Tiny roses crept up the trellis in front, and the flowerbeds were packed with colorful blooms like the ones in the evidence photos. She was close to backing away when the door opened in front of her.

Jame Gumb was impressively tall and had retained the dark hair of his youth. Lean and tanned, with dark gold eyes dappled with laugh lines, he had the appearance of a friendly panther. Clarice relaxed briefly until she reminded herself of just how quickly a panther could kill.

"Agent Starling?"

"Mr. Gumb?"

He smiled and held the door open for her. "I haven't heard someone say Bethany's name in almost twenty-five years. You have no idea how much it moved me when you said it." He showed her to a living room off to the right. It wasn't cold enough for a fire, but one was lit, making the room feel cozy and too warm. There was a tea service set for two on the coffee table.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Tell me, Clarice, what part are you going to play today?

"You didn't have to go to the trouble," she said, opting for the sweet, Southern girl.

"A friend of Bethany's is a friend of mine," he explained, pouring tea for her like a genteel man. "Milk or sugar?"

"I don't know. The only hot tea I drink is the homebrew my roommate makes."

"Where's that?"

"Virginia."

"I've been there a few times. My father built a strong business, strong enough that we have customers out of state."

"I went by your store."

"What did you think?"

"It's…"

When Jame Gumb smiled, Clarice's skin crawled. "A little depressing, isn't it? The name of the game, I'm afraid, with those of us who barter death."

She nodded, looking around the room as he busied himself with putting a few lumps of sugar in her tea. This wasn't a man's home, not really. Cross-stitch samplers hung on the walls, as did old daguerreotypes of men and women who had been dead for over a century. This was his mother's home, the place he had taken care of his parents. The house he had courted Bethany in. She took the tea when he passed it to her, letting it warm her hands instead of drinking it.

"What did you want to know about Bethany? Her brother said her death was an accident."

"That's what the coroner decided when she died. I think it might have been a suicide, given the state of her mental health. With the post-partum depression and hallucinations, it was a questionable ruling. When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"I called her the afternoon before it happened. I was in school when she died," he explained, taking a sip of tea. "Vanderbilt."

"What did you study?"

"Art History."

"A far cry from taxidermy."

"Well, I suppose it was. We all have dreams, Agent Starling. Mine was to surpass being the stuffers' son. My mother was a seamstress, did you know that? She and I made Bethany's prom dress together."

"Why stay here?"

"It's difficult to escape the past, especially when it's your father's dying wish."

"What happened between you and Bethany? You seem to have cared a lot about her."

"We… ummm… the first year I was gone, we decided to see other people. It was when…"

"When she got pregnant?"

He nodded. "I was the first person Bethany called when she found out. She wanted to get an abortion, but I asked her not to. I made a promise that I would marry her when I was done with my undergraduate degree. She accepted, and we spoke every day, until…"

"I'm so sorry," she said and meant it. Would Jame Gumb have been different if Bethany hadn't died? There was no way of knowing, not without prying further into his mind. "What did you talk about, if it's not too hard to share?" 

"Bethany told me she was scared. She knew she wasn't in touch with reality, and I encouraged her to get help. She had an appointment with her doctor the next day. I was scared too. I even drove in to take her, but…" He looked away with tears in his bright eyes.

"Do you think she killed herself?"

"I think she didn't know what she was doing. Accidents happen, Agent Starling."

Clarice took a sip of her tea and frowned. It tasted off, and the sugar did a terrible job of covering the flavor of –

She spit her tea on the floor and took a better look at the picture above the fireplace. Ophelia. The same one that had hung on the whiteboard in her high school: hands supine and grasping flowers in her death as a sodden gown floated around her.

Clarice looked at Jame Gumb, and he met her gaze. They'd known each other from the start of this act, but she'd been the one to break character.

Goddammit, Clarice.

"You didn't come here to talk to me about my Bethany, did you?"

"Put your hands in the air, Mr. Gumb."

He laughed and set his tea on the table, comically lifting his hands above his head. "What are you going to do, Agent Starling? Shoot me, like you did the men at the raid? Then add another notch to your belt with me. It would be a mercy killing at this point. I won't stop. You know that, don't you?"

"You have the right to remain silent, anything you say –"

"Shhh," he whispered. "If you listen hard enough, you can hear their souls whispering to you. The dead do that, especially when you're the one responsible. Bethany still speaks to me, you know. She guides my thoughts, telling me who to take and who to pass over. She wants me to have her back."

Either he was insane or was laying down the tracks to a defense of diminished capacity. Clarice let his words become noise, talking over him as she finished reading his Miranda Rights.

"Do you understand your rights as I've read them to you?"

He smiled and leaned back. 

"Hands over your head. FREEZE." She withdrew her gun from its holster and aimed it at his head.

But it was too late. Jame Gumb had hidden a small revolver in plain sight on the mantle, and he pointed it at her head. "You have a choice to make, don't you? I don't mind killing you, even if I can't use those terrible freckles in my work. Still… in a pinch, it might be useful. It's so easy to nick human skin after it dries. It draws up and puckers. It took me four tries to get it just right, but I could always use more practice."

"Drop the gun. NOW!"

"No, I don't think I will. You have a lot of fire in you, don't you? Cindy had a lot of fire, too, so much that it almost pained me to let her go. But…" He shook his head. "The end result was much greater with that sacrifice. Her hair was exactly like her mother's."

"Drop the gun!" she said, almost pleading.

"You first," he said and pulled back the hammer.

Clarice pulled the trigger as she felt something graze her ear. The bullet disappeared between his eyebrows, something that would have made Johnny so proud. Like a ragdoll, he fell to the floor, knocking over the tray of tea with him.

Clarice closed her eyes and pulled out her phone, calling 911. "My name is Special Agent Clarice Starling. Please send a car out to 1846 Maple Street. I've shot a suspect related to the murder of Cynthia Knight. Catherine Baker-Martin is somewhere in this house. Please hurry." She'd heard the door open when she was on the phone, but Clarice waited until she ended the call to turn her head and look at Will. He was out of breath and shaking, eyes darting between her and the body on the floor.

"Clarice, I –"

"It's over. He practically begged me to kill him."

"Are you okay?"

No.

"I'm fine."

Will walked to her chair and knelt next to her, taking the gun from her hand. She hadn't realized she'd still been holding it and was relieved when the weight was gone.

"You drank tea together? How civilized."

"It would have been if he hadn't drugged mine with ketamine. I spit out what I drank. He knew who I was the moment I called him."

"I tried to warn you."

"And I told you I'd take the heat for it. This was the only way it could end, Will. He knew that from the start. At least it was me, instead of someone who's never had to fire their weapon."

He looked at Jame Gumb's body and gave a dry, humorless laugh. "You're a good shot."

"That and a bag of cat food will buy you a lot of nothing. But Johnny taught me well."

"Do you think Catherine is here?"

"Without a doubt. He drugs them, so Catherine has to be close so he can take care of her. He closes the shop while he has them. It's a shame no one took the time to notice."

"Maybe he didn't with Cynthia Knight."

"He said she had a lot of fire, so he probably learned a lot from killing h-her," she said, her voice catching. Blue and red police lights were flashing outside, and she pulled out her badge and motioned for Will to do the same.

"I haven't forgotten," he said.

She took a cough drop from her pocket and passed it to him. 

"What's this?"

"So they don't know how drunk you are," she said, chewing her cheek as she walked out of the front door with her hands up. 

Chapter Text

Catherine Baker-Martin was in the basement, almost dead from the overdose of ketamine Jame Gumb had given her after Clarice called him. She was intubated before she was taken away by ambulance. Clarice and Will looked through the remaining rooms downstairs with the police, with the eyes of two well-trained forensic technicians. But, it didn't take a genius to see the horrors that had taken place after the women had died. 

They would find more women, now that they knew where to look. A map hung on the wall behind the almost finished doll, marking nine more locations that hadn't been discovered, some too far off to be easily found. Suddenly, his desperately random pattern didn't look so haphazard. Mr. Gumb had been very busy over the last three years, busy enough that Clarice was shocked that he'd kept the business afloat. It must be what contractors are for, people who can do the work while the cat goes out to play.

She stayed calm while she was questioned, so calm that Will kept his eyes on her instead of the officer questioning him. She kept him in cough drops, passing one to him every time the last one dissolved. If anyone noticed the alcohol on his breath, they didn't say anything. They left when the GBI appeared, taking over evidence collection and taping off the perimeter of the house. Reporters had swarmed the neighborhood, though none of them had the bright, curled hair that announced Freddie Lounds' presence. Clarice pushed through them, declining even to tell them that she had no comment.

A wash of supercooled air passed over her like a blessing when she turned the ignition, and when Will slammed the door, she took off like a bat out of hell.

"I want to say I'm sorry for ditching you, but I'm not," she said. 

"If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have done the same thing."

"I need food. And a drink."

"You don't drink."

"I don't drink, except for special occasions. Don't you think this counts?"

"Yeah," he said. "I… brought the rest of the wine you liked in case we got lucky."

"A glass for me and a glass you."

"You… have you looked in the mirror?"

"No." She glanced in the rearview and looked away just as quickly. "I thought he didn't…"

"Did you hear the questions they asked? He fired first. I heard two gunshots when I walked up the path. I-uh… I thought you were dead."

"Oh my God," she said, moving her hand to her cheek and back to her ear. Her hair had covered the wound, and adrenaline had masked the pain, but she could feel the slash now, along with the blood that trickled down her neck.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No, it's just a scratch. I'll clean it." She pulled into the hotel entrance and did a piss poor job of parking. But after today, she hoped they'd forgive her for it instead of slapping a ticket on the windshield. When she got out of the car, she caught her reflection in the glass. The neck of her blouse was stained red, and there was splatter on her jacket that belonged to Jame Gumb.

Oh, holy shit.

Her legs stopped working, and she fell to the ground. Will rushed around the back and looked down at her.

"Funny how we keep meeting like this."

"I'm fine."

"Keep telling yourself that, Clarice. Do you need a hand?"

"Yup."

She grabbed onto him, but every time she tried to stand, a wave of nausea hit her. Will picked her up again like she weighed nothing and carried her inside. She closed her eyes, feeling safe and (loved) cared for as he crossed the lot. It was a moving picture that a long-distance lens couldn't miss, and the owner of that camera looked down at his viewfinder with satisfaction.

Clarice slowly removed her clothes. She was stained with blood, down to her underwear. Everything went into a bag that she shoved in the closet.

Out of sight, out of mind.

It was worse when she looked in the mirror. Being marked with blood doesn't scare most women of a certain age. From the first bloom of puberty until middle age removes the monthly curse, blood is a part of life. It stains your thighs and clothes, turns the gusset of your panties into a bright red massacre that can never be bleached completely clean again. There's little curiosity about how it looks when you regularly see it trickling from your body in a stream that can only be contained by filling yourself with something unnatural. Stuffing it up and negating its existence for a short while, letting the world believe that your body is a neutered sanctuary made for play. Blood is shame when it comes unexpected, pain if it shows up when you were planning to create something new, and relief when you never wanted it to happen.

Blood is the giver and taker of life.

Even though Clarice had been the one to take a life that day, she had hoped that saving Catherine's would make it okay again, easing the karmic burden heaped on her after the raid. An eye for an eye, a soul for a soul. She wanted to think she'd done good, maybe had made her Momma and Johnny proud. But all she could see was blood smeared on her chest that didn't belong to her and a mark of gunpowder on her cheek that she couldn't scrub off.

"Fuck a bath," she said. "I need a shower."

She didn't want to use her soap. Johnny's soap. That fragrance was tied with him, and she didn't want to sully it with the coppery scent of Jame Gumb's death. She unwrapped the little bar the hotel provided and walked in the shower, turning it on as hot as it would get. The tiles under her feet turned red, shifting to pink as she washed her skin and hair.

"Clarice?" Will asked. "Ardelia's on the phone."

"Put it on speaker," she said, raising her voice. "Hey, Stella."

"Baby, are you okay?"

"I'm in the shower. I'm fine. And Catherine will be fine too, I hope."

"The news says she's been upgraded to fair condition."

"Thank Christ."

"You, thanking Christ? What exactly happened in that house, Clarice?"

"Figure of speech. I promise I'm fine."

"Uh-huh."

You're in trouble now, girlie.

"I might be able to talk about it after I sleep. It's two in the morning. You should be in bed, too."

"Should be, but I'm not. Wonder why?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Fine. It's going to catch up with you, whether you like it or not. Go on, get clean and get some kind of sleep."

Yes, mother.

"Bye, Dee. Love you."

"Love you. Mean it."

You are in some damn deep shit, Clarice.

"You better keep my girl well, do you hear me, Will?"

"Yes, ma'am."

When Will shut the door, Clarice lowered herself to the shower floor and drew her knees against her chest. The blood was gone, but she could still feel it, even if she hadn't even noticed it until thirty minutes ago. She started to hum the song her mother sang to her before bed on the nights she was home. Closing her eyes, she longed to feel mother in the room, almost smelling the starch in her uniform and a waft of the Juicy Fruit gum that clung to her breath. Clarice needed to be held by someone who loved her without reason, and she wanted the woman who had held her to her breast and prayed after the worst moments of her short childhood were over.

"Momma," she whispered.

The shower door opened, and Clarice looked up, seeing Will above her. He was naked again, but so was she. Equal ground.

"I thought you might need some help," he said.

She nodded and stood, letting him clean the spots she'd missed. The water turned pink again, and she wondered if she would ever truly get clean.

"Is it gone?" she asked.

"Turn."

She turned in place. Will's hand went to her ear, and he gently touched it with the washcloth. 

"It stopped bleeding."

"It was just a scratch."

"From a bullet."

"Better than a fist."

Stop it.

"I shouldn't have… I'm sorry for what I said."

"Are you sorry for thinking it?"

"Yes."

At least there's that. I know someone who was never sorry. Not one damn bit.

"Let's have a drink, Will. Unless you started without me."

He looked a little shamed faced when he admitted, "I might have."

"It's okay," she said, touching his cheek with her fingers. "I usually join the party a little late."

"Have I told you I like you today?"

"I like you, too," she whispered.

"Do you?"

I like you so much, Will.

"Yeah."

"Did you know that if you kiss me, right here," he said, pointing to the scar on his nose. "You get a wish."

"Only third nipples work that way."

"Some scars do, too," he said. "Try it out."

She grinned and stretched up to meet him when he bent down, kissing the rough skin. 

I wish we knew how to love each other.

"I wish you would feed me my dinner."

He lifted a brow with interest.

"Naked."

The other brow joined it.

She shrugged. "Women can be pigs too, you know."

"Then it's a good thing I ordered ham with your eggs. The hotel proudly serves Verger's Best."

She snorted. 

"Do you mind being naked too, so I can ogle you while you ogle me?"

"I can be naked."

"Good," he said. Will turned off the water and grabbed a towel, drying her off before scrubbing it over his hair. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

She made it two steps before her legs started to wobble. She'd gotten the shower too hot, and it had been entirely too long since she'd eaten. Will touched her arm, and instead of fighting him off, she leaned against him as they walked to the bed. Like a child, she let him feed her every bite of food, frowning when she tried to give him half her plate. After a glass of wine, she felt full and sleepy, not in the mood to do much else other than lie down.

"Do you mind holding me for a while?" she asked Will.

"No," he said. "Go to sleep, Clarice. I'm right here."

"Night," she mumbled, turning to her side as Will turned off the light. He spooned up behind her, whispering something in her ear when she was almost asleep. Her eyes fluttered open when she mumbled, "Huh?"

"Nothing. It can wait," Will said, squeezing her tighter. "Go to sleep, honey."

Clarice was out in the woods again, lost and cold. The sky was grey, and a fog was settling around the base of the trees. She could hear her father screaming her name, but she ran in the other direction, not wanting to see the bright red blood on his hands. She couldn't breathe, and she crouched behind an old, dead tree, hoping it was big enough to hide her body.

"Clarice! Goddamn it, girl, get back here! RIGHT NOW. DO YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR COWARDLY, YELLOW ASS INTO A–"

She was out of breath when she woke, sitting straight up in the hotel bed. Sunlight was streaming through the crack in the drapes. She put her head in her hands, reorienting herself as she shook off the remnants of the nightmare.

"Are you awake?" she whispered, feeling for Will's hand. But his side of the bed was cold. She got up and looked in the bathroom, finding it empty. Fear crept through her as she looked around the room, seeing all the places he wasn't. 

His bag was gone. So was the bag that held the bottles of liquor they'd brought with them. Clarice saw the note on the desk and backed away from it, not wanting to know the reason why. But curiosity won, and she picked up the two-line note written on hotel stationery. There were hesitation marks, which might have made her feel better if it was anyone else who had written the words.

I'm sorry.
Will

She turned it over. There was nothing else, just more empty space where he could have at least tried.

Clarice walked to the bed and sat on the side he had slept on. With her own level of clarity, she looked at the last ten days. 

It had never been Will's design to sober up, possibly returning to the team like Jack secretly wanted now that he was buried in a cell in Colorado. She'd known that much.

But what Clarice hadn't been able to grasp was that the rest had been his last act. Clarice hadn't been an understudy, for she'd had a very special role in the finale: the ingénue to his man alone. But hadn't they enjoyed the show until the curtain fell?

Hasn't anyone ever done this?

Can I be the first?

Have I told you I like you today?

This had been nothing more than Will Graham's swan song. 

You never meant anything to him.

Clarice picked up her phone and clicked on Ardelia's name, bringing her up on Facetime. When Ardelia answered, that familiar face that Clarice had missed so much, smiling at her on the bright screen, it was all Clarice could do to keep from bursting into tears.

"You complete me," Clarice said.

"When are you coming home?"

"Tonight, if I can manage. What time is it?"

"A little past nine. Are you bringing Will with you?"

"No. He's gone."

"What?"

"We were working on a case. We got the bad guy. There was nothing left to say."

Not even goodbye.

Ardelia stared at her, hard enough that Clarice looked away. 

"Do you want me and Rich to come and get you?"

Clarice started to shake her head, but when her hands trembled, she knew the jig was up. The enormity of every that had happened since January was pressing into her, and getting out of bed suddenly seemed like too much effort to be worth it.

Eleven men. You have killed eleven men. Some people go to prison for killing that many people.

How do you manage your rage, Clarice?

"If it's not too much trouble."

"We'll be there as soon as we can get a flight."

"I wish Johnny was here," Clarice whispered.

"I know, Reecie. I wish he was too. Johnny always knew what to do when things got bad, didn't he?"

And he would have stayed with me through the fucking night before driving me home.

Promise?

"What hotel are you at?"

"The Navarran Suites, it’s on…" Clarice's mind started to falter, and she stuttered as she grasped for the correct street name.

"We'll find it. Go back to bed for a while. Do you think you can sleep until we get there?"

"Maybe."

"Try."

"Okay."

She hung up the phone and laid on the bed, ignoring the phone when Jack called. They'd spoken enough yesterday, and he really didn't need to know what was going on in her mind.

Because then he'll know how ugly you really are. Will figured it out, didn't he, even if Johnny never could. You're just a waste of space. A no good, lazy –

She put the pillow over her head to drown out the noise. When it didn't work, she started to scream.

When Clarice woke again, she was in a white, sterile room. She looked to her left and saw Jack sitting in a chair next to her bed, asleep. He had a Southern Living magazine in his lap. She touched his hand, and he jumped, the magazine falling the floor as he opened his eyes.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hello, Clarice," he said.

"Where am I?"

"Emory Hospital."

"What happened?"

"Your doctor says exhaustion. You've been out of it for two days. When Ardelia and Richard couldn't wake you, they panicked, and rightfully so."

"Shit. Where are they?"

"Back at the hotel. It's my shift."

"You didn't have to do this."

"Maybe, maybe not. I should never have let you do this," Jack said gravely. "You should have been on leave since the raid."

"I'm not sorry, not one bit," she said, turning her head to stare out the window. It was dark outside again, and she couldn't see the moon or even the stars. There was too much light from the city polluting everything, and she briefly wished she was back home in West Virginia. "How's Catherine?"

"She's here, actually. She and the Senator have been by to see you a few times."

"I should have been the one checking on them. They must think I'm a pathetic piece of—"

"Senator Baker-Martin is a very kind woman, Clarice. She has a lot she wants to say to you when you're up to it, but I think Thank You is at the very top of that list."

"I don't deserve it. That bastard should have been tried and hung out to dry, and I gave him exactly what he wanted."

"After he tried to kill you."

She turned back to him, and Jack's eyes went to her cheek. 

"It's just gunpowder."

"It's more than that. I'll tell you about it when you feel better."

"I'm fine."

"Clarice, if you don't stop saying those words, I'm going to get very upset with you."

"You? Upset? Never."

Jack's lips cracked into a semblance of a smile. 

"When can I get out of here?"

"It's up to the doctors."

"Technically, it's up to me, and I'm ready to—"

"You're staying here until he tells you to leave. Is that clear?"

Yes, Dad.

"Crystal."

"Is there anything else you want to ask me, besides when you'll get out?"

Clarice studied him, knowing exactly what he meant. She swallowed hard and shook her head. "Nope. I think I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Did I stutter?"

"You and your mouth."

"Gets me in trouble, doesn't it?"

"Maybe not for much longer. Director Noonan is ready to move forward. She wants a meeting with you and the others when you are deemed fit to return to work."

"You better not make me have a –"

"And that includes a psych eval."

Shit.

"I could ask Dr. Bloom to do it. She's been generous enough to assist in the past."

"Deal."

Jack patted her hand and stood. "I need to make a few calls. I'll be in the waiting room if you need me."

"I'm f–"

He glared at her.

"I'll call the nurse if I need to pee," she said, raising her right hand. "Scout's honor."

He nodded and left the room. Clarice looked at the door as it shut, half expecting to see Wi—

Don't think.

Barney was working the overnights, spending most of his shift away from his post as he quietly spoke to his ward. While he'd never let himself feel real pity for the man, if that's what he really was, Barney felt genuine compassion for any person who would never again feel sunlight on their face. He was covertly scrolling through his phone, back to the security cameras, and pulled up the picture that the man behind the glass had requested to see. The picture bought by The Times was too new to have circulated through the nightly news, and the accompanying article had over ten million shares on Facebook and Twitter.

Maroon eyes flickered as he looked at Will Graham carrying a half-asleep Clarice Starling into the hotel. There was some amusement there, including a passing glimmer of sadness as this echo of the past appeared in the present. Barney almost thought he would speak, but the man remained silent as he licked his upper lip and nodded.

"People are saying they're in love. It's all over TattleCrime. I think Freddie Lounds already has their china pattern picked out. Even the regular news has added it as a footnote to their stories about the late Buffalo Bill. She's at a hospital in Atlanta, but no one seems to have seen Will in a couple of days. That's odd, isn't it?"

The tall man turned his back to the glass, quietly regarding his sketches before taking a few of them down. He sat at his table and glanced up, flicking his wrist with dismissal. Barney took his cue and walked back to his desk, watching the artist in the monitor pick up a stick of charcoal before going to work.

Chapter Text

Still this pulsing night
A plague I call a heartbeat
Just be still with me
You wouldn't believe what I've been through
- David Bowie -

Annandale, Virginia
April 2020

#WillGraham was a cowardly piece of shit for leaving her like that. @TattleTale9174

My cousin has a friend whose sister's fiancé's uncle lives in Marathon, and she says #WillGraham is nothing but a pathetic old drunk. #ClariceStarling could do so much better! @Mom75Vision

#ClariceStarling isn't as brave as everyone thinks she is. One catch doesn't make up for all those men she killed. @OfficeNerdNullity 

It makes you wonder what #WillGraham's old flame thinks about all this. To be a fly on the wall when he finds out he got cheated on, again! @Fr3ddi3LOundsFan99

Can't you give #ClariceStarling a break? It sounds like she's been to hell and back. @TeaAndSympathyGrrl

As soon as I can get the scoop, I'll give you an update on #ClariceStarling and #WillGraham. I promise. @TheOfficialFreddieLounds

"That's not good for you, and you know it."

Clarice looked up at Ardelia and hastily put her phone on the counter behind her. There was a plate next to her, and she quickly stuffed the rest of her second bagel into her mouth. It would keep her from having to speak if she chewed on it long enough.

"Nothing to say?"

Clarice shrugged her shoulders and leaned back against the oak cabinets, groaning when Ardelia took her regular seat next to her on the floor. She swallowed and looked at the ceiling. "It's not like I want to know what people think about me. But I happen to like Twitter, and it's hard to avoid seeing it when your name is constantly trending. You'd think they'd find something else to talk about, especially since Catherine and Ruth have been giving interviews."

"People enjoy having someone to pick on or praise. You've been getting a lot of both."

"I'm either a monster or a saint, depending on who's typing the words."

"Which one describes you better?"

Clarice thought about it, then chickened out. "I'm supposed to be the one with a psych degree, Dee."

"Attorneys know a lot about what makes people tick, too. We just get it from experience and hard knocks instead of class."

"Hey now," Clarice said, swatting her arm.

"I wasn't talking about you," Ardelia said, swatting her back. She checked out Clarice's plate and nodded. "It's good to see your appetite's back."

"The ulcer must finally be healed up. I'm due for another check-up next week."

"Thirty-five with an ulcer."

"Jimmy once told me that you can't really say you've worked at the BAU until you've had one. I guess I'll finally get that desk placard with my name on it."

"What about a gold star?"

"If I talk sweet enough, maybe."

I can talk sweet. You seem to like all the things I whisper in your ear when we're in bed.

Stop it.

"What?" Ardelia said.

"Nothing. Just… it's nothing," Clarice said, standing up. She busied herself with rinsing her plate and hoped Ardelia would drop it.

"It seems like It's nothing is your new I'm fine."

Shit.

"Have you heard anything from him?"

"Nope."

"Sometimes I want to strangle that boy with my bare hands," Ardelia said. "That's not a feeling I enjoy."

"There's no reason for feeling that way. Nothing happened that was important enough for either of us to keep in touch. Simple as that."

"He had to have known how close you were to dropping. And he fucking ran off and left you half-dead."

"No one ever said he was good, Dee. He is who he is, and that's one messed up son of a bitch." Clarice put the plate in the dishwasher and plopped back down on the floor. She took a sip of orange juice and added, "But then again, you could say the same thing about me."

"You aren't all that messed up."

"Then why am I going in for a psych eval this afternoon?"

"After what you've been through this year? If I were Jack, I'd have you in to see a shrink on the regular."

"Doubtful. I think psychiatrists scare him off worse than they do me, and with more reason."

"Fair point. But would you go if he did?"

"I'd do just about anything Jack asked. You know that."

"And would you screw around with them for fun or be an active participant?"

Clarice grinned. "There's nothing more fun than pitting a shrink against a therapist. We know how to bullshit ourselves and everyone else."

"Except for you."

"I never said I was good at it."

Ardelia looked at her phone. "I better head out, or I'll be in traffic hell."

"Bye, babe." Clarice kissed her cheek and watched Ardelia walk back to her side of the duplex. 

The kitchen felt lonely again without her, and Clarice stood, catching the wave of dizziness by grabbing the kitchen counter. She couldn't fool herself into thinking she was completely well, but there wasn't anything to do other than push through. This afternoon was her last obstacle in getting back to work, and she was ready to do something other than sleep and wander around the four rooms she called home. 

But for now, she went back to bed, though not before texting a picture of her middle finger to Jimmy Price. When she got one back, she smiled and curled up under her quilt.

Dr. Alana Bloom's office was in Baltimore, on the third floor of a majestic building downtown.

I guess this is what swine will buy you these days. Prime real-estate.

Clarice hadn't seen her in years, not since Dr. Bloom took over Wi-

Don't think.

took over the Behavioral Analysis classes. But Clarice had heard about her enough in the news, especially when she was the administrator at the State Hospital. After her own experiences with being the subject of so much talk, she decided to the good doctor a clean slate and an open mind.

"Clarice Starling?" her receptionist asked.

"That's me."

"Have a seat. Dr. Bloom will be available shortly. Would you like a coffee or water while you wait?"

"No, but thank you for offering."

He nodded and turned back to his computer. 

Clarice picked up a magazine and flipped through it, almost setting it back down when she saw her picture. She'd declined every offer for an interview, but that didn't stop reporters from using her face and name as often as they pleased. At least this one was included in the interview Catherine and Ruth gave People, and the picture of her was small and on the third page of the article. The fact that it had to be the one of her being taken from the hotel by ambulance was borderline grotesque, but that must be what sells magazines. There were no pictures of Jame Gumb, and he was no longer referred to by that hideous nickname Freddie had given him.  She set the magazine on the table and leaned back on the chair, trying to stay calm.

"Clarice?"

She jumped and looked at the door. Dr. Bloom had and hadn't changed. Though the events that took place over the last eight years hadn't always been kind to her, she had maintained the undercurrent of goodness Clarice had felt when she taught at the FBI. The scars from her fall were carefully hidden behind her make-up, and she leaned heavily on a cane as she stood at her office door.

Clarice nodded and walked in, shaking Dr. Bloom's hand when it was offered.

"It's good to finally meet you, Clarice. Jack has told me a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope?"

"A lot of good," Dr. Bloom agreed, motioning to an elegant sofa covered in white brocade.

"Should I… do you want me to lay down?"

"If you want to, sure. But most of my clients prefer to sit."

"Then I'll sit," Clarice said. The fabric was stiff but not slick enough to make her slide around. 

Dr. Bloom cocked her head to the side as she studied her. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

"The Academy. I graduated in 2012."

"Back row. Glasses and the attitude."

"You have a good memory."

"I do, but I have to admit, it's your hair I remember the most."

"And here I was, hoping it was my grades."

"I gave you high marks. It didn't hurt that you had a background in psychology." Dr. Bloom looked at her notes. "Undergraduate degrees from UVA in Psychology and Victimology, Dual Master's in Clinical Mental Health Counseling and Forensic and Legal Psychology. You worked at the VA before you went to the Academy?"

Clarice nodded. "For two years."

"Why the change?"

"It's not something I've ever been able to explain," Clarice said. "Sometimes ideas stick in your head, and you can't shake them free. I wanted to be a counselor, but when I finally went to work… I don't know. It didn't feel right. I was trying to help people who had a lot of bad happen to them, and I guess I realized I wanted to try to stop the bad from happening instead of trying to help repair what it does to people."

"Was the BAU your goal?"

"Not at first. I liked yours and Wi-"

Stop it.

"Your classes," she ground out. "But I got drawn to evidence collection, too."

Dr. Bloom narrowed her eyes. "What just happened?"

Clarice looked around the room. "Nothing. Did I miss something?"

"We'll come back to it later," Dr. Bloom said, taking a few notes. "Jack recruited you in 2017, and you've been in his section ever since."

"Yes."

"But in January, the Department of Justice asked you and John Brigham to assist in a raid."

By Paul Krendler. Don't blame the whole department for his shit.

"I can't talk about any specifics regarding the raid."

"I wasn't asking you to, except for the obvious. Though, if it helps, I've worked with the FBI for many years, and my security clearance is higher than yours."

"Noted."

"You killed ten men that day, and that's public knowledge. What have you been doing to cope with that?"

Trying to avoid thinking about it.

"Getting out of my routine helped until it didn't – I tend to get locked into habits, good and bad. My roommate and I are very close. I can't talk to her about everything, but she helps keep me grounded. I don't have a faith system if that is your next question. That's probably a good thing, considering how bad the media crucified me."

"Why?"

Clarice shrugged. "Women are scapegoats, saints, or whores in most religions, and there's no middle ground. Since January, I've been accused of being all three. Considering that most people pay more attention to the news more than they do the preachers at the pulpit, I doubt anyone would be very welcoming if I walked into their church."

"You're very hard on yourself, aren't you?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

"That's debatable. You saved eight DEA agents by your actions that day."

Even though Johnny died.

"I guess."

"And you saved Catherine Baker-Martin last month along with yourself. And possibly Wi-"

"If I'm keeping tabs, I should be even. Right?" Clarice shook her head. "I've killed eleven people, Dr. Bloom. Part of me doesn't care that they were criminals or serial killers. I could have killed the devil, and it wouldn't make me feel any better about what I've done."

Stop it.

"Exactly how much guilt are you carrying with you? On a scale from zero to ten – zero being none and ten being unbearable."

Eleven.

"About a seven. Enough to keep me up some nights."

"Some, but not all of them?"

"Most of them. I didn't sleep well before January. And after… I don't rest until my roommate decides to have a sleepover in my room. It helps."

"She cares a lot about you, doesn't she?"

"She does. I care a lot about her too."

"Who else do you care about, Clarice?"

Can't you see I'm doing this because I fucking care about you?

Promise?

"I… my partner and I were close."

"Close?"

"He was my best friend. Losing him has been…" She teared up and looked away from Dr. Bloom, focusing on a sketch behind her. It was a copy of an old painting she couldn't place, but the face on the woman in the center belonged to Dr. Bloom. Clarice cleared her throat and asked, "Who drew that?"

"An old enemy," Dr. Bloom said cryptically.

"Enemy?" Clarice raised a brow, realizing precisely who had drawn it and kicking herself for not recognizing it immediately. "Why keep it?"

"As a reminder to stay focused. But we aren't here to talk about me. Tell me more about John Brigham. How are you coping with his death?"

Clarice glanced from the sketch to Dr. Bloom, covertly trying to size her up. The woman with the outstanding reputation, save for a few missteps, made her feel cowed. Backed into a corner without an escape. But Clarice felt that way most of the time now, and by people she didn't even know. She didn't want to feel so weak, and she was terrified that weakness would keep her from working. Still, there was something in Dr. Bloom's eyes, kindness along with her shrewd perception, that also made her feel…

"Tell the truth, Clarice."

Seen. Acknowledged. Accepted.

"I'm not coping with it very well. I blame myself for Johnny's death. I don't know if there's any way around it, and it may not be something that can be fixed. But I can learn to handle the grief and the blame. I've had practice."

"Would you be willing to see someone to help you work through it?"

"Why not?"

Dr. Bloom nodded and wrote a few notes. "What do you see yourself doing when you're back at work?"

"More of the same. But I think it would be better if I focused on interviews and data interpretation for a while. My roommate is moving soon, and a change might help. Swapping old routines for new ones, creating some new habits. Maybe they'll be better ones than I had before."

"It sounds like you have a healthy attitude."

"I need one. The last place I want to be is back in a hospital. That was embarrassing as hell."

"Are you eating?"

"Yes."

"Sleep is an issue, though."

"Melatonin should do the trick. And if I need something else, I'll ask my doc."

"What do you do for fun when you need to blow off steam?"

Fuck drunks with coping mechanisms worse than mine.

"I run."

"How often do you laugh?"

"Not very much since Johnny died."

"What about play?"

"Are you asking me about my sex life, Dr. Bloom?" Clarice asked with a lot of cheek. "I'm straight, but I've never been in a serious relationship. I've been busier than I've ever been since I applied to the Academy, so sex is nil to nonexistent, though I've got a friend in my nightstand that helps when I need some fun."

Dr. Bloom covered a grin. "You know what I mean, and you know how important it is."

"I do. But I'm not the type of person who will go swing on a playground when it's empty. I'm too competitive for games, and I don't get along with most people. I run. It's what I like."

Have you ever run a marathon, Clarice?

"I'm actually thinking about training for the Rock' N Roll Marathon in Virginia Beach. I can run eight miles without stopping on a bad day, so a half marathon seems like an achievable goal."

"Fair enough."

"Did I pass?"

Dr. Bloom wrote a few more notes and nodded. "But just barely. I think you're right about needing to step away from active cases for a while. Seeing the past might help put the future in perspective. Speaking of which, I think while you're working through the grief about John Brigham, someone should help you address your anger."

"I'm not angry."

That's some bullshit, and you know it.

"That's not the first lie you've told me, Clarice," Dr. Bloom said, leaning forward in her chair. "Do you think it could be the last?"

And you can't bullshit a bullshitter, can you?

"Yes."

"Good. I'll clear you to work, but I want to see you here, every week."

"No offense, but I don't think I can afford you."

Dr. Bloom shrugged. "I'll waive your copay."

"And when my insurance runs out?"

"Then I'll stop billing it. I take pro bono cases frequently. I have the luxury of working because I still enjoy it."

"We had some of your family's spoils while I was in Atlanta."

"Was it good?"

I wish you would feed me my dinner.

Naked.

"I had no complaints," Clarice said honestly.

"I'll tell the wife. Before you see me again, though, I have some homework for you."

"Double or single-spaced?"

"Neither. I want you to attend one of these meetings," Dr. Bloom said, passing her a pamphlet. "And I want you to get a massage."

"Why a massage?"

"Muscle holds a lot of memory. And I don't think I've seen you loosen up a single one since you sat down. You need touch, and you need to learn how to relax."

Clarice didn't like the idea but decided it was worth a try. She glanced down at the pamphlet for Adult Children of Alcoholics and shook her head. "How did you –?"

"The way you suppress your thoughts, and your determination to act like everything is okay. Other than that, it was a hunch."

"I went to a couple of meetings in college. I didn't like it."

"Well, try it again. Maybe some life experience will change your mind."

"I can cry alone. I don't need to be in a room of other people to do it."

"But do you cry alone?" Dr. Bloom asked, raising her brows. "I don't think so. I think you save up your tears until you can't contain them anymore. Does that sound about right?"

"Yes," Clarice admitted.

"Go once. If you hate it, you don't have to go back. All I'm asking is for you to sit and listen."

"Okay."

"Check with Thomas before you leave. Give him this, and he'll make your next appointment. Jack will have my recommendations by the end of the day."

"Thank you," Clarice said.

"I didn't do it as a favor," Dr. Bloom said. "You have gone through a terrible ordeal this year, but I think you can integrate those experiences into your life and learn from them, as an agent and as an individual. You feel remorse, and you have the tools and the capacity to build a lifestyle that will help you cope with a stressful job. With help, you can do it better."

"Why volunteer your time?"

Dr. Bloom's eyes grew vague long enough to provide Clarice one of her tells. "You aren't the only person who carries a measure of guilt. I had the opportunity to help a mutual friend once. I didn't take it, and I've lived with the consequences of that decision ever since. This is how I cope."

"I appreciate your candor."

"And in our future sessions, I hope I'll learn to fully appreciate yours. I'll see you next week."

Chapter Text

It wasn’t her plan to come back to work on a Friday, and even though Jack encouraged her to show up on Monday, Clarice couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get back to where she belonged. It stunk like a squashed skunk in the summer that she’d gotten into traffic late because now she was stuck behind a line of cars at the gate. She stared at the sign above her, taking off Johnny’s sunglasses as she crept forward in her old Mustang.

Quantico, Crossroads of the Marine Corps

It was the crossroads of many other things, but at the end of the day, this was a military installation, and she felt it as she showed her badge to the armed guard before he waved her ahead.

She’d brought a change of clothes with her, wanting to take a run out on the trails after the workday was done. Nothing against the parks at home, but there was something about getting back to the place where she first discovered how much she enjoyed the endorphins that running gave her. Natural speed of the best kind, and as she parked her car in the back row of the lot, she could almost feel them rushing in.

Trying to look and feel natural, she walked inside the building. Her heart felt like it would beat outside of her chest, and to calm herself, she made a detour to the cafeteria. Luckily, her favorite server was there, and Nate smiled nervously when she snuck behind the pass.

“I know it’s really early,” Clarice said, “But I need–“

“One or two?”

“Two, please.”

Nate went to the kitchen and brought back a pair of containers, giving her a wink as he held a finger to his lips.

“Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, Clarice.”

It was a short walk to the elevator. It wasn’t too full, and when the door shut, Clarice could feel her stomach flip around.

Stop it.

She was too excited, and fuck it – she didn’t want to stop it for a change. Clarice felt weirdly good, and this morning she woke up with a smile on her face for the first time since –

Don’t think.

The elevator opened in the basement, and she crept around to the office, seeing a familiar grey head standing next to her desk with too much familiarity. The bastard even had his hand on her coffee mug, the one that Ardelia had given her after a pretty awful day. It read I’d agree with you, but we’d both be wrong and may or may not have been purchased after she called Paul Krendler a bastard.

She snuck up behind Jimmy Price and waited until his hand was off her mug. Carefully, she slipped her copy of The Post out of her bag, and with a flourish, she slapped his arm with the rolled-up paper.

“Owww, what the hell?” Jimmy said, turning around.

“If you don’t get your grimy hands off my mug, I swear to –“

Jimmy stopped her words by giving her a hard hug.

“What’s that for?” she asked, trying not to tense.

“For scaring the hell out of me,” he said and yanked on her ponytail.

She beat on his back until he let it go. “And what was that for?”

“I smell no peaches on you. You promised.”

“Maybe next time.”

“There better not be a next time, Big Red,” Jimmy said, his eyes entirely too serious. 

“There won’t be.”

“Promise?”

Promise?

Clarice nodded and cleared her throat. “I promise.”

“You better keep that one. Jack got here about five minutes before you did, by the way.”

“I came prepared,” she said, holding up her loot.

“Suck up.”

“And proud of it.” She put her bags on her desk and grabbed two forks from the top drawer, then grabbed her mug for good measure. “Wish me luck?”

Jimmy nodded and patted her back. She straightened her spine as she walked to Jack’s office, knocking on the half-opened door.

“Enter,” he said.

Clarice popped her head around the corner, then showed him what she had in her hands. He nodded and pointed at the seat across from his desk, saying a few more words to whoever was on the other line. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down, pushing Jack’s piece of coconut cake to him.

“I don’t care what he’s offering. I’m not doing that to her, and that’s – THANK YOU.” He almost slammed his phone, then caught himself and gently placed it on the receiver.

“What was that about?”

“A thorn in my side. Nothing you need to worry about.” Jack looked at the small box and opened it, breathing in the aroma of toasted coconut. “How do you always get these so early?”

“Because everyone likes me. Duh.”

He gave her a sardonic glance and took a bite.

“I might have caught one of the servers smoking pot on the trails last year. Now, he’s my bitch.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“But he is,” she protested, taking a big bite of her own. With a little coffee, this was heaven. “I could always turn him in, but then we’d run the risk of our supply running dry. You know how fast they run out.”

“True,” he said, licking a smudge of icing from his fork.

“Dr. Bloom wants to see me once a week.”

“She mentioned that in her report.”

“She even offered to see me for free. Either I’m nuts or she is.”

“You aren’t nuts, Clarice. We all have issues we need to work on. Be glad she wants to help you; she’s one of the best.”

“One of? Is there anyone better?”

“Not anymore. I guess I stand corrected,” Jack said, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. “So, desk duty. Old cases, cold cases. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“It was my idea.”

“Insightful.”

“I can be that way when I want to be.”

“Will you continue to be like that where Dr. Bloom is concerned?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t want to change who I am, but… I’m not stupid. I hear what goes on in my mind, and sometimes it’s not kind. Even when you know the tools to improve inside and out, it doesn’t mean you don’t need help putting them into action.”

“Physician, heal thyself.”

“Except I’m not a physician, and proudly so.”

“Have you kept your counseling license up to date?”

“For as long as they’ll let me. I did too much work to let it lapse, but I need to start volunteering again to keep my hours up.”

“Remind me of that if I decide to send you on any more long errands.”

“Noted,” she said, chewing on a thought that had been nagging her for the last three weeks. “When are we meeting with the Director?”

“She’s coming in next week. Gloria spoke to the others while you were on leave, and everyone is ready to move forward with this.”

“It’ll be called a witch hunt, especially after what’s already happened.”

“At this point, no one really cares about what the conservative press thinks. Do you?”

“Not especially,” she said. 

“Are you sure?”

“After people call you a murderer, everything else is pretty inconsequential. Except… I don’t know. This might hurt worse.”

“Delete the news apps from your phone if you can.”

“I might.”

Jack tossed his empty container in the trash and leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering to the sketch on the wall behind her. She knew exactly who drew that one, the same man who had drawn the one in Dr. Bloom’s office. Except this one was of Jack as St. Peter, and more than one familiar face was driving the nails into Jack’s hands.  “You aren’t hoping that one of them might mention –“

“I never hope for anything,” she said, not a lie but not quite the truth. She took the last bite of her cake and tossed the box in the trash, trying to keep her voice flippant when she asked, “Have you heard from him?”

“Yes.”

Fuck.

“Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

She nodded and kept her eyes on her mug. Jack could read her better than anyone, and she kept her thoughts clean when she said, “That’s good. Do you want me to take over the review of the Old Barge case?”

“Sounds like a good place for you to start.”

“Then I’ll get to it.” She stood and flicked a crumb from her trousers before walking to the door.

“Clarice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t pull that ‘sir’ shit on me. What are you having for lunch?”

“Ardelia made jerk chicken last night and packed a plate for you. She took a liking to you in Atlanta, you know.”

“She’s a good one.”

“Yep.”

“So is her roommate.”

She nodded and looked back at Jack. 

Thanks, Dad.

“Meet me at my desk at noon. But I’m warning you now: If you’re late, I’ll eat your share.”

Jack smiled. “Then I’ll be on time.”

Clarice checked her mailbox when she got home, pulling her car next to it so she wouldn’t have to walk back to the road. The rain started half way home, the big, flat drops on her windshield turning into a downpour by the time she took her exit. A small package was stuffed into it, and she cursed her mailman as she struggled to get it out.

“Son of a bitch,” Clarice muttered when she finally yanked it free. She pulled into the carport and ran inside, covering her hair with the paper as she struggled with her keys. Finally making it in, she tossed her bags in her chair and took the mail with her to the kitchen, sitting on the floor as she sorted through the bills, the junk, and the rest. The package stayed next to her until she was done, and she tossed the ripped envelopes in the trash before picking it up. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and exquisitely labeled, the return address belonging to a jeweler in New York that most folks who knew about jewelry were familiar with. She ripped off the paper, staring down at a robin’s egg blue box.

What the actual fuck?

Clarice opened it, finding an envelope lay on top of a smaller blue case. With shaking hands, she opened the letter.

Dearest Clarice,

I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming. Now it seems that your polarizing image has changed yet again and into something greater than you may realize. You will forever reside in that most unique place of infamy where the best and the worst of men live. I find myself wondering what you will make of your fifteen minutes while it lasts. And I believe that you, more often than not, are sitting in a dungeon of your own making and asking yourself the very same thing.

A polarizing person, one split down the middle, is neither a friend nor foe. They simply attract the extremes. 

You are neither good nor bad, Clarice. You are. What you hear from others is an opinion, not a fact, and what you see is a perspective, not a finite truth, if such a thing truly exists.

Do not believe what others say of you. Believe only what you feel.

You will never receive a medal for what you’ve done, and perhaps that’s best. However, you should have something to signify the courage you’ve shown during the darkness of our last winter. 

Now, is the time for spring. Rebirth. I’d imagine you have flowers blooming close to you, either in your yard or one belonging to a forgiving neighbor. Pick a pocketful for the one who fell before you and listen for the laughter of the abiding Earth.

Yours truly,

An Admirer

P.S. The stone also protects you from drunkards. Best to keep them as far away as possible, given their tendency to be unreliable, yet predictable to the very end.

The words were typed on an expensive mauve paper that weirdly complemented the blue. It definitely wasn’t from-

Don’t.

Fingers still trembling, she opened the small box nestled in a mountain of protective wrapping. It contained a ring, though it wasn’t an engagement ring like she knew them to be. A large amethyst was set in white gold or platinum. Unable to resist touching it, she ran a finger over the smooth, dark stone.

What the actual fuck, Clarice?

“When did you get in?”

Clarice snapped the box shut and placed it next to her on the floor, clearing the mess from her lap. “About ten minutes ago.”

Ardelia sat next to her and held out her hand. “Show me.”

Clarice sighed and gave her the box and letter, watching for Dee’s reaction. It wasn’t the first present she’d gotten in the mail, but the others had been dirty pictures or letters that tried to damn her for her actions. In her infinite wisdom, Freddie Lounds had sent Clarice a shirt from her website that had the words Buffalo Bill Stood Me Up emblazoned across the front. Clarice and Ardelia had enjoyed using it as kindling for their firepit.

“Holy moly,” Ardelia gasped when she opened the box.

“I know.”

“That’s from fucking Tiffany.”

“I know.”

Ardelia scanned through the letter. “Not from Senator Baker-Martin. She would have signed her name and given it to you in person.”

 “Not to mention she wouldn’t have done something like this. It’s out of character. She wants me to come to their ranch and ride horses, not shower me with expensive junk that doesn’t matter.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you at least tried it on?”

“Do you think it’s got a curse on it? Like the ring from the Harry Potter movie?”

“Doubtful. I don’t think anyone hates you that much.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“STAY OFF TWITTER. And pay attention to that letter. Whoever wrote it was right.”

Clarice nodded noncommittally and took the ring from the box, placing it on her right hand.

“It looks nice.”

“Dee.”

“Well, it does! Look at it.”

Clarice looked at her hand. The stone flickered with dark pinks and violets, and it did indeed look like it belonged on her finger.

“What if a kook sent it?”

“If he or she ever shows their face, deal with it then. That used to be your philosophy about everything.”

“Stop,” Clarice said, elbowing Ardelia’s side. “I can’t wear it to work.”

“Why not?”

True. It was big, but not too big to be ostentatious, but Clarice had never worn jewelry other than her mother’s old add-a-bead necklace. It would feel weird to have something on her hands, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t get used to. 

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “It’s my turn to make dinner. What sounds good?”

“Your turn? Let’s order take out.”

Clarice opened the drawer behind her and pulled out a stack of menus.

“And get enough for Rich. He’s coming over.”

“Got it,” Clarice said, picking out enough for leftovers, which were never too bad when the original meal was eaten with good company.

Chapter Text

"How was your week?"

"Not too eventful," Clarice said, sliding onto the sofa. She'd accepted a glass of water this time, setting it on the low table in front of her. A bead of sweat dropped onto the coaster beneath it, and she kept her eyes on it instead of looking at Dr. Bloom. "I went to get a massage like you asked."

"And how did it go?"

"I-uh… Hmmm." Clarice swallowed, moving her eyes to the window. The curtain was slightly open, enough for her to see the cloudless sky outside. Spring was rolling in. With it came bluer skies, almost as blue as the ones in Florida had been. "It didn't go very well. I had to end it early."

"Why?"

"I started to cry." The words came out in a rush, and with it returned the shame she felt when she pulled on her clothes before running out of the clinic. The massage therapist had been very kind and understanding, telling her to come back when she was ready.

"You understand why, don't you?"

"I know. I guess I didn't realize how bad it was. I've been holding in my emotions most of my life. Staying tense, staying focused…" Clarice looked back at Dr. Bloom, needing help to find the words.

"Pretending it's all okay."

"Yeah," Clarice said. Even now, she was holding in tears, not wanting to break down. "I think I cried more while I was on the road than I've ever cried in my life, but it wasn't enough."

"That's why relaxing is so hard for you, as well as touch. It brings the emotions back to the surface. And with them, the memories."

"I don't want to feel like this," Clarice whispered. "I had it under control. When I was on the road, I felt like I was coming apart. I still feel like parts of me are split open and bleeding. Going to the meeting made it worse. I couldn't sit and listen to all that pain. It was too raw."

Dr. Bloom stood and set her notepad and pen on the table next to her. "You think best when you move, don't you?"

Clarice nodded.

"Then let's go for a walk."

There was a gated courtyard garden behind the building. Nothing fancy, but the trees were old and inviting, and irises grew near a small fountain in the center. The purple and yellow blooms were appealing, and Clarice squatted down to feel one of the velvety petals between her fingers.

"This is beautiful."

"It's one of the reasons I chose this building," Dr. Bloom said. "No one comes down here except for lunch, and it makes a good escape from the walls upstairs when you need it."

"We have that at Quantico, but you know that. Out in the middle of the forest… I've always loved being there in the fall."

"You were in the late session when you attended, weren't you?"

"I was. The trees were so colorful, like they were at home when I was little." Clarice stood and dusted off the knees of her pantsuit.

"Where was home?"

"Deep Pocket, West Virginia."

"That's a name."

"Middle of nowhere. It suited."

"Do you want to tell me about your parents?"

Clarice nodded and started walking, keeping the pace slow for Dr. Bloom. She wasn't using her cane today, but her limp was pronounced. "Daddy was a veteran, but he couldn't work very often. There still wasn't a lot of support for Vietnam vets back then. He tried working in the coal mines when he got back, but it didn't last long, I don't think. I remember him doing handyman work every now and then, but... it didn't last."

"Was he the one who drank?"

"Yeah," Clarice said. 

"Was your mother around?"

"She died when I was seven. Gas station robbery. Wrong place, wrong time."

"She was the breadwinner."

"She was, but she was more than that. Momma was a good little wife. She made sure he was fed, purged him out when he drank too much, tucked him in when the drinking was over for the night. After she died, it was up to me to make sure he didn't kill himself."

"Jack didn't know any of this when he sent you to see –

"I'm his employee. I work, and I do good work. Or I did before everything went to shit. If Johnny hadn't just died, I would have been able to handle everything that happened after I went to Florida. My childhood is none of Jack's business."

"You're more than an employee to him."

And he's a lot more than my boss.

"It still doesn't make it his business."

"Who was the last person you talked about your father with, Clarice?"

Why are you so angry? It's not your father. Is it because I'm not Johnny?

"It's been a long time," Clarice said honestly. "Probably my roommate, Ardelia, when we were in the Academy. She doesn't push too hard about him. Dee respects the things that are off-limits."

"Off-limits?"

"Don't you have those, Dr. Bloom?" Clarice's voice was curt. "Names and situations that hurt too much to talk about? There's a persona non grata in my office, and something makes me think there's one in yours, too."

"Don't turn this around on me. I'm not the enemy. Neither are the people who care about you."

Stop it.

"Stop it," Clarice said.

"Stop what?"

"No one should care about me. When they do, it's not good for them. Ardelia cares about me, but I've been holding her life back. Johnny cared about me, and look what good it did him. It's better to run than to…" She was close to breaking down, and she shook her head, putting the steel back up, blocking out the emotion building up inside her. "I'm not good."

Low down, ignorant piece of –

She sat down on a bench by the fountain and put her head in her hands, taking a deep breath to control herself. She could feel the resolve flowing through her like a dense layer of armor, dulling the hurt and easing the pain.

"What happening?" Dr. Bloom sat next to her on the bench and patiently waited for Clarice to answer.

"It'll be over soon; I just need to get past it."

"Past what?"

It was almost better. Heart rate slowly, words disappearing from the low level of internal noise she always heard. When Clarice was finally numb, she muttered, "I'm fine."

"Do you know how much I hate hearing those words? How much did you hate them when you were seeing patients, Clarice?"

"A lot."

"Can you talk about it?"

"It'll start up again if I do."

"And when it does, I'm right here next to you. And I'd like you to tell me the things you hear in your mind instead of pushing them back inside. Can you do that for me?"

"I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking for, or else we're wasting our time together. Do you have enough time for your hour with me to be meaningless?"

"No," Clarice said. "Considering it takes me over an hour to get to your office and another to get back home, I guess I need to make the effort worth something."

"Then tell me more about your father," Dr. Bloom said, standing to her feet. 

Clarice joined her and spent the rest of the hour talking about her mom instead.

Director Gloria Noonan was new to her office, and she looked like a woman with a lot to prove. The FBI's first female Director was impeccably dressed, wearing a suit that even Clarice knew was either Chanel or an outstanding replication. Controlled in her demeanor and with unflappably sharp eyes, she still managed to give Clarice a warm handshake as they sat across from each other at the conference room table.

"Starling, Clarice M," Director Noonan said, appraising her with a look that made Clarice feel like she was in the principal's office. "I've seen your name a little too often this year."

"That wasn't my intention when the year started."

"I'm sure it wasn't. Has Jack briefed you on why I wanted to speak to you today?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's kept me in the loop since the investigation started."

"Then you know Paul Krendler has been vetted for a seat on the DC Circuit Court of Appeals, and we've been asked to investigate his background."

"Yes."

"What do you think we've found out?"

Clarice shifted in her chair, setting her hands on the table before placing them in her lap. She stared down at her folded hands, eyes focusing on that damn ring. She hadn't been able to remove it from her finger after putting it on, and it stayed with her like a haunting reminder of the fucking letter it came with.

You should have something to signify the courage you've shown during the darkness of our last winter.

Now was still the time for courage, for winter wasn't over yet. A frost had set over Virginia last night, placing ice crystals on the delicate blooms in her neighbor's yard. It hadn't stopped her from picking an azalea from one of the bushes. She'd kept that flower with her, floating in a bowl of water in her bedroom.

Clarice lifted her eyes to Gloria Noonan's and said, "You found out that Paul Krendler has been sexually harassing me for eight years, but I'd be shocked if there was evidence. All of my complaints have disappeared. I'd also be shocked if I was alone. Jack mentioned there were others."

"You are correct on all counts," Director Noonan said. She opened the file in front of her and flipped through the pages. "So shrewd for your union rep to save the records of your complaints when he realized they were disappearing."

"I have the compliment in my office. I saved them too, starting from the very first."

"Smart girl."

"I have my moments."

"How tough are you, Clarice?"

"Reasonably so, I hope."

"You've proved it, in my eyes at least." The Director tapped her fingers on the opened file. "If you were asked to testify before Congress, what would you tell them?"

"The truth."

"You have a reputation for having a smart mouth. You wouldn't call one of the Senators asking you questions a bastard, would you?"

"I doubt it. Not unless provoked, at least."

"They will try to provoke you. You know that, don't you? No one wants Paul Krendler for this job, but they will do anything to put on a show for the cameras."

"Lovely," Clarice said. "Then I guess I have a lot of prepping to do."

"Are you sure? We've got enough without your testimony."

"I'm sure. I need to do this. It went on too long, and…" Clarice looked at her hands again, running her fingers over the ring like a worry stone. "I owe it to myself and the others to stand up for what's right. It ended John Brigham's life because you and I know that being invited to join that raid was retaliation." 

"That was our unofficial conclusion, yes."

"He's also tried to end my career from the beginning and would have, if not for Jack."

"He believes in you."

"To his detriment."

"Do you believe in yourself?"

I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR COWARDLY ASS INTO A–

"Yup."

"That's what I'd hoped to hear."

"When will it happen?"

"The next couple of weeks, more than likely. You're reviewing old files for now, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Making any progress?"

"The Plum Island Murders are taking up most of my time. Something is missing, but I can't put my finger on it yet. I'll get there."

"Good. I'd imagine you learned some things that can help you look at the cases with new eyes, especially after working with –"

"I learned a lot," Clarice said quickly. "Hopefully, I'll become a greater asset to the unit because of it."

"May I take you to lunch?"

Clarice took in a surprised breath before saying, "Yes. I'd like that."

Gloria Noonan looked at her watch. "I have to give a speech for the National Academy Cadets. I'll meet you back here around noon."

"Perfect."

As they walked to the door, she stopped Clarice and quietly said, "A word of advice? Get a smart suit to wear before you testify and learn to feel comfortable in it. Clothes make the woman, and a woman in a position of power needs to feel like her clothes belong to her. You will hold power in front of the Judicial Committee, no matter what they try to make you feel. But at least you will have an ally on their side, as well as two behind you."

"You'll be there?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Call me Gloria." She patted Clarice on the shoulder before opening the door and walked out of the basement with the air of a general getting ready for battle. 

Clarice added her to the list of people she'd kill for, and she watched her until she felt another hand on her shoulder. It made her jump, and she looked at Jack Crawford with apology. 

"Sorry," she said.

"Are you going to testify?"

"Yes. Gloria says I need to find a better suit to wear before I do."

Jack studied her, his expression wistful when he said, "I might be able to help."

"I can go to the store and find something."

"And get trampled by the well-meaning public or a reporter who caught you in the dressing room?"

"Point taken. What did you have in mind?"

"My wife died a few years ago. She worked for the UN, and Bella was always…" When Jack smiled, it took some of the gravity from his face. "She could have met the Queen and looked perfect for the part, any day of the week. All of her clothes and beautiful suits are still in her closet. You are welcome to take what you need."

Clarice sighed, wanting to hug him but not wanting to do so in full view of everyone in the office. She pressed her lips together, nodding as she said, "I don't know what to say, other than thank you."

Jack's eyes were red when he squeezed her arm and walked back to his office. She could have sworn she heard him murmuring, "My baby doesn't need any shoes" to himself, but then again, it was probably Clarice's imagination. 

Chapter Text

Warden Thompson,

My client has requested that he be given the privilege to access C-Span. Given that the content is educational and informative, I can't imagine a reason why this request would be denied, considering his behavior has been exceptional over the last year. Keeping his mind busy with the government's mundane actions might be a good thing for all parties. 

If there are any problems or concerns with this request, please forward them to my office. Best to keep a refusal between us, if there is one. One never knows how he might take more bad news, given his recent exchanges with the FBI.

Sincerely,

Thomas Meyer

It's official – a witch hunt from the radical feminists, now lead by that chick in charge of the FBI. Thank fuck we didn't elect Hillary! @ImRightYourDumb30

Here we go with another wokefest. You're welcome for the spoilers. @IReallyReadThatOnTwitter

Paul Krendler is an outstanding citizen – I can't believe anyone would say a word otherwise! @MommaSaidSomethingWrong92

Here we go, another group using their vulva shields to prove a point and ruin a man doing his job. Look at all the work Paul Krendler has done for the government and the State of Virginia. I mean, look at it! @AssHatTwitterAccountWhoSaidIUseAVulvaShieldAndImTakingThatPhraseRightBackThankYouForMyNewMascotIAmAboutToMakeMONEY

#ClariceStarling must love seeing her name in the news. Has anyone heard what happened between her and #WillGraham? That's the real story. @TheOfficalFreddieLounds, what's up? @FBISucksIDont2001

I won't be at the hearing, but I've got ears in all the right places. @TheOfficialFreddieLounds

Dearest Clarice,

I regret that there is nothing to send you with this letter. In days previously wasted, I would have been privileged to invite you into my home for a late dinner, perhaps offering you guidance for the days that lay ahead. 

Instead, an exercise for minds set at a distance. I want you physically to do this with me: Do you have a cast iron skillet? You are a southern mountain girl; I can't imagine you would not. Put it on the kitchen table. Turn on the overhead lights and look down into that skillet.

If this were your mother's skillet, and it well may be, it would hold among its molecules the vibrations of all the conversations ever held in its presence. All the exchanges, the petty irritations, the deadly revelations, the flat announcements of disaster, the grunts and poetry of love. 

Sit down at the kitchen table, Clarice. Look into the skillet. 

If it is well cured, it's a black pool, isn't it? It's like looking down a well. Your detailed reflection is not in the bottom, but you loom there, don't you? There's light behind you, isn't there? A corona surrounds your flaming hair like the rising sun.

That well-scrubbed face shines brighter, but it is not magnified, by what forged you. And what you hold in that skillet does not matter. Not anymore.

Behavior is the true mirror in which everyone shows their image. Neither the just nor the unrighteous are immune to that true tell.

Look over the last few months. Not on social media, put that away and keep far from it. Look at what you've done since the bleak mid-winter. What do you see now? A woman who has shed blood? One who let her bleeding heart become consumed while she saved the Senator's child? Perhaps a woman called forth to ensure that the discourteous will be laid to rest.

You are correct in what you see. But you're missing who you truly are.

You are a warrior, Clarice. The enemies are dead. Catherine Baker-Martin is safe in her bed. Paul Krendler will never be a judge, nor is he yours. And that drunk is rotting on a beach. Crabs will pick at his bones. So will the little birds who help the scavengers finish their work.

Tin cries when it is bent, giving a brief, sweet song. When it breaks, we are left with silence. Make your cries count, though I doubt you will ever break for anyone.

You are a warrior.

An Admirer

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Clarice was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, crying into her open hands. She pointed at the letter next to her. Ardelia sat next to her and picked it up, reading it with one hand and patting Clarice's knee with the other.

"Damn. Is that why you have your momma's skillet on the counter behind you?"

"I can't do this, Ardelia," Clarice said. "I'm not a warrior."

"Bullshit. Whoever your admirer is, he's still not wrong."

"What's the problem?" Rich asked. He took a seat across from them, knocking his head against one of the drawer handles. This wasn't his regular position; Johnny's place had been in front of Clarice and Ardelia while Rich stood at the arch on Ardelia's side. Ardelia passed him the letter, and Rich looked at it with a Langley officer's well-trained eye. "That's one smart bastard."

"How do you mean?" Clarice asked, drying her eyes on a dishtowel.

"The turns of phrase. Other than that, it's a feeling."

"Is it the same guy?" Ardelia asked.

"It has to be," Clarice said. "Same stationery, but this one came through a remailer in Chicago. Whoever he –"

"Or she," Ardelia mused.

Clarice shrugged. "Whoever they are, they don't want me to know."

"This came to your home address?" Rich asked.

"It was public knowledge before I got the PO Box. The internet hides nothing. What do you think? Friend or foe, what say you?"

"Friend," said Ardelia.

"Either, or both," said Rich.

"Why?" asked Ardelia.

"He's talking to her like a friend, but there's restraint. He's holding back. Plus, a friend would include his name, or a semblance of one, for correspondence. He wants to speak to you on his terms and only his terms. Is this the only other letter you've received?"

"Yep," said Clarice.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Ardelia.

Clarice opened the junk drawer above her head and tucked it in, then thought better of it, taking the letter back out and putting it on the fridge with a magnet. "For the time being, I choose to believe I'm a warrior, even though I don't feel like one. I feel like I'm about to get ripped to shreds."

"Did you go to Jack's today?"

"I did."

"Well?"

"I'm out," Rich said. "I'll work on dinner while you giggle over the clothes."

"Chauvinist," Ardelia giggled, swatting his leg as she stood.

"Who's the one cooking?"

"Truth. And you better get to it."

Ardelia helped Clarice stand and followed her to the makeshift home office, where Clarice showed her the clothes she had brought with her from Jack Crawford's home in Arlington. The three suits were timeless and undoubtedly cost more than the contents of Clarice's small closet. "I'm lucky they fit. She was a size larger than me, but I've gained a little weight around the middle since I got back. It should work."

"The red one, for the day you testify."

Clarice frowned and looked at the suit. "Jesus, Dee. You might as well give me an A to wear on my chest."

"Stop it. More like Mary Queen of Scots."

"Before she was beheaded. Nice imagery."

"Still, it made an impression on history, one no one has forgotten. Considering you feel like a martyr –"

"Dee. "

Ardelia shrugged. "And we both know you look fabulous in red."

Clarice looked at the suit and trailed her fingers over the angled pockets at the waist. It would make a statement, even bigger than the one her hair made. She nodded and said, "Point taken."

Clarice hadn't seen Paul Krendler since the day he'd rubbed his clammy hand over her ass and told her that she needed to shape up and stop acting like a corn-porn country pussy. For the last three days, she'd sat and waited for her turn, hearing the eight other women who had been Paul Krendler's law clerks or interns tell their stories.

Something within Clarice shifted when she realized that she'd never been alone. She'd suspected that his hatred of women hadn't been saved for her. But hearing the others, some of whom shared the vicious names he had used when they tried to speak up, horrified her. There seemed to be nothing a weak man wouldn't do when threatened by someone he wanted to control, and boy howdy, hadn't those lying words worked to intimidate strong women into silence. In her mind, she knew it spoke to deeper psychopathy, one Paul didn't want to show to the rest of the world, but that he had revealed to the few who saw him for who he truly was.

"Jack may like you, but you're just like your drunk father, aren't you, Starling?" Paul had said when she transferred to Quantico. Paul had done some digging and found Clarice's sealed file from Children's Services. "You may think you're hot shit, but you're still a fucking loser, and you always will be. A no count, white trash, weak, worthless, pathetic piece of –"

"Special Agent Clarice Starling?"

Clarice's hands shook as she stood, and she gripped them tight as she walked up to the table. There was a seat saved for her, even bearing a placard with her name.

An ulcer and an asshole bought you that one.

She took her seat, thumb automatically rubbing the amethyst stone on her hand. Jack and Gloria's eyes were behind her, silently lending her their strength. And even though Senator Baker-Martin had officially asked to step down from the hearing, she was present and watching the proceedings from her chair. Paul was seated on the far side of the table, his balding crown shining in the hot lights as sweat trickled down his temple.

You’re a real firecracker, aren’t you?

You are a warrior, Clarice.

"Miss Starling, when was the first occasion that you met Paul Krendler?"

Barney worked days the week of the hearings, floating between his desk to his usual corner at the edge of the glass. With his prisoner, they watched the events unfold on C-Span. Occasionally a grunt of disgust left the good doctor's mouth. And other times… Barney could almost hear him salivating, as though longing to taste the flesh of the rude man on the other side of the screen.

When Clarice was called to testify, they were at their places: Barney with a cup of coffee, and his ward with the remains of his lunch, silently picking the remnants of the plain food. Their eyes went to the screen, seeing Special Agent Clarice Starling in a vibrantly red suit that almost outshone the fiery hair on her head. The doctor's eyes went to her hands, the corners of his mouth turning up when he saw the ring on her finger.

"And what did you tell Mr. Krendler when he refused to accept what you found into evidence?" the Senator from New Jersey asked.

Clarice laughed uncomfortably. "Do you really want my exact words?"

"Yes."

"Uncensored?"

"To the best of your recollection."

"Alright. To my best recollection, I told Paul Krendler that he was a fucking idiot and to stop acting like a mealy-mouthed baboon assed bastard."

There was a moment of soft laughter from the gallery before the Senator from Mississippi followed up. "But, Miss Starling, don't you think you could have avoided what came after if you'd held your tongue? Anger makes a woman look tacky, and that was a tactless thing to say."

Do not believe what others say of you. Believe only what you feel.

Clarice straightened her back and spoke directly to Senator Martin, avoiding making eye contact with that awful man. Ruth's kind eyes held her steady, so dark and brown that they reminded her of her mother's. And maybe when she spoke, it was for her mother, whose application to the police academy had never been accepted because she was such a small woman.

"I didn't ask for this. But it sounds like you're asking me if I deserved eight years of blatant sexual harassment, including verbal and physical assault, for losing my temper. I said those words in the heat of the moment while trying to save Wi…" She took a drink of water and twisted the ring on her finger. 

Make your cries count, though I doubt you will ever break for anyone.

You've got moxie.

Promise?

Clearing her throat, she continued. "Huh-uh. Not a chance. Not in a thousand years. I have no regrets, other than not hiring an attorney myself to fight back against him before it got worse. It might have saved John Brigham's life if I'd been brave enough to do it."

There was commotion before the Chair of the Committee called for a break.

In a clean white room in Florida, Will Graham stared at the television screen, grinning from ear to ear. Pride swelled his chest as he watched Clarice finally tell the whole truth about what happened with Paul Krendler. It was nothing he hadn't known during the brief moments he'd viewed the world through her eyes. 

Once, so long ago, another psychiatrist had compared love to the ache felt to see one's face, that feeling of nourishment when they were near. 

He hadn't believed it, then. But perhaps he'd never been in love before.

Will felt that ache whenever he pulled up the picture of them smiling as Clarice held that colossal bluefish. He'd borrowed her phone, sending the photos to himself before he left their hotel room. Then, he had hoped it would be enough to hold him until the worst was over.

Now, hearing her voice… the stab of hunger left him breathless.

But when she hadn't been able to say his name, Will paid attention, wondering if she had ever been able to see through the bars of his addiction. Could she ache for him as equally as he did her, or had it all been a dream?

Out of hope, he leaned to the former, cracking another smile when she refused to step away from the table.

"I don't need a break, Mr. Chairman," Clarice said over the speakers. "I've stayed silent too long, and I can continue without another man telling me to calm down and powder my nose like a good little girl. Or would you rather me sell my story for a man to rewrite and act out on-screen - would that make it more palatable to the masses?"

His current psychiatrist sat next to him on the sofa, elbowing Will when he sighed with satisfaction.

"So, that's your girl?"

"Yep."

"She's a hell of a woman. I hope you know how lucky you are."

Will nodded and took a sip of juice. "You better fucking believe I do."

"She's a real pistol, isn't she?" Barney asked, not expecting an answer. "And she's even prettier than in the photos."

His prisoner turned to him and nodded, curling his lips. With a rasping, metallic edged voice, he said, "I love her suit."

Chapter Text

Annandale, Virginia
May 2020

Paul Krendler resigned from his position as the Associate Attorney General before he had the chance to be impeached. The public outcry had been enough to squash his chances to hold a public office ever again.

It did and didn't make it better, not in Clarice's eyes. 

For every one of him, there are thousands more just like him waiting in the wings – with a smug boss baby still seated in the West Wing like a fucking king.

She thought about it on her morning runs, hidden away from sight on the old trails close to her home. The sun never shone on her face in the mornings. If she didn't run in the safety of Quantico in the late afternoon, she ran before the sun rose with a hat slung low over her forehead and a knife strapped to her ankle.

Just in case.

There was a cult of men running around in this country, their previously held voices now screaming out loud, thanks to the buffoon in office. But since that buffoon wrote her checks and had removed their previous Director, there wasn't much to be done other than waiting him out. 

He only had a max of eight years to make a difference. But she had a lifetime left ahead of her.

You are a warrior, Clarice.

She didn't want to believe those words, and they still didn't ring true in her head. But she thought about them often enough, especially on mornings like this when she ran until she could almost see the sun peek through the trees in the distance. She was up to twelve miles without needing a break, but she needed one now, sitting on an old stump next to the dirt path, rubbing a cramp from her calf as she gazed at the moon. It was full and ripe, the ancient man staring back at her as she grimaced in pain.

But you were a woman to someone down here. A man was in the moon, but you gave the moon to the goddesses. Luna and Selene, Artemis and Hecate. Sisters of the Moon. Weird Sisters, witches to some. Is that all we are to men? Witches or goddesses? Sluts or high priestesses? 

Whores or the Madonna.

Cancer and flamingos, don't they both come from the same place?

There's a part of me that understands that… I don't know, cancer and flamingos were made by God if He exists?

Cramp gone, she made to stand, frowning when she felt her sneaker catch something in the grass. She turned on her phone's flashlight and examined the sticker that had affixed itself to her shoe. 

Now that face is a familiar one.

It was the man himself, with the hashtag #EatTheRude across the top of his natty suit. He'd created a cult of his own after both of his captures, with hordes of fans crying for his release to a lower restriction facility. Some of them even crying for his release back into the wild. Just to see what might happen next.

She tore the sticker from her shoe and resisted the urge to spit on the man's handsome face. The cramp was gone, and it was time to get back to her run. Turning around, she coughed and spat a mouth of saliva and mucous on his smug expression.

"Siri, restart my Morning Run Playlist," she muttered, clenching her hands into neat fists as her sneakers pounded into the dirt.

"Good morning, Clarice. Restarting Morning Run Playlist."

Next one up, a contemptible snob
He lived to put things in their place
He did a commendable job
He put himself so low
He can hardly even look me in the face

"You've been censured," Jack said, sliding the paperwork across his desk to Clarice. 

She glanced at it and sighed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Can you make it the last?"

"Can I promise not to lose my shit in front of the Committee again? Only if the Senators promise not to call women tacky when they get angry."

"It won't stick. I have a feeling Ruth Baker-Martin will see to that."

"A moment of silence for our next President, if we're lucky," she said, tipping a fork laden with cheesecake in his direction.

"You know, you've worked for me for three years, and I've never seen you eat this much before noon."

Rude as hell, aren't you, Dad?

"I'm starving all the time – you know I'm in training," she said with her mouth full. "After not being able to eat for so long, this feels like a blessing."

"When is the run?"

"August," she said, swallowing another bite. "Labor Day weekend. I'm asking off the Friday and Tuesday before and after, by the way."

"Send in your official request."

"Already done. Speaking of travel, I'd like to go to Massachusetts for a few days. There's something about Plum Island that's bugging me. I want to see the dumpsites myself."

"They're over twenty years old – what do you expect to find?"

"Perspective. Maybe if I look at the landscape and see what the unsub saw… something might make sense. It's the time of year the victims were found, and the area hasn't changed all that much."

"I've always counted on you to take the view of the victims, Clarice. Are you telling me you've learned to empathize with the unsub?"

"I don't know, maybe. I'd like to try again and see if it stuck. If anything, I can pop down to Boston while I'm there – one of the victims was a performer in the Boston Symphony Orchestra."

"That was Benjamin…"

"Raspail. The flutist, and apparently not a good one. Found with his flute placed where his…" Clarice pointed to her crotch. "Where that would have been if it hadn't been removed."

Jack crossed his legs. "That case was before my time."

"Want to look through it with me?"

"Not really, no. Do you want to take someone with you?"

"Nah. I got this one. Not an active case, after all. Cold as a witch's tit."

Where do we get our expressions? Couldn't it be colder than a limp dick?

"When do you want to go?"

"Next week, if you can spare me. I'll be out, two, maybe three days max."

"Driving this time?"

"Hell no. Flying all the way."

"Put it on your expense card and take-"

"Coach or business, I know."

Jack leaned in his chair and stared at the sketch behind her. She looked at it too, rolling her eyes to the back of her head.

"I saw that," Jack snapped affectionately.

"I meant for you to," she said, turning to look at him. "Take the damn thing down. Do you really want to be reminded that someone wishes to see you sacrificed for all the work you've done every time you look ahead?"

"Maybe I need the reminder. It helps me keep my decisions grounded."

"You sound just like Dr. Bloom. She has one in her office. I'm starting the think you two share the same delusions about his ability to see you for who truly you are."

"Delusions? Sounds like you're working your way back to the therapist's side of the chair."

"In the fall, I'll be working two Saturdays a month with a women and children's shelter."

"Good for you."

"Thanks."

"Since you are sliding back into that chair… why don't you tell me, Clarice, what you think I should replace that sketch with?"

She looked around his office, trying to see in her mind what was missing. It was a clean space with little decoration, save for his degrees and a picture of Bella that faced him on his desk. There were no windows in the basement, no slats for natural light to shine on any of them, and Jack didn't even have a plant in the small, confined room. She thought of that beautiful home in Arlington, with the garden in the back yard that Bella had loved. Jack had confessed that he kept it to the specifications Bella had held before cancer took her from the world. The garden was full of jonquils when she'd been there, with greenery finally beginning to take over the gloom after the late frost. What would it look like now, with the other delicate flowers breathing life into his world?

"You need a picture of Bella's garden. Right there," she said, pointing behind her. "Not the accusing thoughts of a tormentor."

Jack pulled at his upper lip with his teeth. It took him several times to clear his throat, and when he finally succeeded, he said, "I might just do that."

Out in the woods near Quantico with the knife bearing no weight on her leg, Clarice ran faster, even trying out the ropes course to see if she could beat her fastest time when she was a student. Small and compact, she'd been a speedy force of nature at twenty-six, though Clarice's strength had never been in her upper body. At thirty-five, she was thirty seconds slower than her best time, but she considered it a victory in the grand scheme of things. Her old Academy sweatshirt was soaking wet when she started running again, but it felt good to be so tired. Her body would be relaxed when she was done, and if she showered, it might be a good time to try getting a massage again. She pulled out her phone, texting the therapist to see if he could squeeze her in, and smiled when she got a positive response. 

She was on mile twelve when she realized that none of the thoughts that had previously haunted her mind had appeared today. Paul Krendler's words still lingered, and maybe they always would. But they no longer dominated when she was stressed. 

Holy shit. Is this what healing feels like?

Clarice knew for a fact it was, and she finished thirteen and a half miles as she passed the motivational signs, LOVE IT weighing inside of her the longest.

She was healing.

"You look good this week."

"Did I not look good before?"

Dr. Bloom raised a brow and laughed. "Not good with compliments, though, are you?"

"Not especially," Clarice admitted.

"What's been going on?"

"I can run over thirteen miles, and that's ahead of schedule. If I work on my stamina and learn to pace myself better, I might win that marathon." Clarice scratched the inside of her wrist, not really wanting to admit Dr. Bloom had been right, even though she had been. "I finally got that massage. I even finished this time."

"You didn't need to leave?"

"Nope. The trick is getting mostly relaxed first. Since I don't drink, a run did the trick."

"Do you think you might be able to go there from work one day?"

"I can try working up to it. No promises, but… maybe?"

"That shows a willingness to try. That's something I like in a patient."

"I'm willing to try anything. I feel good. I don't know if it's all the endorphins, but I feel a little high all the time."

"Perhaps the reduction in stress? Your workload has changed, and you are in an active physical routine with solid goals."

"Or maybe I'm slipping out of a long depression."

"One that lasted about eight years?"

"Something like that, yeah," Clarice said, taking a sip of tea. "I can't remember the last time I felt like I didn't have weight constantly pressing on me. And it's not there anymore. I wish Johnny was still here. Maybe things would have been different if I hadn't been so miserable."

"Do you really think so?" Dr. Bloom asked, tilting her head to the side. "From what you told me, there was no attraction on your side. You felt a deep, sisterly bond with him from the moment you met at the Academy."

I used to be afraid to think about it, but… opinions change. Blur and converge, separate and reform.

"Feelings can grow. Shift, maybe morph into something else when someone slips into your heart. I was so closed off after Wi… after that case. There was never a chance for someone to come in for anything meaningful, and I didn't want to treat Johnny like a piece of meat."

"Clarice," Dr. Bloom said, setting down her notebook. "It's easy to look back on these memories with a vision of what might have been, especially when that person is gone. Are you dwelling in those memories and holding John closer than he would have been?"

"Probably."

"Is that why you still can't say Wi—"

Stop it.

"Don't."

"You still can't say or hear his name?"

"No," Clarice said, taking a painful breath. "It hurts."

"Hearing his name hurts?"

"Yes."

"Tell me more about it."

"Not much to tell. He left me. I'm the one who leaves. I'm the one who was supposed to leave, except…"

"Except what?"

"Except I really didn't want to," Clarice acknowledged. "I wanted to bring him home with me and fix him up."

"You only knew each other for ten days."

"I feel like I've known him my entire life, Dr. Bloom. Maybe some people stay with you after a single encounter. Do you think that's possible?"

"I shouldn't talk about him with you, considering he was once my friend," Dr. Bloom said quietly. "You know there are some people that you can't save, even with the best intentions. He is one of them, Clarice. Feel fortunate that he left you first."

"Can we not…" Clarice twisted the ring on her hand and stood, pacing in front of the window. "Let's talk about something else."

"What about your father?"

"Pass."

"Okay. But one day, you are going to have to talk about the source of your anger. You know it wasn't all due to Paul Krendler, and so do I. That pressure has been with you longer than eight years. The additional weight is gone, but once you get used to its absence, you will feel what you felt before the Copycat Trial. When it creeps up on you, I want you to be ready. Do you want to talk about it now, or wait for that day when it holds onto you so hard that it squeezes your newfound joy from your body?"

GET BACK HERE, CLARICE!

Bloody hands. Bloody knife. Cold, dead eyes.

"I can't yet. But soon. Don't take this from me now," Clarice pleaded, her voice pitching up like a child's.

Anxiety, hard and pure and wrong, plunged through her muscles, making her tense from head to toe. She'd felt so good, so fucking good, not numb and not angry. She'd felt alive when she came here, and now she felt…

I feel dead. She's murdered me, and she doesn't even know it.

"I have to go. I can't." Clarice grabbed her purse and walked out, ignoring Thomas when he stood. She ran down the stairs to her car, leaning against it when she couldn't find her keys.

Breathe, girl. Breathe. Resolve. Numb the pain. 

Deep cleansing breaths. Feeling the evening sun on her face. The warmth from the spring breeze. Things she couldn't feel in that office, and with them came the shame of running out on Dr. Bloom. She couldn't go back in, not now. Maybe later, after she skived off next week's session for the trip to Boston. 

Numb it out. Don't feel.

Don't think.

Calmer, and with steady hands, she finally felt the keys at the bottom of her bag, where they had been the whole time. By the time she drove away, she didn't feel anything at all.

Not even the brief joy she had felt for the last couple of days.

You are a warrior, Clarice.

Not that it mattered.

Chapter Text

Too much was changing too fucking fast, but at least Clarice was numb when she helped Ardelia pack the last box on her side of their duplex. She’d wanted to talk about the move with Dr. Bloom – it had been her intention to have a plan in place to help ease the pain she felt as she wrapped Ardelia’s plates in newspaper. But, oh no, her father trumped everything as he usually did whenever she sat in the patient’s chair. Clarice was so pissed at Dr. Bloom that she wanted to throw the damn plate on the floor.

Fuck my fucking father, fucking up everything he can fucking touch from across time and fucking state lines.

Of course, how many times had she done the same thing to a patient? Ignoring the pressing problems of the now in favor of wanting to dive further back, examining those things that had created the issues her patients were currently facing.

Are you really any better than she is?

GODDAMMIT CLARICE.

Worthless piece of -

Stop it.

Don’t think.

There was a yellow moving truck out front; Rich and a few of his buddies moving furniture as Ardelia and Clarice finished up in the kitchen. Without Ardelia’s touch, the space they had shared felt empty. No more cheerful dishtowels. No more dishtowels at all, come to think of it. Clarice slid another drawer open, quickly assessing that she’d have to get more utensils if there would be any kind of cooking in this house. Maybe whoever moved in next would add something to Clarice’s depressing inventory of a George Foreman grill, a cast-iron skillet, and a set of dented flatware that she’d had since undergrad. 

“Is this yours or mine?” Ardelia asked, holding up a blender.

“I can’t remember,” Clarice said, shrugging.

“I’ll leave it here; I think Rich has one. And I’m leaving the food processor too. I never could figure out how to put it together right.”

“Me neither. Box grater and a knife always does the trick good enough.” Clarice wrapped the last plate and put it in the box, taping it shut before labeling it with a thick marker. “What about your stuff in the fridge?”

Ardelia opened the door and sighed. “You keep it. We’ve been eating out so much that there’s not much other than take-out boxes and condiments.”

Clarice turned around a little too fast and grabbed the counter for support. She was dizzy again, not bad enough to throw her off her feet but enough to make the room spin.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Lightheaded. Dr. Gibson said I was anemic when I went in. It’ll pass, though when I feel like this, I wonder if it’s gonna pass like a damn kidney stone.”

Ardelia put a hand on Clarice’s forehead, then brought both of them to her cheeks. “I’m going to miss you.”

Me too.

“You’re just two blocks away. Close enough to run to. Right?”

“I might be the one running to you if I see any skid marks in Rich’s damn drawers. I don’t care what our chore chart says. He’s doing his own fucking laundry if that happens.”

Clarice laughed and touched Ardelia’s wrists with her fingers. The painful knot in her stomach that had slowly formed since Ardelia announced the move lurched up into her throat, and it took all her might not to break down and cry. It wouldn’t do anything but upset the both of them, and when she looked into Ardelia’s dark eyes, Clarice realized her friend was fighting the same thing.

“Don’t cry now, Ardelia Mapp,” Clarice said. “I get you to myself one night a week. That was the deal.”

“At least,” Ardelia said. “And we’ll be over all the –”

“No, you won’t,” Clarice said. “We need new memories, now that…” She blinked back a few tears. “We need new memories at your place. I’ll come over there and crash the party.”

Promise?

“Will you eat something other than ramen noodles?”

“Yep.”

“And take your vitamins?”

Yes, mother.

Clarice smiled and leaned her forehead to Ardelia’s. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“Promise?”

She nodded. “I promise. I hope Mr. Clements finds a new renter soon. Your side being so empty makes this place feel like a creepy old house.”

“That’s because it is a creepy old house,” Rich said from the door. “Someone should buy it and tear down the dividing walls. It would make it feel like a home again.”

“I hope they don’t,” Clarice said, turning her head to where Rich stood. “Creepy or not, I like it here.”

Because sometimes, if I turn my head just right, I can almost feel Johnny with us.

Rich nodded, understanding her in that unsettling way he had. “I hate to break this up, but is that the last box?”

“All done,” Ardelia said. She dropped her hands and pulled Clarice into a tight hug. Clarice rested her head against her shoulder, giggling when Rich joined in and hugged her from behind.

“If you aren’t over every other day, I’ll be pissed at you,” he whispered. 

“I will be,” Clarice said. “It won’t be like old times, but we’ll make some new ones.”

“Will you finally let me set you up with Holden?” he asked.

“Rich,” Ardelia said with a warning tone.

“Maybe, after I get back from Massachusetts.”

“Did someone say my name?” 

Clarice glanced at the man at the archway. Holden Campbell had been Rich’s best friend since they were recruited by the CIA. He was pleasant and handsome enough if you liked the kind of guys who looked like they rolled out of bed completely put together. It wasn’t the first time Rich had tried to set them up, thinking he could make a matched pair of couples. But there had always been Johnny, and Johnny was all Clarice needed. 

And now he was gone.

And maybe… well, maybe Clarice now liked her men with a few more scars on their skin.

“I was just telling Clarice that we were going to have a housewarming party in a few weeks if you didn’t mind managing the grill.”

“Of course,” Holden said. He grabbed the box of plates. “You guys ready to get moving? We have to get the truck back by eight.”

“You want some help at the new house?” Clarice asked.

“Best to avoid it tonight,” Rich said. “My mother has taken over and –“

“Avoid. At all costs,” Ardelia agreed. “I might come back over when I’ve had enough.”

“You better,” Clarice said. Rich rubbed her back briefly before walking out with Holden.

“If you have trouble sleeping, text me. Okay?” Ardelia asked.

“Thank you,” Clarice said. “I’ll bring over some lunch tomorrow from Kogiya.”

“Just like old times.”

Just like new times.

Ardelia gave Clarice one more hug before leaving the kitchen, looking back once to see Clarice standing in the middle of the tile floor. Clarice smiled and waved, still trying to keep on her brave face. When she heard Ardelia’s door close, the lock sliding shut, she groaned and sat on the kitchen floor, then laid down on the cool tiles. She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the light above her, watching one of the bulbs flickering in and out, before pulling out her phone. 

Clarice flipped to a picture of her and Johnny in California, when they tried to interview the Harlequin Strangler. After a long day at the SuperMax, they had driven to the beach, taking a walk to clear their heads. A pensive, stressful afternoon had quickly shifted to the need to burn off the stress. Johnny had tackled her, pushing her into the waves, laughing when Clarice had pulled him under with her. He took a picture of them laying on the wet sand, Clarice texting it to Ardelia when they walked back to the car.

Later, when they got back to the hotel, he’d gently asked her something, and she’d said no. Then he’d asked her if they could be friends and meant it, and she’d said yes and meant it.

And now he was gone, and everything had changed.

She flipped to the picture of her and… him… with the big silvery-blue fish that had tasted so delicious with a glass of sweet, expensive wine. 

He had asked for nothing other than the use of her body. The pull between them had been so overwhelming that neither of them could resist. 

Will you wear that dress again? Drink a glass of wine and dance with me in the moonlight?

And when she tried to ask him to stop, he never answered.

And now he was gone.

She pressed a hand to the imaginary knot in her belly, sliding lower until she could feel the real and growing –

Don’t think.

Everything had changed. 

And he was never coming back.

It was harder to live in the quiet house than she’d dreamed it would be.

Even with music blaring on her stereo, there was nothing Clarice could do to make it feel alive. She went to the home goods store and bought a few of the things that were missing, adding a small figurine of a fish to her basket in a moment of whimsy. But when she looked around the kitchen, it still didn’t look like someone lived there. An air of desperation loomed, as did the stench of loneliness. 

She opened her junk drawer, intent on pulling out a take-out menu, an appropriate way her new life as a single woman alone. But at the top of the pile were the two letters that Ardelia had removed from the fridge when she packed up her magnets.

Now, is the time for spring. Rebirth. I’d imagine you have flowers blooming close to you, either in your yard or one belonging to a forgiving neighbor. Pick a pocketful for the one who fell before you and listen for the laughter of the abiding Earth.

Tin cries when it is bent, giving a brief, sweet song. When it breaks, we are left with silence. Make your cries count, though I doubt you will ever break for anyone.

You are a warrior.

Clarice wanted to know this person who knew the right things to say exactly when she needed to hear them. Surrounded by a world of vicious words and violent delights, those damn letters had become a refuge, especially on the days she logged into her social media accounts. No one knew what to think of her; the article titles she skimmed were split down the middle, leaning towards her being a harpy for challenging the Senators when she had gotten sick of their bullshit.

She’d thought another letter might appear after the hearing, but nothing had come. 

What did the admirer think of her now? Was he disappointed that Clarice had lost her temper?

Why do I care so much about what a stranger thinks of me?

The ring was heavy on her finger. She tried again to wrench it off her hand, but it would not budge past her knuckle. A jeweler could cut it from her finger if she asked, but the thought of damaging the beautiful ring that someone had made just for her was too upsetting. Scans of the Tiffany website showed that it was not in their catalog, and when she contacted their office in New York, the manager’s only answer about the gift was that their client list was private and that the buyer wished to remain that way.

Who are you?

She tacked the letters on the fridge with new magnets and looked around the kitchen. Her mail was on the ledge close to the window, and she grabbed it, quickly sorting everything into their regular piles before dumping the junk in the trash. Bills went in the inbox on her desk, and there was nothing in the other stack to look at.

Instead of jogging to the new house, which was her first instinct, Clarice went to her living room and sat on the sofa. She knew how listless she was when she immediately stood and moved to the easy chair, reclining back with the pull of a lever. This was Johnny’s favorite spot, and if she turned her cheek, she could almost smell his shampoo lingering on the fabric. 

That was where Ardelia found her, close to midnight. Curled up in the recliner, wearing one of Johnny’s shirts and sleeping peacefully for the first time since she got back from Florida.

“Should we wake her up?” Rich whispered in Ardelia’s ear.

“No,” Ardelia said. “It actually looks like she’s happy there.” Ardelia pulled the blanket up to Clarice’s shoulders and stepped back, making sure she hadn’t woken her.

“What did you forget?” Rich asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just making sure.”

“She’s going to be okay, Ardelia.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Ardelia said. She folded her arms over her chest and looked at Rich. “Old habits die hard. I guess mine is worrying about Clarice. I don’t know what she’s going to do when she finds out that Mr. Clements is selling the house.”

“She’ll survive. Maybe she’ll buy it herself.”

“I doubt it. Clarice has always liked the idea of being a renter.”

“Things change.”

“Don’t they, though?”

Rich took her hand and laced their fingers together. “Let’s get back home.”

“Home,” Ardelia said, sighing as she raised her brows. “If I can figure out where your mother put my grandmother’s tea set, it might feel that way.”

“Top shelf of the pantry,” Rich said. “I put it there.”

“Oh really?”

“Sure did.” Rich kissed her cheek and smiled. “It’s right next to my grandmother’s cake stand.”

They crept out of the house, locking it up again before driving away.

Chapter Text

Benjamin Raspail (38 at age of death) – Flutist, single, no family 
Jamie Martin (42 at age of death) – Census taker, married, two children
Isabel George (39 at age of death) – Florist, divorced, one child

Isabel George had season tickets to the Boston Symphony Orchestra and dated one of the board members (Judy Turner). Jamie Martin attended the Symphony once, according to her calendar, regular donations per tax returns, but not during the seasons that Benjamin Raspail was a flutist. Benjamin Raspail ordered flowers from George's shop (Printemps), though not in person and not for himself (need more information about this delivery, visit the shop – still open). All found on the Parker River Wildlife Refuge within a three weeks span. Staged positions – Raspail playing his flute (flute where genitals removed), Martin posed with papers glued to her hands (blank census forms), and George with an armful of flowers (left hand, right hand covering exposed breast).

The airplane was stuffy and loud, and a small family surrounded Clarice's seat in coach. Usually, it wouldn't have bothered her: people have kids, families need to travel together. But the baby had colic and had been crying for thirty minutes. The oldest child was playing video games in the seat next to her, the sound so loud through the headphones that they might as well not have been plugged in. She pushed her notes back in her bag and tried to relax, looking out of the side window at the sky outside.

It was dusk, orange skies rapidly overtaken by the purple and blues. A few stars were visible, Venus setting along with the brilliant sun. A star but not a star; a planet named for another goddess. A lonesome body in the solar system; the only planet to be given such distinction. 

All by yourself, aren't you? They once talked of colonizing you before Mars seemed like the better option. Between a freezing god of War and a warm goddess of Love, doesn't War always seem to win? 

But maybe it didn't, not always. Clarice's fingers hovered over her belly, almost giving recognition to what lay within her.

Is this why it took so long, Mom? Did you feel the same way when -

She swallowed and looked at the colicky baby, held by her mother in the row ahead. Red-faced and so unhappy, until the odor of –

"Ewwww," her older brother said, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

"Whoever smelt it dealt it," Clarice whispered, elbowing his shoulder.

"Nuh-uh!"

"Uh-huh!" she said back, giggling when he made a face.

His mother turned around. "Thank you for being so understanding, ma'am."

"No reason not to be," Clarice said. "As they say, sh—well, poop happens, doesn't it?"

"A lot of poop happens with this one. I'm Jane, by the way."

"Clarice."

Jane cocked her head to the side. "Do I know you? You look familiar."

The husband turned around and looked Clarice over. "You're the one who was on the news, aren't you? You caught that –" He looked at his son and frowned. "That bad man."

"I did," Clarice said.

"Clarice Starling," Jane said. "You took on the Senator, too, didn't you?"

"Guilty," Clarice said, laughing softly as she looked at her hands instead of Jane's earnest face.

"A lot of us are proud of what you did. We've been talking about it at my Mother's Day Out group."

"I didn't do that much," Clarice said. "All I did was tell the truth."

"But what you didn't do was let them shut you up," Jane said. "It matters."

Clarice and Jane regarded each other; Jane's gaze so intense that Clarice had to look away.

How many times in your life have you been shut up? Told to smile, told to keep your chin up? 

Told to keep eating the shit they hand to you and give them a shit-eating grin when you're done?

"Would you do it again?"

Clarice didn't hesitate when she said, "In a heartbeat."

"Wait until I tell my friends I met you," Jane said, placing a pacifier in the infant's mouth when she started to fuss again. "Clarice Starling. The Huntress."

"What?"

"Don't you read the papers?"

Look over the last few months. Not on social media, put that away and keep far from it. Look at what you've done since the bleak mid-winter. What do you see now?

You are a warrior, Clarice.

"No. I've been trying to avoid them since January. A... Mmmm… A friend asked me to stop looking at them."

Jane smiled. "Maybe you should pick one up. You might like what you find."

"I might do that," Clarice said. 

But then again, other people's opinions aren't the best way to find out who you really are. I'm not a Huntress or a warrior. 

"I guess so. Do you mind changing her, hon? I think she finally got that one out."

Jane's husband took the baby and excused himself to the restroom. When he was gone, Jane fully turned around in her seat and said, "If you don't mind my asking, whatever happened between you and Will Graham?"

Pain sliced through Clarice's chest, as sweet and sharp as an arrow. She fought her expression and won the battle this time, forcing a damn smile on her face when she answered, "Nothing. We caught the bad man. You can't ask for anything more than that when you have a good partner. And he was the best."

Thankfully, Jane seemed to be better at reading people than Jack or Alana combined. She nodded and turned back around, not before giving Clarice a sympathetic smile.

You've got to get better than that if you're going to be out in public again. People think they have the right to know everything about you, even nosing into the shit you try to bury in the sand.

"I still didn't deal it," the boy muttered.

"Says you."

Parker River National Wildlife Refuge
June 2020

This place is breathtaking.

Work clothes weren't jeans and t-shirts, but then again, Clarice Starling hadn't done anything that resembled her normal workload in so long that it hardly mattered. She looked around the expanse of land, not seeing another person close to her. Even on a busy day, the Refuge was so large that it was easy to get lost if you didn't know where you were going. 

Luckily, Clarice had a map with three locations marked and a fully charged phone to call for help if she got turned around.

She was at the third dumpsite, where Benjamin Raspail had been found by a bird watcher. The lookout point was one seldom used, too far out for most visitors to access. Next to the ocean and facing the waves, the site was utterly peaceful. Clarice sat on the same bench where Raspail's body had been so dramatically staged and closed her eyes.

Oceans waves lapping to the sand. Birds calling to their friends close by. Salty air, the tang hitting her tongue with bittersweet memories.

This is a place I'd come to think, especially if my thoughts were… organized, obviously. Skilled removal of the genitals and the left arm to the shoulder. Chest opened, the little birds pecking on exposed organs as Benjamin Raspail played his last song. Thymus missing, likely taken by a larger bird along with most of his heart. Similar injuries to Martin and George, though they were without genital mutilation. This was not sexual, not with the positioning of the bodies and the lack of other abuse. Not a sexual sadist, even though the locals had considered it at first blush.

This was about arousal, but not orgasm.

Moreover, it was about…

Whimsy.

You have a sense of humor, don't you? One that was missed on the initial review of the case.

A sense of humor and… 

It was on the tip of her tongue, mixing with the flavor of the brine.

You have tasted blood, and you should know what it's like to do it from a state of rapture instead of defensive moves.

Rapture. Organization. Whimsy.

Whimsy and…

You displayed your victims in open spaces but at remote locations. Easy to see but hard to find. Finding their bodies as the birds picked at their flesh and bone… 

Picking out… faults. 

Salty air mixing with the murder. 

Salt. Seasoning. Taste.

Her stomach rolled when she opened her eyes, tilting her head to what she knew was to the right. 

A picnic table. 

No beach access this time of year, so a view of your work was all that mattered to you.

A view. The sounds of the little birds. And enough time to set up something so gruesome and yet so –

Poetic?

Raspail was a terrible flutist, and the Symphony had plans to fire him at the end of the season. Martin was a census taker, a job so reviled that it was a Biblical concern. And George had been known to cut corners in her shop, using more fillers and fluff than actual flowers.

Justice of your own kind? A vigilante, ridding the world of the –

Stop it.

NO.

Clarice shook her head, grasping the edge of something that couldn't be right. But it was here, right here… and no one had seen it. But it was too early to have seen it - this was the work of an artist in training.

Residency.

She stood and looked at the oversized picnic table. It was worn and rugged, looking the part of an item that had stood the test of time and won. She removed her sunglasses and sat on the bench, feeling pitifully small and uninvited at a table that was not set for her.

You posed them. Did you sit and look at what you had done? A feast for the eyes, wasn't it, with murder on the menu.

What did you do here other than watch? Because you weren't watching birds when you posed them. Like a wallflower, you regarded your work from afar as you…

She changed places, sitting where the view was perfect. She could see the ocean and the rugged marshy landscape. More importantly, she could also see the bench where Raspail had been posed.

Staged. All the world is a stage, isn't it? And if you believe, we are the puppets of a grand master who doesn't care what happens when He tugs the strings.

Benjamin Raspail had been dead for at least seventy-two hours before he was found. All mutilations were done while Raspail had lived. Animal activity proved he was outside for no more than twenty-four. The same as the other two.

You did it quick, scheduled. Slipped in and out of the park unnoticed. Night. A night owl - no, a nocturnal animal. But you aren't a hunter; hunters kill predators to protect the small. You are the predator, preying on those who commit the smallest of sins. 

Poor musical skills. A difficult profession. Penny-pinching.

You could have killed monsters to protect the weak, but you didn't. You could have done so many great things with your talents. But in your arrogance, you sat back like you were God Almighty, regarding your work as good while you rested on your goddamn laurels.

You killed people for being human.

He who is without sin should cast the first stone.

Remove the plank from your eye before you remove the splinter from your brother's.

Just who in the ACTUAL FUCK do you think you are?

A shadow appeared in the corner of her eye, but she ignored it, paying more attention to the dead and those who kill for their own sick, sadistic pleasure than the ghosts of the past.

This case hadn't been through VICAP, lost in a backlog that appeared after the Y2K panic was over. But it was all there, in plain sight, like the dumpsites had been. Plain sight but hidden; there if you knew where to look.

And forgotten, before Jack's time. Before a different panic took over the country in the form of planes falling from the sky.

How many more are there?

Clarice walked to her rental car and sat in the back, connecting the laptop to her cell when it powered up. Access to the particular file she wanted was restricted to the BAU, and she had to enter her pin twice before it pulled from the archive. She scanned his history, going back a little further. Private schools in Europe, leap year in Florence, undergraduate work at Magdalene College, Cambridge. Medical school at Johns Hopkins followed by a trauma residency at their teaching hospital. But bored with the body, he moved on to the mind. Only the best for the son of a son of a count, and when he changed specialties and needed additional training, he'd found the best psychiatric residency in his new country.

Going back as he went forward. 

Leaving Baltimore but going back to Cambridge.

Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Clarice slammed her computer shut, almost breaking the screen.

GODDAMMIT, YOU SON OF A BITCH! FUCKING DR. HA-

Don't think.

Chapter Text

He'd had season tickets to the symphony for the six years he'd lived in Boston. With a seemingly endless source of income, life had been very, very good for the Doctor. Other residents had to be thrifty, living a life limited by a small, respectable salary. But somehow, he'd lived in Cambridgeport, hosting parties and enjoying the high life as his fellow residents counted their pennies and moonlighted to pay the rent.

A quick review of Isabel George's old books showed his name as a frequent customer of Printemps, before and after her death. He'd even ordered flowers for her funeral from another florist, specifying that the arrangement be made from rare black roses augmented with rosemary sprigs.

Who knew how many people Jamie Martin had visited in that area, trying to do the meager work that paid her mortgage?

When he finished his residency, moving onto Baylor to complete their PsyD program, he had hosted a small dinner party. Eight physicians had attended, along with a board member from the orchestra who he had been dating. 

Over a decade older than her former beau and a notorious 'cougar' amongst the town elite, Elizabeth Rosencranz nee Hall (of the Halls, those Halls who had forged silver in Boston since the historical Tea Party) was timelessly chic in a Givenchy suit, with a voice that was deep and rich like the patina that covered bronze statues. She remembered the menu served during that celebratory dinner when Clarice interviewed her, licking her lips as she closed her eyes.

"It was the most delicious food I had ever tasted," Elizabeth said. "Ris d'Agneau, just the smallest portion for a starter. I'd never enjoyed the taste of liver until I was at his table – he served the thinnest, tenderest slices over a fava bean puree that was just… I can't describe it. With a glass of chianti, that meal was perfection. It's still the best dish I've ever had the pleasure of eating."

"Did you stay in contact with him after he left Boston?"

Elizabeth nodded and lit a cigarette, waving the smoke away when Clarice wrinkled her nose. "Sorry, I know it's a bad habit."

"There are worse ones to have."

Like cannibalism.

"He called often enough, not too often to be obtrusive and not too infrequently to let me think he'd forgotten about what we had shared. Our relationship ended on good terms – we were both moving on from that part of our lives. When Mr. Rosencranz and I got married, he sent the most beautiful letter along with a bottle of Batard-Montrachet."

"What did the letter say, unless it's too personal to ask?"

"It isn't, my darling…" Elizabeth's eyes got watery for a moment, and she wiped them with her free hand. "He told me how much he had cherished our relationship and that Robert Rosencranz was fortunate to have found me, though he hinted that Mr. Rosencranz might not be the best match. I was 'a lioness bedding a lamb,' and that Robert would… oh, what was it he said? Ahhh, Robert would 'tremble pale in the glory of my shadow.' It wasn't a lie – we got divorced two years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I got everything. To wit, Mr. Rosencranz was outmatched," Elizabeth said, blowing a blue-grey cloud of smoke from her lips. "The doctor has sent me a letter every year on my birthday since we started dating. Before he was incarcerated, it came with a gift. He gives the most exquisite presents; even the simplest items are laced with deeper meaning. Do you like my broach?"

Clarice looked at the cameo. A woman was in profile, delicately carved into deep red porcelain. "It's beautiful."

"He sent it to me in 2013, right before that nasty business in his kitchen. The woman is Anaïs Nin. His cheeky way of acknowledging…" Elizabeth's cheeks turned pink under her carefully applied makeup. "The  good  times we had together."

Both women cleared their throats. Clarice took a drink from her glass of water as Elizabeth inhaled deeply from her cigarette.

"Not many people remember that I was the girlfriend of a cannibal. I hope it doesn't become public knowledge. You of all people should understand the stigma it brings."

Clarice took a breath and ignored the last sentence. "My report will be private, ma'am. I'll list you as a known acquaintance and nothing more."

"Known acquaintance, is that what they call it now?" Elizabeth smiled ruefully. "A known acquaintance. What an awful term to describe a lover and friend of twenty-five years. How old are you, Agent Starling?"

"I turned thirty-five last December."

"Well, if you don't mind me saying, I hope you have a couple of 'known acquaintances' in your life. They do help pass the time. And our time together, it was the most fun I've ever had." Elizabeth Hall snuffed out her cigarette and gave Clarice an appraising look. "You don't think that he… everyone hoped what happened in Baltimore only happened in Baltimore."

"I'm following a cold case. Nothing is certain."

Elizabeth gave a low, throaty laugh, one that hinted of a life filled with cocktails parties and too many cigarettes left in the ashtray. "That's very slippery of you. Well, I guess it's nothing I didn't think of before. Soylent Green was on Turner Classics a few years ago, and when Charlton Heston started screaming that Soylent Green was people, I-uh… I knew how he felt. Quite intimately."

"What was he like?"

"I don't know if there's a word for it. Impeccably mannered. Extraordinarily charming. Savvy dresser. To be in his presence… He was the kind of man who made a girl's fur crackle. You know what I mean."

I don't, actually, but thanks for assuming.

"It took me years to believe that other side of him," Elizabeth continued. "Sometimes, I still think it's all a macabre joke. A man who could be that giving, to have taken so much for his amusement… It just doesn't match the man I had the pleasure of knowing."

Two doctors from his residency class still lived in the Boston area. The one who had time to meet with Clarice had a slightly different view of the man in question:

"He brings a bad name to our profession. Psychiatrists have a hard enough time with our specialty. It's not a concrete science – what we do shifts as frequently as changes in theorem and practice and diagnostics are published. What was common practice ten, twenty, thirty years ago is antiquated – and he used those techniques to torture his victims. It smeared us," Dr. Lloyd Wyman said when he met Clarice for dinner. 

"Did you suspect anything was off about him?"

"Not in the least. It makes what happened even worse. Since the day he decided to change specialties, he surrounded himself with the brightest minds in the nation. And none of us had a damn clue that we were working with a monster." Dr. Wyman lifted a bit of his steak to his mouth, sighing as he looked at the overcooked meat. "I was at the dinner he had before he went to Baylor. Do you know how many times I've wondered over the years just what I might have been eating, or who? I've been in therapy for five years, since the night he tried to kill everyone in his kitchen, and everything about that hell house was exposed on the news. I even attended culinary classes with him on the weekends when he was learning to cook. He could break down a rack of ribs so fast that -" The doctor turned green and took a hasty sip of water.

Clarice felt sympathy for him, and she pushed her vegetarian plate to his side of the table. "Do you need to trade?"

"Please," Dr. Wyman said gratefully. "I considered becoming a vegan, but I couldn't commit to a life without meat. What do you think that says about me?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. But what it means is that you are  human ," Clarice said. "And that's nothing to be ashamed of. That man loved to play god and judge us for our weaknesses. But it doesn't make him right. We are weak. We were born weak. And when we die, we return to the weak Earth. I don't know whose grace made us, but we were not made to be gods."

"Thank you, Agent Starling," he said. "You didn't think of joining the dark side, did you?"

"Nope. Leave me with my Master's and the inability to prescribe."

"Let me know if you change your mind. We need more even-minded people in our world."

Clarice snorted. "I run hot or cold, Doctor. Nothing even-minded about me."

"Hot and cold balance out eventually. Don't let yourself get luke-warm."

"Touché."

Clarice walked up the steps to the symphony. It wasn't in season, but there was a special event at the building on her last night in Boston. With the help of Elizabeth Hall, she had reserved a ticket for the very seat where he had once reigned supreme. She'd had to find a dress for the event, her frayed suits and casual clothes not fitting for the evening. The black gown hugged the new curves of her body a little too close for her taste, and the heels she got on sale were too high for comfort. She felt exposed, especially with the eyes that roved over her middle and eventually tracked to her bare ring finger.

Fuck you very much. I'm allowed to make my own decisions. 

Even this one.

She sat in the best seat in the best box, looking down at the audience as they took their seats. It was a full house – the symphony was famous, and the soprano who had sung on the original album had agreed to perform tonight. 

When the lights dimmed, Clarice closed her eyes. Though she preferred popular music and used to think enjoying the classics was for stuck-up bastards, the program notes intrigued her, as did the story behind its composition. This symphony was a work of a different kind, a thoughtful creation by a thoughtful man. 

And the building swell of notes swept her away.

Is this what it's like to be God, when You listen to the music Your children create? If it is, maybe the idea isn't so bad after all. 

A mother singing to her son as he died on a cross.

Synku miły i wybrany.
Rozdziel z matką swoje rany;
A wszakom cię, synku miły, 
w swem sercu nosiła.

A child singing to her mother as she waits for death to claim her.

O Mamo nie placz nie
Niebios Przeczysta Królowo
Ty zawsze wspieraj mine.
Zdrowaś Mario.

A mother singing as she searches for the son she knows she will find hours after the moment of his death. 

A ty, boze kwiecie,
kwitnijze w około,
niech sie synockowi
choć lezy wesoło.

Sung in Polish, in a language she didn't know and in a dialect she would never learn, she somehow understood the meaning of the words. The best music does that, transcending time and the confines of language. Moved and missing her mother so much that she felt the need to say her name, Clarice opened her eyes and whispered it as the soprano's song came to an end. She hadn't meant to cry, but the woman who shared her box passed a tissue, dabbing her own eyes as the audience broke into loud applause.

Life and death combined, gathered into a symphony of sorrowful songs.

Maybe that's what our stories are, after all. Not about death, never about death, but of the deep sorrow that comes with living in its shadow.

Unfortunately, when Clarice walked out of the performance hall, not wearing a coat or shawl to cover herself on such a warm night, a fan of her recent life snapped a picture on his Blackberry. That fan was also a reader of Freddie Lounds, who had remained surprisingly silent about Clarice in the last months, other than posting an article about the late Jame Gumb. He posted it under that article with the username TownieBigLife along with a caption: "Looks like Clarice has a secret. No one could blame that bump on a big dinner, now could they?"

Chapter Text

Clarice was the first person at the BAU that Friday, feeling a little off her feet after the late-night flight. She could hear the sound of the symphony in her ears as she sat in Jack Crawford's office, leaving the lights low as she stared at the masterful sketch on the wall.

Chapter Text

Clarice was on a plane again, this time flying over half the country.

In her carryon was a large book taken from Dr. Lecter's library. The rest of his first withdrawal was being shipped from the Evil Minds Museum, arriving the day after she would meet him at the SuperMax. She had decided that personally delivering one of his books would be a sign of good faith, and she had hand-picked his copy of Larousse Gastronomique when she had seen the copious notes in the margins. All had been photocopied, of course, so changes could be noted when he returned the books in exchange for the next set.

She'd never considered her wardrobe except for the hearing, and packing had been an event that Ardelia, Jack, and Dr. Bloom had overseen. Despite Jack's offer to give her anything in Bella's closet that she needed and Dr. Bloom's attempt to keep her in pants, Clarice and Ardelia had decided to shoot low. If he knew about her from before, of the woman Clarice had been in that easier time of life before the raid, then he knew she was a simple girl and that her clothes did not define her. In the end, she had packed items she'd worn when she was a new graduate from the FBI – the edges of her jackets slightly frayed now, washers still sewn into the tails to help them swing cleanly. Her old pants and skirts had little give and were too tight, but she'd found replacements at thrift stores that blended in well enough. Her old bag was at the top of her closet, a Dooney and Burke she'd saved for when she was in grad school. Well-kept and still one of the best items she owned, it looked wrong with the scuffed shoes she wore every day. A little polish fixed those up nicely, and when she'd looked in the mirror, trying on what she would wear that first day, she was content with her choices. 

She looked more like herself than she had in months. 

Just Clarice.

Just folks.

Not the superhero everyone seemed to think she was.

You are a warrior, Clarice.

You've got moxie.

"Goddamn right I do," she'd said to her reflection.

She'd made peace with Dr. Bloom, attending a session before she left for Colorado. Not an official session, not really… It was more of a cram session than anything else.

"He will try to endear himself to you through his courtesy," Dr. Bloom had said. "Don't fall for it. He is the most discourteous man I've ever met, no matter how highly he thinks of himself."

A man who could be that giving, to have taken so much for his amusement… It just doesn't match the man I had the pleasure of knowing.

"But he wasn't like that with everyone," Clarice said. "His friends in Boston are still shocked about what he was capable of."

"Then he was a good actor with them. Nothing more. Forget everything they told you. Men change, and that man blossomed into a monster."

Lover. Friend. Monster.

Nothing fit what she knew, and it pissed her off.

Clarice was tetchy during that meeting. She was tired, her feet were swollen, and she'd needed to pee for the last ten minutes of their hour. Though she knew better, she let her mouth get away from her when she asked, "Do you ever think he might have been unhappy? Or that, I don't know, maybe he just didn't like you?"

Dr. Bloom closed her eyes, blinking comically before she spoke again. "And Jack thinks sending you to meet with him is wise? Hannibal Lecter is going to eat you alive while you watch."

"Hard to do when you're separated by two inches of glass. I think I'll be fine where that is concerned. Don't forget, Dr. Lecter wanted to meet with me. He's about to get exactly what he asked for, and I don't give a fuck if he doesn't like what he finds. I can leave and take the deal with me. As much as I'd like to help the families of the victims we may not know about, I'm not taking any shit from him. He gets me as I am or he gets nothing."

Dr. Bloom crossed her legs and nodded. "That's the attitude you need to have. If you put on an act for him, he'll know."

"Then I'll be myself. I hadn't planned on being anything different."

"You do need to guard your expressions, Clarice. Your eyes tell what you're thinking, and you are not good at hiding it. Keep that prairie gaze level."

Do you have any idea how expressive your eyes are? I can tell what you're thinking, Clarice, even when you don't want me to know.

"I can always pack my glasses. Give a little veil to my thoughts."

"It wouldn't be the worst idea. What are you going to tell Hannibal if he asks about your pregnancy?"

"I'm not going to tell him anything. He's the one getting examined, not me."

"But he'll want to know. And he'll do anything he can to needle into your mind."

Literally.

"Tell me this, Dr. Bloom. You were the administrator at the BSHCI when he was a patient, and you were pregnant when you took over. How did he act towards you?"

"Oddly considerate," Dr. Bloom said. "But he knew how I came about my pregnancy. He was there when the sample was harvested."

Clarice shuddered. How this woman had the strength to put Mason Verger's sperm in her body was both revolting and awe-inspiring. 

"But yours… he's going to be very interested in. I wouldn't be surprised if he considers himself to be your child's real father, considering how intimately he insinuated himself into the mind of your mutual lover."

Except I wouldn't touch his dick if it was made from diamonds. But you can't say the same thing, can you?

"If you had one piece of advice to give me, what would it be?"

"Run. Now."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Stay focused."

Now, on the plane, she discreetly checked her phone, seeing the picture Jimmy had sent her of the side of his face, middle finger up his nose. She giggled, making a mental note to send one back as soon as she checked into her hotel room in Colorado Springs.

Monday, June 28, 2020
0530
Colorado Springs, Colorado

Clarice checked her appearance in the hotel mirror one last time. The weather was cool for the time of year, and she'd picked up a coat at a discount store in town last night. Dark green and dense, it would be comfortable if the sublevel got cool. The pale blue scarf didn't go with it, but Clarice had liked how the combination had played with her eyes and hair. Just a little vanity, but not too much to stand out.

He had bargained his way back up to three meals. Twenty-one meals would be prepared during the seven days she would be in Colorado, technically forty-two as he had requested that she dine with him if she was agreeable. Clarice had no argument, deciding to enjoy the gourmet food prepared at the government's expense. 

The drive to Florence did little to clear her mind. The sun wasn't up yet, and there was nothing to focus on other than her jumbly thoughts.

It's what makes him so dangerous. You want to love him. And he wants to love. But he's simply not capable of doing anything other than destroying everything he touches.

To be in his presence… he was the kind of man who made a girl's fur crackle. You know the kind.

Since he changed specialties, he has been surrounded by the brightest minds in the nation. And none of us had a damn clue that we were working with a monster.

With Dr. Lecter, everyone is at risk.

He'll do anything he can to needle into your mind.

Clarice looked at the clock, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel as the minutes clicked away.

Who are you, Dr. Lecter?

She flipped the radio stations, tapping her left foot on the floor of the sedan as the butterflies in her stomach started to flutter. They always began when she was about to do an interview. But these were interrupted by the occasional tap of a tiny foot against her skin. Just enough to let her know that was something really there, that this wasn't a surreal dream she hadn't woken from.

At least he can't get to you. He'll have to go through me first, and there's no way he's gonna get to me. We're safe, even though your father wasn't. 

This is a woman's work. Always was. Always will be.

The lights of the SuperMax popped out of the distance, growing brighter as she approached the complex. She showed her badge to the guard at the gate, driving towards the camp he pointed her to. They were expecting her, and she'd already met with the administrator yesterday when he picked her up from the airport. Warden Thompson was kind but wary of the special treatment his least favorite ward was receiving, though he understood the reasons for the attention.

"He has his own set of guards downstairs. We don't flip them too often – it's better if they get used to him and his routine."

"Do you get scared they might get sympathetic?"

"No. My guys have been with the FCI for years – their own kind of lifers. He gets the most experienced ones who are used to the mind games – I've got guys with years of military experience down there. They usually play their own games with him to keep him docile. There used to be real tête-à-tête going on down there most days, but Dr. Lecter doesn't talk that much anymore. Or he didn't until last month."

"What happened?"

"He stopped speaking when we removed what few books he had. He'd…" The man grew uneasy when he took Clarice's suitcase from the carousel.

"Warden?"

"He attacked a nurse last year. We kept it quiet, but he did a real number on her. They managed to save one of her eyes, but… I can show you the pictures if you want to see them. He complained of chest pain, and the guard left for five seconds to get an AED. When he got back, Dr. Lecter had eaten her tongue. She wasn't very nice to him during his last check-up, called him a quack to his face."

"And that's the payment she gets for telling the truth?"

"I'm sure you've been told this, but you have to be polite to him, even when he gets under your skin. Anything less is treated with extreme prejudice."

Clarice got out of her rental and grabbed her briefcase, one of Ardelia's old ones from law school. The strap felt heavy on her shoulder, made heavier from the thick book stowed inside.

She went through the checkpoints, every item in her bag checked, and she'd been run over with two metal detectors and patted down. No gun on this trip and the only metal on her body was the amethyst ring on her finger, her mother's add-a-bead necklace, and a pair of gold earrings that had belonged to Johnny’s grandmother. There was no elevator to the lowest level, and she walked down six flights of stairs with the guards coming on shift.

Barney Matthews had been in the Army and was as no-nonsense as an ex-medic with combat experience could be.

"There's a carrier for when you need to pass him the questionnaire: soft paper or books, nothing metal, and absolutely no pens or anything mechanical. Keep away from the glass unless he invites you. It's unbreakable, so you don't have to worry. But he enjoys the sense of his space. He'll let you know when you're invited into the inner sanctum."

"How long have you been with him?"

"Just over a year. Everyone thinks we're nuts to like it down here, but it's quiet. And if Lecter's in a good mood, it's not a bad job."

"What's a good mood for Dr. Lecter?"

"The days when he gets to hear about you," Barney said sheepishly.

"Barney?" Clarice asked.

"I transferred here from Tennessee, where you and Agent Brigham spoke to the –"

"Three Streams Rapist," Clarice finished.

"When he first stopped talking, I used to tell him stories about my other jobs to help pass the time. I told him about the tiny agent who broke down that big brute of a man. It sparked his interest."

"So, you're the reason I'm here?"

"I'm sorry," Barney said, sounding like he meant it.

"It's not a big deal. At least Dr. Lecter is talking about something that might help a mother find peace with the death of their child."

Barney stopped in front of the desk, signing in as he gave the leaving guards a high-five. There was a locked cabinet of guns behind it, including a semi-automatic.

"Do you really need all that for one man?"

The other guard who walked downstairs with them, a huge man whose name badge read Bobby Collins, raised a brow. "Dr. Lecter's not a man, ma'am. He puts on an act to keep everyone from freaking out when they cross his path."

Clarice swallowed and nodded.

"You'll be fine," Barney said. "I'll bring your breakfasts as soon as the kitchen calls. We set out a desk and chair for you yesterday. The glass starts halfway down the hall. He has a big room since he's not allowed time upstairs, but that's changed since he made this deal. Collins and I still don't know how we'll get him up there. He probably put in that part to see us sweat it out."

"I'm sorry."

"At least it's once a week now. I wasn't looking forward to hauling his ass up six flights every Monday and Thursday. Monday we can handle, and fuck if it today ain't that day," Barney said, flicking a piece of lint from her jacket. "Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"We'll be watching," he said, pointing to the monitors. "If you need anything or need a break, the code word today is fugazi. Collins or I will come and get you."

"Thank you, Barney. You seem to have this down to a science."

"Not with him. We're just trying to stay ahead."

Collins pressed a button by the desk, and the bank of barred doors slid open. Clarice straightened her shoulders and walked through, cursing herself when she realized her heels would announce her presence before she was ready for Dr. Lecter to know that she was finally here.

Chapter Text

I don't understand
I'll never understand
But I'll try to understand
There's nothing else I can do
- Fiona Apple -

Monday, June 29, 2020
0700
Florence, Colorado

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Focused on keeping her pace slow and unhurried, Clarice walked at her leisure, inhaling a steadying breath when she saw the sparkle of glass midway down the hall. She glanced at her ring, watching the low fluorescent lights mine the depths of the facets.

You should have something to signify the courage you've shown during the darkness of our last winter.

Red, violets, and pinks stood out among the deeper purples. She rubbed her thumb over the stone, casting out her worries as she continued the journey to Dr. Lecter's dungeon.

But now is the time for courage. Meeting your ex-lover's ex-lover, who happens to be one of the most dangerous serial killers you've ever met. 

Soft sounds came from the cell. Muffled footsteps with the same unhurried pace Clarice had. Taking his time, assessing her from the moment the bars had swept open thirty seconds before. There was a sharp intake of breath along with a pleased exhale, a tiny moan that hit the back of his throat and was quickly stifled.

Are you happy to see me, Dr. Lecter? You are, aren't you? But you don't want me to know it.

His cell came into full view, as did the man standing in the center of a room bigger than her first apartment. He should be in white, given his segregation from the inmates and his status as a guest. But Dr. Lecter's uniform was jarringly colorful against the grey slab walls: red, the deep red dress he should have worn from the beginning of his incarceration if his jury had the guts to find him sane. 

A mind fuck from his guards? Ask Barney on bathroom break.

Clarice walked to the desk and chair set out for her, silently thanking Barney and Collins for thinking to bring down a chair that looked comfortable. When she turned to the glass, Dr. Lecter offered her a small smile, his brows drawing in when he said, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Dr. Lecter." Her voice sounded good enough. A little too much twang, but he didn't know that it was her nervous tell.

Yet.

"How was your flight?"

"Very comfortable. The food was…"

"Likely the same swill they serve here," he finished. His eyes roved over Clarice's body, their color magnified by the deep shade of his uniform. Dr. Lecter's eyes were still the most unusual she had ever seen: true maroon, reflecting red pinpoints of light close to the pupil. "Please, have a seat Agent Starling."

It's a courtesy. I know that, but I still don't like being told what to do.

She set her briefcase on the desk, feeling somewhere between a principal and a schoolmarm when she sat down behind it. In the same manner, he took a seat at the opposing bolted chair and table. His eyes swept over her again as he casually crossed his legs.

Just any other day. We could be in his old office or in my old office, about to have a pleasant conversation.

Except we are here to talk about violence, aren't we?

"Has the weather turned cool again?" he asked as she shrugged out of her overcoat.

"It was chilly last night. I didn't think to pack a coat; it's pretty warm back home. I got this in town."

"How close are you to Quantico?"

"Close enough that the commute isn't bad. Far enough that the rent isn't outrageous."

"Hmmm."

She quickly looked over his cell. A multitude of sketches neatly hung on the walls, showing landscapes and buildings she wasn't completely familiar with.

"Are you admiring my work?"

"Yes. I've seen it before. You are a gifted artist."

"Then you haven't seen much art, have you, Agent Starling?"

"I guess not. I don't get out much outside of work."

"You should learn to mix business and pleasure."

Subtext, especially with that raised brow. Give as good as you get, Clarice.

"I didn't receive much pleasure the last time I tried –"

Don't lie.

"So I doubt it'll happen again," she finished.

And there's the truth.

His lips turned up at the corners. "Learn to do it better, my dear. One bad experience shouldn't prevent you from enjoying the greater pleasures of this life."

Not biting that one, no sir.

"That sketch by the sink, I recognize the buildings, but I can't place it."

“Firenze. That’s the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, as seen from the Belvedere.”

It could have been a picture photoshopped to look like a drawing and was intricately rendered. "All that detail from memory?"

"Memory is all I have, instead of a view."

"Are you looking forward to the time out of your cell today? Your attorney bargained up to the outside gym when the weather holds up."

"Sunlight hasn't shone on my face in two years. How would you feel without the chance to feel its warmth on your face? You run, don't you?"

Common knowledge thanks to the fucking public.

"Yes."

"And if you were left to pace the walls of a single room, over a hundred feet below the Earth?"

"If I'd done what you have, I'd see it as punishment fitting for the crime."

"But you don't think my punishment has fit mine, do you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you should be on death row, Dr. Lecter. You and I both know that you don't have a lick of crazy in you. You managed to beat the system. Bravo on the best performance given to a gullible jury."

"Will Graham's might have surpassed mine."

Her teeth ground together involuntarily, and she cursed at herself for doing it.

That's what you get for placing a taboo on his name.

"You didn't like me saying Will's name, did you?"

"It doesn't bother me in the least."

You'd better stop lying in front of him.

"Doesn't it?"

She tilted her head. "I'm not stupid Dr. Lecter, and neither are you. Would you like to move on, or do you really want to continue cutting up the few old touches we share?"

Wrong choice of words, Clarice.

"Old touches," he said, chuckling. "Cutting them up was once one of my greatest pleasures. You'll get to relive those touches with me as we fill out that questionnaire together."

"You don't need me to complete it."

"Don’t I? The lights down here are dim, and I fear that my vision isn't what it once was. Besides, they require a number two pencil to complete, don't they?"

Fuck.

"All I'm allowed are felt-tip pens, crayons, and charcoal. Not materials that are fit for scanning into those machines."

You just want to see if you can make me squirm when we get to the questions about sex, don't you? Fat chance.

"What would you be willing to give me for that service, Dr. Lecter?"

"After all that's been said about quid pro quo? So many options to consider. What would you like, Agent Starling?"

"The truth. As long as you give me that, you and I will get along just fine."

Cut the twang.

"Bureaucratic oversight and honest confessions. A fitting life for one in an apostolic role."

There was a buzz, followed by heavy footsteps. Clarice could smell the heady aroma before she turned her head. Barney was walking down the hall, holding two trays.

"Good morning, Dr. Lecter," Barney said. 

"Good morning."

Barney placed a covered tray in front of Clarice, then walked up to the carrier at the side of Dr. Lecter's cell. "The chef is sweating bullets up there. If there's anything wrong with the seasoning, he said to let him know."

"Thank you, Barney."

To have bartered so much for a week of the food of his choosing, Dr. Lecter took his time in standing, straightening his scrubs as he might have one of his old suits. He took the tray back to his table, managing never to give Clarice his back. 

Polite to a fault. I could almost respect that if he wasn't so damn conceited.

She lifted the cover from her tray, grinning when she saw the chef's creation. Despite not liking to cook, Clarice enjoyed watching cooking shows on television, and she could see the touches of someone who took pride in his work. Toad in a Hole, homey fare that was exquisitely prepared in a small regulation tureen. A plate of orange supremes and strawberries, dotted with tiny flecks of mint, sat to the side. The coffee smelled rich, and the cup of grapefruit juice looked freshly squeezed.

"Such a fancy way of making eggs and sausage," she said, placing the cloth napkin on her lap.

"Are you complaining?" he asked, quirking a brow.

"Nope." She took a bite, liking the way the savory pork played with her taste buds. She considered her next words, deciding to push a little when she mentioned, "I went to Marliave a few weeks ago. Best comforting fancy food I've ever eaten."

His expression didn't change. "What did you order?"

"The Sunday Gravy."

"A classic."

"Have you eaten there, Dr. Lecter?"

"A few times. It might shock you that I preferred the seafood over anything else on the menu."

"Not shocking, considering the location. I got to stretch my legs while I was in the area. Watch the terns nest a few hours from town."

"I didn't bring you here to talk about Plum Island, Agent Starling."

"So, you don't deny it?"

A beat. "No."

How many more are there?

"Were you alone when you went to the Refuge?"

Wondering if Will is hiding out with me, aren't you?

"Yes."

"Did you run while you were there?"

Why do you like the idea of me running?

"I spent most of my time sitting at picnic tables."

He brought an orange segment to his mouth and studied her as he chewed, licking his lips before saying, "So did I."

"Did you pack a little snack for the trip?"

"That sounds like a childish thing to do. You'd have done better to ask if I brought a doggie-bag."

"Did you?"

He smirked. "I had to make sure the protein was satisfactory before I planned the meal."

She took a bite of the pudding and hummed with satisfaction. It really was delicious and not altered by talking about cannibalism.

That's not a good thing, now is it?

"Your appetite is healthy."

"Yes."

"Any lingering nausea?"

So, he does know.

"I don't have a reason to be nauseated," she said truthfully.

"Not this far along, but all women are different."

I can play this two ways. Be a bitch and ignore him or give him enough to satisfy his thirst.

"What does it smell like, Dr. Lecter?" She was genuinely curious, though she'd like to know what encephalitis or cancer smelled like even more. 

"You are carefully perfumed. But the scent clings to your skin above the fragrance of L'air du Temps."

"You didn't answer me."

He shrugged. "It smells female. Earthy and lush, though yours has the subtle notes of the hair of the dog that bit you."

Clarice's lips twitched, and before she could stop herself, she burst into nervous, amused giggles. Her candor pleased him, and Dr. Lecter's shoulders softened from the rigid posture he'd held. They both relaxed for the first time since she was buzzed through the door.

But it's dangerous, giving in to his charm. Be careful.

"Do you know the sex?"

"No. Do you?"

"I have an idea."

Her nerves pricked again, the hair on her arms standing straight up against the fabric of her button-down shirt. "Are you willing to share?"

"I already have. What grows inside you is a new woman."

She shouldn't have asked. The news hit her too hard. She brought a shaky hand to her face, covering her mouth with her napkin, trying to force the smile from her lips. 

A daughter. Oh, Will, won't you love that? I bet Dr. Lecter loves it just as much. Probably more than what you're capable of right now.

"Does that make you happy?"

"I don't know yet."

"Eat your breakfast, my dear. I'm sure Barney will want to take me upstairs as soon as he can manage it since it's still cool outside."

"Are you going to do chin-ups like everyone else?"

"They won't let me. They've set up a perimeter for me to take a walk while I'm on a short leash."

How appropriate.

"Would you care to take a walk with me, Agent Starling? We can take turns around the courtyard and work up an appetite for the business at hand. Perhaps you might let me see you run."

"I didn't bring my running shoes with me, but I'd be happy to take a walk with you if you promise not to bite."

"Then I'll be on my best behavior," he said.

You'd better mean it.

"So will I," she said and meant it.

They shared a look, two people who had done a ton of bullshitting in their lives and gotten away with it. His had covered dishonesty and violence, and hers had covered an overwhelming amount of pain. But for a moment, the tiniest passing moment, Clarice felt like she knew him.

And dammit if her fur didn't crackle.

Just a little.

Goddammit, Clarice.

Chapter Text

A colossal monolith stood in the middle of the prison yard.

Clarice stared up at it as Dr. Lecter was rolled out of the camp. He really had enjoyed making his guards sweat as they had maneuvered him up the six flights of stairs. Strapped down to a dolly, straight-jacketed with a bite mask in place, he'd been fully relaxed as Barney and Collins took turns cursing at each other. Each time they rested on a landing, preparing themselves for the next flight, Dr. Lecter had lazily rolled his eyes to her and given her a sly wink.

You smug bastard.

She hadn't cared if he could read that thought, somehow knowing he was thinking the same thing about himself.

Now, he was surrounded by armed guards as Barney unwound the jacket, placing Dr. Lecter in the harness attached to the monolith by a heavy, leather strap. The harness restrained his arms to his sides and looked like something you'd put on an animal in a veterinarian's office. Lastly, before he removed the bite mask, Barney turned to Clarice and panted, "Do you see that red line?"

"Yeah."

"Stay on the other side of it. We mapped out his arm span. That's as far as he can possibly reach. But if you try anything with this nice lady or anyone else, Dr. Lecter," he said, looking back at his prisoner, "One of these men will shoot to kill. You see Henry over there at the tower? He was a sniper, and he was damn good at his job. Weren't you, Henry?"

"Damn right!"

"Tell Dr. Lecter how many."

"Sixty-four," Henry yelled back. "All between the eyes. I wasn't trained to miss, Dr. Lecter."

Barney smiled at Dr. Lecter. "Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly."

"If you decide to be uncooperative when it's time to go back inside, I'll be unhappy with you. And if I'm unhappy, Collins will get upset. And if he's upset, you get to stay on the dolly until we both feel better about you. That means meals down the tube, dignity pants, and we'll have to ask Agent Starling and Chef Hensley to go back to their hotels until we change our minds, and that might take a few days. Are we clear?"

"Certainly, Barney."

Barney removed the mask and backed away from Dr. Lecter, moving to the wall. Dr. Lecter slowly turned to the east; the sharp angles of his face momentarily intensified by the bright sun. He sighed as the clouds quickly passed over, the light casting dappled patterns over his pale skin.

"Was it worth it?" Clarice asked.

"What do you think?" he replied.

The breeze picked up, rippling the oversized scrubs over his thin limbs, and he started to walk around the yard. Clarice had to trot double speed to keep up, while his pace was easy and light.

"Tell me about Buffalo Bill," he said.

"I'm here to talk about you, Dr. Lecter."

"Do you prefer not to speak ill of the dead?"

I'd prefer not to speak about Will.

"Pretty much."

"Then stay with the facts. What was it like to sit in Jame Gumb's living room and speak to the man who'd cut up all those women?"

"I said no, Dr. Lecter," she said. "It's not why you asked me to fly out here, Dr. Lecter. I'd rather talk about you."

"What would you like to know?"

"The things you left out. I read Chilton's book and your psych reports from the BSHCI, and they were filled with holes, half-truths, and outright lies. What notes Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier took were completely worthless. Care to fill me in on the rest?"

"In due time. I've lived a fruitful life, Agent Starling. There's a lot of ground to cover."

"Where would you like to begin?"

"Dealer's choice."

"Okay," she said, keeping her eyes on his face as she tried to stay on the other side of the red line. "Tell me about your sister."

Clarice was met with several beats of silence as his pace slowed until she thought he might stop walking altogether.

I'm still not the only mental health professional with off-limit items. Then again, I've never had to admit to eating a family member. But at least I know where your nerves are, Dr. Lecter, thanks to Will. But he didn't know the whole story, did he?

"What do you know about her?"

"More half-truths mixed with other people's perspectives. I want it all. Tell me true, Dr. Lecter. Don't dishonor her memory with another fib."

Dr. Lecter turned his head toward her. "Her memory is the only thing I've never dishonored."

"You truly loved her, didn't you?"

"Yes. Mischa was the closest thing I've ever had to a child of my own." 

Until now.

His words had been so softly spoken that she'd unwittingly leaned in, jumping back when Barney yelled, "Get back on the other side of that line, Agent Starling!"

"Shit," she muttered, watched her feet on the ground. "Sorry!"

"They're afraid I'll hurt you," Dr. Lecter said.

"Wouldn't you, if you had the chance?"

"No."

"I don't know if I believe that."

"You carry something precious within you. Everyone has a line they don't cross."

"I don't think I believe that either. Not with you. Do the names Molly, Walter, and Margot Verger ring a bell?"

"That, Agent Starling, was before."

Her hand protectively covered her belly, and she shivered, even though the sun was shining hot on the yard.

Did killing the Red Dragon together elevate him to your equal? It was his crucifixion in your eyes, the man in him dying when that act transmuted him into a god. 

Into you.

She couldn't ask that question today, if she ever could, and turned to look at him better. Dr. Lecter had been staring at her the whole time, those odd eyes snapping into life as they reflected the sun's rays with red sparks. She set her teeth on edge and asked, "If I'd come here before Buffalo Bill, would this be different?"

"I could ask the same thing from you. We can't erase the past, nor have you chosen to erase the effect Buffalo Bill has had on your life."

"Nor you the effect Mischa's death had on yours. Did you kill her, Dr. Lecter?"

"I did not."

"Who did?"

"Our cook," he said simply. "The man had survived terrible things in his life and secretly developed an appetite for human flesh. When the opportunity presented, he couldn't resist the temptation to discover how she would taste. He found her meat so pleasant that he served it to me that very evening with pride." 

Not because she was rude or discourteous. Because she was there. Available. 

A little lamb fattening for the slaughter.

"If you're curious, he prepared a roast seasoned with rosemary and thyme, the crispy potatoes on the side made crisper by her rendered fat. Humble food without pretense. And it remains the most memorable meal I've ever eaten."

A roast of yearling venison, the smallest amount feeding two starving people that night. Rubbed with salt and pepper, served with mashed potatoes made without butter or milk because there was none. A meal I've never forgotten.

Her stomach rolled, the rich breakfast trying to come back up.

Stop it.

"Are you well, Agent Starling?"

"I'm fine. It'll pass."

"You've gone pale. Are you certain?"

She placed a hand over her mouth and nodded, stopping in her tracks. "Just give me a minute."

Dr. Lecter waited with her, watching over her with concern. "Should I call for Barney?"

"Mmmm? No, it's already better. I should have had something on my stomach before I got here."

"Saltines or cheerios, which do you prefer?"

"Cheerios," she said. "The plain ones."

They started walking again, but he slowed his pace for her. "Finding out the truth about my sister upset you."

Can't lie around it. You're in a corner.

"Yes."

"Because of Buffalo Bill?"

Blame it on Gumb. It's not entirely wrong.

"Because of what he did to those women. His actions were depraved."

"Do you think he was evil?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I didn't get a chance to find out."

"His work speaks for him, though, in your mind."

Behavior is the true mirror in which everyone shows their image. Neither the just nor the unrighteous are immune to that true tell.

"His 'work' didn't paint a pretty picture of what was going on in his head."

"What about mine? You know the things I've done, or some of them. Do you think I'm evil, Agent Starling?"

Sometimes.

"I think a terrible thing happened to you when you were young. It made you do some destructive and depraved things. For me, it's the same."

He tutted. "You're a Licensed Psychologist by training, correct?"

And someone found my CV for you. Great. Psychiatrist vs. Psychologist. Bring it on, Dr. Lecter.

"Technically, I'm a Clinical Mental Health Counsellor."

"That's a matter of semantics, especially with the forensics and legal psychology degrees you received."

"From a certain point of view, I suppose so."

"I was who I was before I dined on that meal. You can't reduce me to a set of influences that govern the nature of my actions. Tell me, Agent Starling, did you give up the concepts of good and evil for behaviorism as you searched for the truth in school and beyond? Storms are destructive – consider all the people who remain displaced after Hurricane Katrina. Earthquakes are destructive, too. Tornadoes, fire, hail, even the fallen snow – all considered Acts of God and are forgiven because God willed their destructive natures." 

If you believe in that stuff, sure.

"Move your eyes up from those third-rate shoes and look at me. The answer isn't down there."

If I could punch you in the eye…

She stopped walking and turned around. The breeze caught her hair when she raised her head. The loose strands flew around her face, obscuring her vision, but she made no move to push them back.

"Can you stand to call me evil to my face? Am I evil, Agent Starling?"

If I call you evil, then you are an Act of God. Not a narcissist, not someone with antisocial personality disorder. An automaton used at will by an unfit creator, created without the need for morality or consequence or punishment. 

A force of nature. 

It's why I always fought with Will and Alana about their usage of the term 'intelligent psychopath' and bought my reputation for having an attitude problem. It's a weak descriptor of a vast array of symptoms and not a diagnosable illness. Something used to scare cadets and juries - creating shock value because of the violence associated with the word, and I don't play into those games. Give me something more honest than cheap theatrics - give me the goddamn truth.

But you bought into it. Just a little. Didn't you? Will always could spin a good yarn, even when he was sick.

Maybe you aren't so sane after all. That's something to consider.

All those things going through Clarice's mind, but she didn't miss a beat when she said, "I haven't had a chance to interview you or do any kind of psychological testing. Give me until the end of the week. I might have an answer for you then, and if I do, I'll say it right to your face if I feel up to it. But you'll have to let me into your mind and stop buffering my preliminary thoughts with pedantic nonsense, or else I'll turn tail and take your treats with me – I've got plenty to keep me busy in the BAU without catering to you. Are we clear, Dr. Lecter?"

He lifted his chin. She couldn't tell if it was with misplaced pride or respect, but it was enough to let her know she needed a break.

"I think we've gone a little fugazi, don't you?"

"The desk says have a phone call, Agent Starling," Barney said, coming to her side.

"Please enjoy the rest of your walk, Dr. Lecter," Clarice said, calling out, "Do you still have your scope on him, Henry?"

A red dot quickly flashed between Dr. Lecter's brows. "I got your six, hon."

"How are Marla and the kids?"

"Hell of a lot better since I did that group therapy stuff with you at the VA. Agent Starling saved my bacon when she shrunk my head, Dr. Lecter. Don't fuck with her."

Dr. Lecter raised a brow but didn't lower that proud chin. In turn, she lifted hers and winked.

Between pride and respect, there's always a middle ground. Maybe I'm getting there.

Barney took her arm and walked with her towards the camp. Clarice looked back once, catching his expression as he watched her retreat from the yard. 

Sumbitch almost looks sad. So sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Lecter, but I've got better boundaries than your old dumbassed friends in Baltimore. I'm not playing these fucking mind games on your terms. 

I get to play them on mine.

The side door required two ID cards and two metal keys to pass through. Barney guided her to a small office close to the break room.

"You're doing fine," he said, patting her back. "He likes you."

"I don't give a fuck if he likes me or not."

Liar.

"He's testing you to see if you're trustworthy."

"I'm aware."

"Dr. Lecter does it to all the new guards. Don't let him ruffle your feathers."

"He didn't. I just need to recalibrate. I'll be good by the time you take him back downstairs."

"We'll swing by and get you when he's done circling the cage."

Clarice sat at the empty desk and put her head in her hands, thinking about that damn yearling her father had served for dinner as she wept.

Barney walked back out to the yard and glared at his prisoner.

"You've been very rude to your guest, Dr. Lecter."

"She handled herself well enough."

"It's not up to you to test her strength. In a week, she's outta here, and I hope she never comes back. Don't you think she's been through enough?"

Dr. Lecter didn't respond and continued his walk around the yard. Sighing, Barney walked to the dolly and leaned against the wall next to Collins.

"Shame she had to take a break. All that hair sure looked pretty in the sunshine," Collins said, spitting out a cheek of dip.

"Here's to hoping she won't back down."

"Nah, she won't."

"You don't think so?"

Collins shook his head and rolled his eyes when Dr. Lecter started to jog. "Little spitfire like her? She wants this too much. So does he, for that matter. I traded for a week of days to watch them duke it out."

"Me too," Barney admitted. 

"More entertaining than watching Springer, that's for damn sure."

"Definitely."

Chapter Text

Monday, June 29, 2020
1131
Florence, Colorado

After a morning dulled by completing the ViCAP questionnaire and running through a few of the psychological tests she brought with her, Clarice Starling quietly sat behind the desk with a stack of papers in front of her. Scoring the work was mind-numbing, especially with a patient who knew all the questions by rote.

Might as well give you an A for effort, Dr. Lecter. You did answer honestly enough, even though both of us were bored to tears.

Dr. Lecter had been thumbing through his old copy of Larousse Gastronomique when she started reviewing the answers. He’d been pleased with her selection, bringing the book to his nose before sitting down at his table. Part of her wondered which section he was looking at. Pity that she’d never taken French in school. When she’d flipped through the book last night in her hotel room, she felt like a toddler looking at her mother’s copy of The Feminine Mystique and wishing for pictures. 

She’d let herself get lost in the work, just like she would have at a crime scene. When she looked up again, Dr. Lecter had a foot of butcher’s paper on his table along with several pieces of charcoal. His eyes were on her, for who knew how long, and he didn’t break his gaze when their eyes met.

“You’re staring at me,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Would you tilt your head to the side? Turn your eyes to the light by the exit; it’ll help.”

No.

But she did as he asked, tapping her foot on the floor until Dr. Lecter said, “I have what I need. Thank you, Agent Starling.”

“What are you sketching?”

“Saint Mary Magdalene.”

“Can I see?”

He regarded her and nodded, his eyes sparkling when he lifted the paper and turned it towards her. Mary Magdalene sat at a table laden with books, looking to an oil lamp. In her lap was a skull that she caressed with her hand, and in Starling’s eyes, she looked a little pregnant. 

Maybe a Renaissance vision of beauty, or possibly folks have been wondering about Christ’s sex life longer than we have.

She also had Clarice’s exact features, down to the bump on her nose.

“Any thoughts?” Dr. Lecter asked.

Considering that they had run through the TAT this morning, and Dr. Lecter had given the appearance of actually participating, Clarice let him have this one. Especially since he already knew what she was going to say.

“I see a woman who is burning the midnight oil as she considers life and death. Remembering those who fell before her and worrying about the life within her. She doesn’t know what to think when confronted with eternal life and grasps onto the tangible bones of someone she loved.”

Concise, covered all the points.

“And what happens to the woman when she leaves the table, Agent Starling?”

Fuck. Not all of them. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

“She goes to bed, Dr. Lecter. And dreams of better stuff than this.”

His lips twitched as he sat the paper on the table. “What do you dream about when you tuck yourself into bed at night?”

“Lots of things,” she said. “What about you?”

Barney says he has nightmares. Push hard on that.

“As many things as you do, I expect.”

“Care to share?”

“I asked you first.”

“And we’re still not here to talk about me,” she said patiently. “What do you dream about, Dr. Lecter?”

“Mischa.” The word was clipped and final.

Regret? Remorse? Wanting another taste of that meal?

“What is she doing when you dream about her?”

“Screaming.”

Did you hear or know what was happening?

“At who?”

“At everyone.”

“Including you?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“What was she like, Dr. Lecter?”

“It has been speculated that the Mona Lisa was Michelangelo’s interpretation of his opposing features,” Dr. Lecter said. “Mischa Lecter was my Mona Lisa. Fair, gentle, angelic, bright blue eyes. Much like yours, Agent Starling.”

“Does angelic describe her personality?”

“Most of the time, yes. She had a temper, like all children, but… it always faded as happiness returned.”

“Were you able to make her happy, Dr. Lecter?”

“I could.”

“How?”

“By being present. Our parents were absent, even before they died. Mischa needed someone that wasn’t hired to care about her close by. It helped calm her fears.”

“How old was she when she died?”

“Seven.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Very young to take on the paternal role, Dr. Lecter. How did that effect you as a teenager – that age when a boy is trying to become a man?”

“It didn’t. My mother once told me I came from her womb as silent and stoic as my father – a man in the form of an infant.”

Benjamin Button. Thank god I finished that movie. Look for the book tonight.

“You would have been nine when she was born. Did you already have those paternal feelings towards her?”

“I did.”

“Describe.”

He shrugged. “I was protective. I still had a tutor then; boarding school was a few years away. I read my father’s books about medicine and thought I could care for mother and the new child better than anyone.”

If you’re as scary as everyone says, I bet you could have, too.

“Your father was a physician?”

“Yes. The first Lecter to have an honest profession.”

Now her lips twitched. 

A man of old money who didn’t have to work? A career in medicine, honest? My, my. To have grown up in the lap of luxury and be so clueless about the needs of the rest of the world.

“Is that funny?” His eyes had narrowed, and she cursed herself for offending him.

“No, Dr. Lecter. I come from a long line of foot soldiers and day laborers. It’s still odd to hear someone say their ancestors didn’t have to work. That’s all.”

“Foot soldiers?”

Fuck your mouth, Clarice.

“Father and grandfather in the army.”

“Is that why you chose to work at the VA?”

“Possibly.”

“Henry seemed impressed with your skill as a therapist. Why did you leave?”

Because I couldn’t fix everyone. 

“Because I wanted to help catch the bad guys, Dr. Lecter.”

“Hmmm. Seems like you might have been tired of helping victims after the fact. Not the same motivation, my dear. Even though you want to think it is. And now you’re right back to where you started, aren’t you?”

Am I that much of an open book?

“Then help me with some of the victims now. There are two open cases you agreed to help with, and you haven’t brought them up yet.”

“I’ll speak about them Sunday night, before our final dinner.”

“That leaves a lot of time in between. We might run out of things to talk about.”

“You have a bag brimming with all the tests I’ve refused to take over the years. I’m sure we’ll find a way to pass the time together.”

“You like the idea of having me here, don’t you, Dr. Lecter?”

“I like more than the idea, Clarice. May I call you Clarice?”

“Yes, and I think I’ll call you –“

“Dr. Lecter. Given your age and station, it seems appropriate.”

“My station? Who exactly is on the other side of that glass barrier, sir?”

He had the decency to show his amusement. “Have things gone a little fugazi again, my dear?”

Change code words every time one is used from now on.

“Are you having fun?”

“Absolutely. You have no idea how many seconds I’ve had to spend within the confines of my palace of memories. This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

At least it’s verbally sparring with me. The last time you had fun, eight men died, almost nine.

Oh, Will. How did you manage this with him for so long? We haven’t had lunch yet, and I’ve wanted to punch him in the face five times.

A brief pang of longing hit her, but she swallowed it back as she opened her briefcase. “Then let’s get on with it. Do you prefer the SLUMS or MoCA?”

“I prefer the one I developed.”

“Sucks that you went on a killing spree in your kitchen before it was published.”

“One person isn’t a spree, Agent Starling. Didn’t Will and Alana teach you better?”

Fuck. 

She raised her head and scowled at him. He looked happy with himself, entirely too delighted to have thrown out a correct guess.

“How did you know that?”

“Because, Clarice, my memory is far better than yours.”

October 2012
Quantico, Virginia

“I believe the as-yet unidentified caller was our Copy Cat Killer.”

“Brilliant man,” Hannibal murmured with unabashed pride.

There was soft murmuring among the cadets. Hannibal watched Will in the darkness, as drawn into the performance as they had been. Better still that he was absolutely correct, and wouldn’t it be a thrill to see the expression on his face when he saw the actual truth?

His face would be cooling then, pale as the mask of death began to fall upon him. Would he use the final energy his body had to gaze up at him, finally seeing everything for what it truly was?

“Are there any questions?”

“Yeah, I have a few.”

The lights came up. Hannibal looked over the entrance wall and saw the owner of the voice in the center of the back row. Her hair was muted by the fluorescent lights, and the glasses on her face were cheap, the plastic lenses reflecting every bulb in the lecture hall at odd angles. 

“I may be missing the point, Mr. Graham, but I can’t ignore that you’ve been using the phrase intelligent psychopath repeatedly. Can I have an ICD-10 diagnosis that corresponds? Defining characteristics to help qualify what you mean by those words? Anything to help me understand what you really mean by that phrase and how it fits the unsub? I understand what you’re saying about the connection between Garret Jacob Hobbs and the Copy Cat Killer. Still, those words are distracting and turn my head in a thousand different directions that aren’t focused on this case, especially after you described this murder as art. Tell me, Mr. Graham, what kind of sadist is he? Again, that’s very vague and no longer recognized as of DSM-4, other than a catch-all descriptor of negative traits. What were those traits in the Copy Cat? Did you find any evidence that would point to avoidant, compulsive, or negativistic personality disorders, or even borderline? What hard facts do you have about what kind of man this is, if the unsub is actually a man? Other than torturing the victim while she lived and leaving no evidence whatsoever, you’ve got nothing except for a ton of hunches and conjecture. Plus, the ambiguous, outdated terminology isn’t helping, not one bit. It’s a little tedious to muck through, and honestly, I’m bored.” 

Now, there's a rube trying to hustle faster than a shooting star.

Hannibal turned to look at Will. Will’s mouth was slightly open, though he forced it shut when he met Hannibal’s bemused expression.

“I asked for questions. Not speeches.”

“I believe I had about seven questions in there. I have them written down, right here,” she said, holding up her notes and pointing at a list, “If you want to review them with me individually after class.”

“Psych major?”

“Yep.”

"Legal and Forensics training."

"Right on both."

“You want to be in the BAU one day?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then don’t piss off your instructors. Learn to cultivate your empathy and think like you’re in law enforcement instead of a classroom filled with ham-radio enthusiasts and other personality-deficient buffs – hardly the best brains on campus. Real cases aren’t always centered around quantifiable facts, Miss…?”

“Starling,” she said. “And yet the guys in the BAU usually have a psych background. What’s yours?”

“I was a homicide detective. I also have a Master’s in Forensics from GW.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

“That’s enough for today,” Jack said, stepping into the hall. “You’re dismissed. Out. All of you.”

The students rose around them and quickly filed out. When the redhead passed by, Agent Crawford grabbed her arm. The tiny thing was barely eye-level with Jack’s chest.

“Miss Starling?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to see you in my office at 1600. Do you hear me?”

She sighed. “Yes, sir.” She glanced in Hannibal’s direction, not looking at his face, and frowned when she said, “Nice suit.”

Hannibal watched her walk to the exit door, where she was met by a tall, blonde man with a poorly hidden Semper Fi tattoo on his bicep. He tugged on her braid and asked, “Want to head to the range, Clarice?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Watch your mouth, Cadet,” the man said, checking out Miss Starling’s khaki-covered bottom when she wasn’t looking. Hannibal looked too, out of interest, and liked what he saw. 

As a matter of fact, the blonde man’s ass wasn’t half bad, either.

“Dr. Lecter?” Will said from his podium.

“Hello, Will. Difficult day?”

“Yeah. She… that one can be –“

“A little rude?”

“A little right,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s not her fault that she’s smarter than most people in the room, myself included. Being smart spoils a lot of things, doesn’t it, Dr. Lecter?”

You don’t know the half of it, Mr. Graham.

“Does it excite you, Will? Being challenged by such a small woman?”

Will sneered and shook his head. “I have enough on my mind without including… Whatever. Why are you in my lecture hall?”

“A little trip, it seems. Agent Crawford would like us to pay a visit to Abigail Hobbs.”

Back in his office, at a much later date, Hannibal picked up the phone and made a few calls about the errant cadet. He found her information with a cursory search of the internet and was now seated by the fire, carefully considering his options. 

Killing her so close to home would create a few problems he couldn’t afford to make.

Yet.

Then again…

In the end, after thinking about the way her mouth had shifted to a satisfied smile when she had finished toying with Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter decided not to call on Clarice Starling. 

The world, it seemed, might be a more interesting place with her in it. 

Chapter Text

Monday, June 29, 2020
1145
Florence, Colorado

“Lawrence Bradley and Dr. Doemling taught the Delta-track when I was at the Academy. I could have been in their group.”

“And yet, you weren’t. Omega-track all the way for the little Starling bird.”

This isn’t public knowledge – my class records are in a locked file in Quantico.

He’s baiting me. Information can be like the worms on a hook. Earthworms don’t live in the sea, yet they sure can look good to a fish hungry enough to swim up and die for a little nibble. 

“How do you know what track I was in, Dr. Lecter?”

“I’ll tell you on Sunday, but you’ll have to earn it if you really want to know the answer. We’ve taken turns up in the yard as well as turns down here in the basement. You’ve been courteous and receptive to the courtesy of others, and you’ve established trust by bringing me my favorite book. I’d like to know more about you. Quid pro quo, Clarice.”

No. Fuck Alana for being right, and FUCK her for not preparing me for this level of bullshit.

“Well?”

“One question a day, and I have to be agreeable to answering it.”

“Is that a yes?”

FUCK. How bad do I want to know the answer to something so trivial? And how much more will he give me if I play along with him? I could turn two open cases into three or more if I’m lucky. Goddamn you, Dr. Lecter.

A buzzing sound and the doors slid open. Collins walked in with their lunch trays, looking back and forth between Clarice and Dr. Lecter. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clarice said quickly. “Hungry. It’s been a long morning.”

“Do you need to stretch your legs?”

“After we eat, I think that would be a great idea.”

“Come to the door when you’re ready for some fresh air.” Collin’s voice was as deep and rocky as an old well and carried the knowledge of the ancients. 

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

Collins slammed the food carrier shut and walked away. On the other side of the bars, Barney was whistling “Over the Sea to Skye.” Clarice wondered what lyrics the music accompanied: the words about the disgraced heir or the newer ones about a woman lost in time.

All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.

They lifted the tray covers in tandem. On their plates were thin slices of liver over a bright green puree. More rich food, and she hadn’t had a snack between meals. Clarice looked up when the food carrier gently moved to her side. 

“For your stomach, my dear.”

The first day, and she was already getting consumed by this man. But he’d been planning this from the beginning, hadn’t he? Always a thousand trains running in his mind, and how many were chugging along just for fun?

Did I ever stand a chance?

With a sense of falling, Clarice stood, straightening her jacket as she walked to the carrier. Inside was a package of plain cheerios, standard commissary size.

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”

“You’re very welcome.”

She opened the box as she returned to her seat and popped a few into her mouth.

“Yes or no?”

“Go, Doctor.”

“What was it like to kill Buffalo Bill? Tell me the truth, Clarice. You hide behind your words as easily as I do. And if you lie, I’ll know.”

“At first, I didn’t feel anything.”

“Because he was going to kill you?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Since you didn’t completely answer the first, I’m allowed to lead until I’m satisfied. Does that sound fair?”

Nothing about this is fair, you arrogant little -

“Sounds fair.”

“Then answer the question.”

“Yes, I didn’t feel anything because he was going to kill me first.”

“And after?”

“I ended up in Emory for a week,” she whispered.

“Do you mind speaking up? With the glass between us, your voice is muffled.”

“I ended up in Emory for a week,” she said in a louder voice. “Exhaustion, and… whenever I was left alone, I couldn’t stop crying. It didn’t help that I could still feel his blood on me.”

“Were you feeling his pain or the pain of his victims?”

“Both. Jamb Gumb did some terrible things to ease the burden he had inside. After… I could empathize with him and the victims at the same time. It wasn’t a good feeling to have. I felt outside of my own body for a while.”

“The same thing happened to Will when he was in New Orleans.”

“I know.”

“You were very close to him, weren’t you? Much closer than a casual lover.”

And here we go.

“Off-limits, Dr. Lecter. I’ve agreed to tell you about myself, but I will not talk about Will without his permission.”

“Very close,” Dr. Lecter murmured, taking his first bite of lunch. “You never did get the gunpowder removed from your cheek.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t look in the mirror enough for it to matter.”

“Hmmm.”

“Disappointed?”

“Just the opposite. I appreciate your lack of vanity.”

She ate a few more pieces of cereal and touched her fork to the delicate slice of liver. “Is this your recipe?”

“It is.”

“The one you served at the farewell dinner in Boston?”

“The very same. Chef Hensley has been kind enough to use the recipes from my old box. With a few alterations, of course. This liver isn’t nearly as fatty as Jamie Martin’s, but you can’t always be so lucky to happen upon quality product.”

She took a taste. Clarice wasn’t a fan of liver, but she found herself enjoying this one, lean or not. 

“Is it to your liking?”

She nodded and said, “It’s delicious, but I bet yours was better.”

“The food at my table was always the best.”

“I believe that completely, especially after speaking to Elizabeth Rosencranz.”

“How is the old girl?”

Clarice chose her words carefully and replied, “Meticulously put together.”

“Sounds about right. Her husband is a plastic surgeon.”

“Then you don’t know they got divorced.”

“I’m not surprised. How did she fare?”

“She said she got everything.”

He smiled and took another bite.

“Mrs. Rosencranz mentioned that you’d told her he would tremble in her shadow.”

“Stars show their magnificence in full dark. And the brilliant ones remove our eyes from the weaker glimmers. Patently.”

The word sparked her interest, and she filed it away for later. “She wore a very lovely broach when I met with her. She mentioned it was a birthday gift.”

“It was.”

Beats of silence. “We can talk about something else if you’d like.”

“I answered a hundred questions about sex in your awful questionnaire, Clarice.”

“I didn’t write them. And… I don’t know; your answers didn’t fit what I’d expect.”

“Uncle Jack still thinks I’m a sexual sadist, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve never asked,” she said. “What would you say about it?”

“I’d say you can’t quantify me with that blunt little tool, nor with the diagnostic codes you’ve embraced – there’s so much uncharted territory in the human mind. Psychology isn’t a science and shouldn’t be treated as such.”

Says an MD with a PsyD and a trauma fellowship behind his name, who can sketch like a fucking master, cook like Ducasse, and trick his way into becoming a curator in Florence.

“Again, it’s a shame you got caught. Think of what you could have contributed to the world.”

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve said twice that the shame was in the catching, Clarice. Not with my actions.”

“You know what I meant.”

“And what if I don’t? Say what you mean or don’t speak.”

“Can I turn that around on you? Pardon the turn, but sometimes your bullshit reeks worse than a barnyard.” She took a sip of the sparkling water and watched him chew her words.

“Touché,” he acknowledged.

She twisted her lips in a satisfied smile.

“Answer me one more question about Buffalo Bill. As a follow-up to the first, and nothing more.”

“Okay.”

“Did killing him give you a release, or did you take something with you before you left?”

“Narrow that question, Dr. Lecter. I don’t like reading between the lines.”

“Did killing him make you feel powerful?”

“No,” she said. “It made me feel empty. Weak. Human.”

He didn’t like that answer. She could tell by the way his eyebrow twitched.

Tough shit that I don’t derive my power from killing, not even when they’re guilty as sin. I’m not a god or a goddess, Dr. Lecter. I will only be myself.

Clarice checked her messages on the way back to the hotel, pulling over to the side of the road when she heard Mr. Clements voice.

“Hey, hon. I know you’re out of town, but I sold the house. I-uh… I got a good offer, even paid cash – who does that? He says he’s going to keep renting to you at the same price, but he’s going to move into Ardelia’s old side of the place. He should be in by the time you’re back home. Fella seems nice enough. Let me know if you need anything. If you decide to move someplace else, put my name down as your previous landlord. Okay? Bye now.”

Fuck a damn duck.

She called Ardelia, listening to the phone ring as the headlights passed her on the other side of the road. When she didn’t pick up, she called Rich, but his phone immediately went to voicemail. Her thumb lingered over Jack’s name, but she put her phone in the drink holder.

Can’t call for help every time I have a problem. Gotta learn to be an adult. Especially now.

She pulled into the hotel parking lot and saw Chef Hensley on the steps outside, smoking a cigarette with shaking hands. He stubbed it out when she sat next to him.

“How am I doing?”

“He’s been enjoying the food, Ron.”

“Thank Christ,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Why are you so worried about what he thinks?”

“He’s a fucking legend, Clarice. Don’t you follow EatTheRude.com?”

“I guess not.”

“Every chef worth their salt has wanted to get their hands on his recipes – he’s got a cult following of us trying to figure out his techniques. And I actually get to learn them. That box in my bag is worth millions to the right collector.”

“Huh,” Clarice said, shaking her head. “It seems like you’ve missed something in all that adoration.”

“What’s that?”

She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “The secret ingredient was always the last person he killed.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, his skin paling. “I guess so.”

“Puts things into perspective?”

“A little. You going to bed?”

“I’m going for a run. Want to join me?”

“Nah. I need a drink. Are you sure Dr. Lecter liked everything?”

“He had no complaints. And if it matters, neither did I.”

“Sorry – yeah, it does matter. Do I need to make anything special for you, with the –“

“Nope. No allergies and no special concerns.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“He wanted a raspberry tart for dessert tomorrow night, but we haven’t been able to find any that look good enough to use. Is there something else he might like?”

She tried to put herself in Dr. Lecter’s mind and weighed the options. He had a sweet tooth from what she’d read. Elizabeth Rosencranz had mentioned several times that he enjoyed the truffles from the House of Knipschildt, especially the ones with –

“Think outside of the box. Something with almonds and oranges and bitter chocolate, would that be doable on short notice?”

“I’ll speak to my sous. Thanks, Clarice.”

“Not a problem.”

He patted her knee and stood, leaving her on the steps. Clarice leaned back and looked up at the stars. She could just see Gemini twinkling in the west, one of the few constellations she knew besides the Big and Little Dipper.

I bet you know all of them, don’t you? You might even be bold enough to think you know all their names.

They twinkled blue and yellow and red in the black sky. But red was the coolest, wasn’t it? And blue burned hottest of them all.

“A little blue flamer like you? I give you ten years before you burn out, Starling. Scratch that – I give you five.”

“At least I’ve made it longer than Will,” she said to the ghost of Paul Krendler that sometimes floated in her head. “And I might make it longer than this if I’m lucky.”

She placed a hand on her belly, feeling the small kicks against her palm for the first time.

“I’ll be damned,” she said, rubbing the spot. “Aren’t you getting strong?”

If she could feel it, that meant someone else might be able to feel it, too.

I need a good cop with me, and Johnny, weren’t you always the best? But Barney, he might be able to fill in your role for me this time. Switching is wearing me the fuck out.

An idea was forming in her mind, one that might help her get the control back to her side of the glass.

Dr. Lecter had complained about his hearing and his vision today, and Clarice wasn't sure if it was manipulation. His file read that he hadn’t had completed an exam by a physician since he arrived in Florence – the last two who tried left the medical ward in tears.

I don’t like the idea of using you, sweet one. But your father loves that man more than he ever will the two of us. Who knows, he just might be proud of me if it works. 

Chapter Text

Tuesday, June 30, 2020
0918
Florence, Colorado

"I don't like it, Agent Starling," Barney said.

"I don't like it either, but you've got a huge liability on your hands if he doesn't have routine medical screens. My test results won't even be valid without medical clearance, and I don't like wasting my time."

"He's signed AMA papers every time he refused," Warden Thompson said.

"He doesn't have the capacity to do that, not legally. He lives here, but he's not a regular prisoner, don't ever forget it."

"We haven't," Barney said, narrowing his eyes at the Warden.

"He's not going to be able to resist, especially if you put on a good enough act. Do you think you can?"

"Just call me Marlon Brando," Barney said.

"Warden?" 

"Fine. We have a new doctor anyway – it's tough to keep one longer than a few months. When should we set up the appointment?"

"After lunch," Barney said. 

"Four o'clock," Clarice added. "It'll give Dr. Lecter plenty of time to stew."

"I'll speak to him," the Warden said. "Dr. Pilcher might say no."

"He won't, and you know it," Clarice said. "If he finishes that exam, he'll have a ton of bragging rights. Worth a try for anyone."

"But are you sure, Clarice?" Barney asked.

"Just stand at my side and have Collins and Henry behind us, and we'll be fine."

"Positive?"

"Yep."

"Okay," Warden Thompson said. "Call if Lecter doesn't bite."

Barney and Clarice returned to the sublevel. Collins buzzed her in, and she took her seat across from Dr. Lecter.

"How was your phone call?"

"Informative. I'm getting a new landlord, and he wanted to review the new terms of my lease."

"Can't take care of personal matters after hours?"

"Considering that I'm here over twelve hours a day for five more days, I don't have an after hours. That was some of my comp time." She removed another stack of papers from her bag and held them up. "What next?"

Dr. Lecter glanced at his options and sighed. "Word association? Really, Clarice? I thought better of you."

"Just call me old-fashioned," she said sweetly, smiling as she placed her palm on the growing swell of her belly. In her peripheral vision, she watched as Dr. Lecter's eyes move with her hand. And those eyes, as much as he wanted to hide it, were greedy as hell.

Gotcha.

"Sorry," she said. "She's a little active this morning. All those carbs at breakfast."

"What does it feel like?"

"Is that your question of the day?"

A beat. "It can be."

She took a breath and told the truth. "It feels powerful."

"Growing this child within you makes you feel powerful?"

"Yes. It's the closest I've ever felt to understanding… God, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I don't know what I believe regarding all that stuff. But I know someone who does, don't I?"

Those eyes turned very bright, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. Dr. Lecter was about to speak when the gate buzzed, sliding open to let Barney in. He carried the heavy box containing Dr. Lecter's books that had arrived this morning. An officer she didn't recognize walked with him, carrying an assault rifle.

"The rest of your books are here, Dr. Lecter."

"Excellent."

The guard, whose badge read Mitchell, spoke next. "Hands above your head and back against the wall. If you so much as move while Officer Matthews is in your cell, you'll be dead before you touch him."

Dr. Lecter nodded and raised his arms above his head, moving back against the wall as requested. Barney placed the box in front of Clarice and unlocked the glass barrier using two keys and an electronic card swipe. Carefully, he put the box on the floor and slid it into the cell with his foot, shutting the barrier when he was done.

"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," Mitchell said.

Dr. Lecter nodded.

"Ma'am." Mitchell nodded in Clarice's direction before leaving.

"He sure is polite to be carrying a gun that big," Clarice said, rubbing her palm on the right side of her stomach.

"Baby moving?"

"Squirmy as all get out."

"Mind if I feel?"

Clarice tilted her head up. "Really? I didn't think you were the type."

"I love children, Agent Starling. Came from a big family."

"Go for it," she said, unbuttoning her jacket. Barney laid a warm hand on her stomach, and dammit if the little squirt decided not to act her part.

Just as stubborn as me, aren't you, baby girl?

She still had Dr. Lecter in her peripherals. His eyes burned too bright, and he hadn't moved an inch since Barney asked to touch her. Silent and stoic, he watched the scene like a lion protecting his pride.

"Feisty little thing."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yep. She's gonna be like her Momma," Barney said, catching her eyes. They were as deep and dark as Johnny's, and another pang of longing hit her chest. 

You should be here. Dr. Lecter was your white whale, and wouldn't you have loved fucking with him.

"If you're done molesting my therapist, Barney, I'd like to continue."

"I'm not your therapist," Clarice said, keeping her voice light.

Barney patted her stomach before walking away, turning to wink when he was out of Dr. Lecter's eye line.

"Okay. I have a list of one hundred words. Please respond with the first word that comes to mind when I –"

She looked up. Dr. Lecter still hadn't moved.

We got you good, didn't we? Bravo, Barney.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, returning to his chair.

"Do you know how much I hate it when people use those words?" she said. "What's going on, Dr. Lecter?"

"Nothing." He sat down and steepled his hands, resting his chin on his fingers.

"Sure looked like something. Did Barney touching me bother you?"

"Yes."

"Why? Is it because he got to feel something you never will?"

He set his jaw and refused to speak.

"We've been making a lot of trades, Dr. Lecter. What if I could arrange for you to have a little touch? Quid pro quo?"

His eyes narrowed.

I bet you hate me right now, don't you? Join the club. 

"What did you have in mind?"

She pretended to think about it. "You haven't had a real medical exam in… three years? The last one on record was when you were released from Walter Reed. I want you to have one today. EKG, labs, chest x-ray, eye and vision check, and a once over by a physician."

"The last man they hired hadn't even completed a residency."

"Well, word on the yard is that this doc has all the best specs. What do you say? Thirty minutes in the medical ward, and you get to… molest me, is that what you said to Officer Matthews?"

Several beats of time passed as he stared at her before moving his head in a tiny nod.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"I'll set it up. Excuse me for a minute, won't you?" 

Polite to the last, even with his back against a wall, Dr. Lecter stood when she did, watching her as she removed her jacket. Her blouse today was lime green and looked awful under the lights. But the shirt and skirt hugged all of her new curves, effectively showing off her pregnant body more than she had previously allowed. 

Heels clacking down the hall, she stood in front of the gate and yelled, "Collins! Let me out."

A buzz before the gate rolled back. Barney, Collins, Mitchell, and the Warden were huddled around the monitor like a bunch of co-eds watching a soap opera. 

"What's he doing?" Clarice whispered, then added in a louder voice, "Dr. Lecter has agreed to a medical exam. Does the doc have an opening today?"

"Let me call upstairs," Barney said, picking up the phone. 

Clarice walked around the desk and looked at the monitor, where she was greeted by the rare sight of Dr. Lecter laughing.

"Hell of a lot better than Springer," Collins whispered.

"Doc, do you have that opening for Dr. Lecter? Uh-huh? We'll have him ready at four." Barney hung up the phone. He nudged Collins and whispered, "This means we have to haul him up twice in one week, you know."

"And you might have to do it again if I can finagle something else out him. You guys game?"

"Fuck yeah," Collins said.

"We'll make it," Barney added. "What about you? You agreed to let the devil himself lay hands on you."

"I don't believe in the devil, Barney. Neither should you."

"Says someone with a bishop's ring on her hand," Mitchell said.

"Huh?"

"Your ring. You ain't Catholic, are you?"

"No. I was raised Lutheran."

"Bishops get a ring when they're ordained. Big amethyst thing, locks in place. Looks kinda like the one you're wearing."

She held out her hand. "Want to kiss it?"

"Shut up," Mitchell said, letting out a loud guffaw.

Clarice looked at the monitor. He was still laughing, at her or at himself she didn't know. But she liked the image and kept watching with the others until he sat down.

"I'd be careful, Agent Starling," the Warden murmured. "Getting challenged by a smart thing like you might turn him on, and that's the last thing I need to worry about."

"You're probably right. I'm already walking the line between sassy and offensive a little too often," Clarice whispered back. Dr. Lecter looked directly at the camera and dramatically drummed his fingers against the table. "And that's my cue to go back. Actually, I better hit the latrine first. He can simmer a little longer. You guys gonna hang out and watch the show, or don't you have some work to do?"

Mitchell and Warden Thompson jumped up. 

"Uh-huh. Catch you on the flip side, boys."

She walked down the hall to the restroom, four sets of eyes following her the whole way.

"What do you think?" Collins said to the Warden.

"If he's going to do what I think he's going to do on Sunday, she wouldn't be unwelcomed."

"You like her," Mitchell said.

"Well enough that I wouldn't wish it on her for the world. His last therapist got burned alive."

"Dr. Lecter didn't respect him," Barney said. "Plus, you can't blame Lecter for what the Tooth Fairy did to Dr. Chilton."

"Seemed like Will Graham took the heat for that," Mitchell said. "Shhh, she's coming back."

Clarice's steps announced her in the hall. She looked at the men huddled at the table and quipped, "You boys done talking about me?"

"Not yet," Barney said.

"Save it for later. I'm going back in."

"May the peace of Christ be with you, Agent Starling," Mitchell said teasingly, dodging her hand when Clarice tried to slap the back of his head.

Barney buzzed her back in, and she walked to her desk. "You've got an appointment at four."

"Perfect," Dr. Lecter said.

"Now, where were we?"

"Let's see," he said, rolling his eyes. "Mind. Tree. Pool. Chant…"

Clarice stood outside of the exam room and chewed on a Mounds bar. The snack machine in the lounge was out of Twizzlers, which was her go-to junk candy of late. But this was good enough, and more importantly, it did the trick. Her heart rate was up from the sugar, and someone's two feet were tap-dancing near her belly button.

Keep it up, honey. You've got dessert coming tonight, too. Seems like you've got a sweet tooth just like –

No.

Stop it.

Will had one, after all, and liked all of the same junk she did. She heard a loud cough in the room, and she inwardly laughed as she wondered what part of the exam they were on.

If you agreed to a DRE just to cop a feelsie, you are one thirsty man.

"Stand next to the bed, Dr. Lecter."

It was Henry's voice; thank goodness he'd been working today. The door opened, and the doctor popped his head out. "You may come in, Agent Starling."

Clarice tossed the wrapper in the trash. The five men in the room made it feel too crowded, and she placed her back against the door after she closed it. "Is he gonna live?"

"Dr. Lecter has a left bundle branch block and a slightly enlarged prostate. I need to send the labs off, but otherwise, he appears healthy."

"Thank you, Dr…?"

"Pilcher."

"Thank you, Dr. Pilcher. Please let me know if his labs show something different."

"I will." He seemed eager to leave, grabbing his stethoscope and chart. But he paused at the door and asked, "Where are you staying, Agent Starling?"

"Colorado Springs."

"That's where I live," he said. "Maybe while you're here, I could show you around town. Do you like cheeseburgers and beer or the amusing house wine?"

"Not lately," she said, pushing her stomach out a little more.

"Or a coke," he said quickly. 

Clarice felt Dr. Lecter's eyes on her, and she turned her head towards him. He was still having fun, fuck him, the edges of his eyes crinkling with mirth. Her eyes drifted back to Dr. Pilcher's bespectacled face.

"Are you asking me for a date, Dr. Pilcher?"

"Yes," he said boldly.

She folded her arms over her chest, showing off her bare ring finger. "Maybe next time. I'm afraid my dance card is full up until I leave."

"Oh. Of course. Sorry," Dr. Pilcher said, glancing back and forth between Clarice and Dr. Lecter. She moved out of the way when he made to leave and shut the door behind him. Clarice looked at Dr. Lecter and wagged a finger in his direction.

"Did you set that up?"

"I assumed you might be lonely while you were here. Was I wrong?"

"Shame on you, Dr. Lecter."

He moved as shoulders as much as he could with the shackles on his hands and feet. "Quid pro quo."

"What gun are you carrying today, Henry?"

"A Glock G43X, Agent Starling."

"Nice. How much do you like that gun?"

"Oh, she and I get along real well."

"Freshly cleaned?"

"Every morning when I get here."

"One in the chamber?"

"I ain't dumb."

"Alright. Here's how this is going to play, Dr. Lecter. Barney is going to uncuff your non-dominant hand and –"

"I'm ambidextrous, Clarice." 

I knew that.

"You favor your right. Barney's going to uncuff your left hand for thirty seconds. When the timer goes off, I back away and your hand goes back in the cuff. Got it?"

He nodded.

Beads of sweat formed on her back as Barney edged up to Dr. Lecter and unlocked his hand.

Still in a bite mask, still restrained within an inch of his life. Henry to the right with a gun aimed at his head, Barney with a baton behind me.

But… he won't hurt me. Not now, and maybe not ever. He might have before Buffalo Bill, but everything has changed, hasn't it?

Fog was forming behind the mask. Dr. Lecter was excited. And Clarice's heart was racing from more than the sugar rush.

"Go, Agent Starling," Collins barked.

Trying to remember this for her, because one day she would tell her daughter that her very existence had humbled the formidable Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice stepped in front of him and focused on everything. Dr. Lecter smelled like the standard soap from the commissary combined with mint toothpaste from a generic, white tube. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive. Like himself and maybe better than himself after being stripped from all the pretense. Dr. Lecter's hand smoothly glided to her body, searching for the steady kicks and finding them between her navel and pubic bone. Two deep, sighing breaths, and they both relaxed as his hand pressed in, just a little more. Tiny feet kicked faster, harder, as though knowing the man who was hunting for her. He felt it too, he knew, and his eyes met hers in undisguised triumph as his lips curved into a tender smile.

But she's not yours. 

"Step away from the prisoner, Agent Starling."

She backed up, her eyes never leaving Dr. Lecter's. He lifted his hand for Barney to re-cuff, putting up no fight.

"Was it worth it?" Her voice sounded like shit, and her hands shook when she buttoned her jacket.

"Her existence is worth every indignity I could face, Clarice. Our girl is strong. Whether she will be as boundless as the one who carries her remains to be seen. Blue flames… they light the rest of the fire and burn more efficiently than the cooler ones. Don't they?"

She swallowed and looked at Henry. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Agent Starling."

"I'll be downstairs in a little while. I need to check in with Quantico."

"I'll walk you back down when you're ready," Henry said.

She left the exam room and found a bathroom around the corner. Not caring if it was for staff or inmates, she walked in and locked the door behind her. The water was cool on her face, and she kept splashing until her heart rate slowed down. Her skin still tingled from where he had touched her, her body responding to him like he was an old lover.

But not any lover. 

Like Will.

Chapter Text

January 2013
Quantico, Virginia

Hannibal Lecter had made a wrong turn, and he never made wrong turns. But he was still unfamiliar with the basement at Quantico and hadn't had a chance to absorb each nuance into his memory palace. Smelling formaldehyde and a hundred other chemicals, he knew he was close to the evidence lab, which meant Jack Crawford's office wasn't too far off. He heard voices inside, one pleasingly familiar and one that reminded him of a hyena on the prowl. 

"Are you telling me that you aren't going to accept this into evidence? This could save a man's life, Mr. Krendler."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"So, you're going to suppress the truth to advance your own agenda, is that it?"

"William Edward Graham is guilty of these murders. He cut Abigail Hobbs' ear from her head and ate the damn thing; it was sitting in his sink in Wolf Trap."

"No. He. Did. Not. Not willingly. We got called to review everything with a fine-toothed comb. I found latex powder on her ear, undigested latex powder on a partial that doesn't match his ten card. Gloves like that haven't been in regular circulation for years. Doctors have to special order them because half the world is sensitized to latex, and you don't start exposing sick people in hospitals and clinics to the stuff. There's no way a layman like Will would even know where to get these – we don't even carry them in Quantico. All the gloves here are NITRILE."

Mentally taking notes, Hannibal continued listening. Old habits die hard, and it seemed he would need to update the supplies in his basement.

"Are you sensitized to latex, Agent Starling? Is that the problem? We could cut out of here, and I could introduce a thick piece of bare meat into some places you might really enjoy."

Lecter salivated, wanting to taste a piece of this clueless man's meat right now. Raw. Freshly bleeding, if possible. 

The possibilities.

"Are you kidding? Please tell me you're kidding, Mr. Krendler. You can't say something like that to me."

"Sure, I can. Don't you know who I am? I eat pieces of white trash like you for breakfast, Agent Starling. And I do it just fine."

The rude man was mocking her accent. Hannibal happened to think that her refusal to shed it was refreshing and likely endeared her to her former patients. That tiny piece of manipulation was delightfully cunning on her part.

"Do you now?"

"I could eat you, too, and have you begging for more before lunch. Gagging for it, if you're lucky."

Hannibal clenched his hand into a fist and shook it loose.

"You FUCKING idiot! Get your hand off my ass!"

"Make me."

He might have gone in and rescued her, but the dull sound of a fist cracking against bone made him keep still. This one, it seemed, could take care of herself despite her small size.

"OWWW!"

"If you don't act right and stop behaving like a mealy-mouthed baboon assed bastard, I'm going to have you disbarred for spoliation of evidence!"

"And I'm going to have your badge."

"I'd like to see you try. They'll have to ask me exactly what happened, and you better FUCKING believe I'm going to tell them exactly what you said."

"Like they'll believe you. Count your days and pack up your desk in New York when you get back. Even if they don't kick you out for punching me, you won't last long. A little blue flamer like you? I give you ten years before you burn out, Starling. Scratch that – I give you five."

"You want another five of mine? I can punch with my left hand just as good, and she's primed up."

That one had moxie. Hannibal was busy congratulating himself on his restraint last year when the door opened. A man with a dark comb-over and round ears that sat a little too high on his head walked out, holding a hand to his cheek.

"Dr. Lecter," Paul Krendler said. "What are you doing at Quantico?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Krendler. Surely it's not sexually harassing the new agents."

"I don't know what you think you heard, but…" He jerked his head back to the lab. "That one was asking for it."

"Is there a person who asks to be treated like a piece of meat?"

Except for people like you, of course.

"Mind your business and keep your mouth shut."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because she's nothing but trouble. Trust me – not worth the time. Excuse me."

Krendler walked away, still holding his hand to his face. From the sound of the crunch, his orbital bone was fractured. Hannibal hoped it hurt for years to come. 

It wouldn't suit for a member of the prosecution to go missing, not so soon after the mistrial. However… maybe after it was all over, he could do Mr. Krendler a favor and take a peek inside his head, just to see if the bone had healed. And if he removed a few key pieces of his pre-occipital lobe, he doubted the man would really miss them all that much. A minor lobotomy might improve things, just like they used to in the old days.

And with a few caper berries and beurre noisette…

There was soft crying coming from within the lab. Hannibal opened the door enough to peer inside and saw Clarice Starling sitting on the floor in front of the freezers, her head resting on her knees.

"Momma," she whispered brokenly.

He considered going in, but at that moment, he felt a hand on his back. 

"Dr. Lecter, are you lost?" Brian Zeller asked.

"I was looking for Agent Crawford's office. I'm afraid I got turned around."

"Go back to the elevators and make a right. It'll take you straight to the BAU."

"Thank you. I won't forget again."

Brian walked into the lab ahead of him and stopped when he saw Clarice on the floor. "Are you okay, Clarice?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She got up and wiped her eyes. "My time of the month."

"Say no more."

"Who were you talking to?"

"Sorry, Clarice, this is – huh, I guess he left already. Do you want to grab some lunch?"

"Sounds great. I've missed the cake the cafeteria serves on Fridays."

"It'll be gone by now; you have to be Jack Crawford or the Assistant Director to get a piece before the rush…"

Tuesday, June 30, 2020
2234
Colorado Springs, Colorado

Clarice hadn't dreamt of the woods or the grey moths that fluttered around as she ran from her father in months. But that night, exhausted and confused by her reaction to Dr. Lecter, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

They were all around her, landing on her clothes along with the damp leaves of late fall. The world was grey, the sunlight diffused by the low-lying fog and clouds. His voice was getting louder, and she ran ahead, her tread light as doe's until she ducked behind the old tree.

Clarice felt safe. If she could make it to the old gate, Miss Peggy's house would be a mile off. Miss Peggy loved her and would make sure Daddy didn't hurt her. If she could just -

"Clarice! Goddamn it girl, get back here! RIGHT NOW. DO YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR COWARDLY ASS INTO A PULP WHEN I FIND YOU! Get back here and finish this with me like a good soldier, or BY GOD YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO –"

She woke up shaking, but the warm arm around her waist held her close until the worst was over. 

"That was a bad one," Will whispered.

"Sorry," Clarice whispered back. "Yesterday was rough."

"You want some help getting your mind off of it?"

She grinned. "If you're offering, I wouldn't say no."

His lips were on her neck, and she closed her eyes and rolled towards him. Will always knew how to make it better and get her mind back on the things that mattered. When her mouth found his, it felt like spring had returned. His hands moved over her back then slipped to her front, caressing her belly.

"She's getting so strong," he murmured.

Something wasn't right. Will's voice was and wasn't his, and the lips on her neck felt all wrong.

Don't think.

"She loves her father already, doesn't she? Almost as much as I love her and her mother."

Clarice touched his chest and didn't feel the thin frame and scars she was used to. This skin was smooth and firm, peppered with coarse hair.

Stop it.

She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to know. But when Will's lips touched hers, giving her those kisses she knew and loved so much, it felt right again, and she surrendered to the sweetness of his love.

Perfect.

Except his mouth tasted like deep, red wine, without the bourbon chaser that always followed. Clarice opened her eyes and was met by Dr. Lecter's captivated gaze. He smiled and touched her cheek, his thumb rubbing over the tiny grains of embedded gunpowder.

"Tell me, Clarice. Who is it that you love?"

Wednesday, July 1, 2020
0300
Colorado Springs, Colorado

Clarice sat up in bed and put both of her hands to her mouth.

"Nope," she whispered, shaking her head. 

The clock in front of her read three o'clock.

"Nope, nope, nope," she said to her reflection in the mirror behind the clock. She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. "Nothing like a little countertransference to fuck with your mind. Stop it."

It might have been alright until she finished her morning routine. Something other than her mind was off, and when she looked at the tissue in her hand, it was stained with bright, red blood.

She grabbed her cell phone, calling her doctor's after-hours line.

"Everything looks good so far, Miss Starling," Doctor Kimbrell said, patting her foot. The nurse helped move her feet from the stirrups and sit up on the exam bed. "A little spotting can be normal, but I'd like to do an ultrasound."

"Whatever you want," Clarice said.

"Let me check the heartbeat before I send you to radiology," he said. He took a doppler from the tray and placed it on her abdomen. There was silence until he moved it around, then a fast whooshing filled the room.

"I like that sound," he said, smiling.

"Good sign?"

"For now. The ultrasound will tell us more. Have you had one yet?"

"No, my doctor at home does one at twenty weeks."

"You're almost there if the dates are right."

"They are. No doubt about when… trust me, they're right."

When the nurse came back into the room with a wheelchair, Clarice raised a brow and groaned. 

"You up for a ride?" the nurse asked.

"Is that really necessary?"

"If you come to the ER, you get a wheelchair ride until we tell you differently." The nurse patted the chair. "Come on now."

Reluctantly, Clarice sat in the wheelchair and was taken to radiology. If she thought a pelvic exam by a stranger was bad, having a transvaginal ultrasound was worse.

Karma is a bitch, ain't it, Clarice?

But maybe it was worth it. She forgot about the probe shoved inside her when the outline of her baby appeared on the screen. 

Holy shit.

"Ho-ly shit," she whispered, seeing the little feet dance in front of her.

"This one is active," the technician said.

"You don't have to tell me."

He checked everything, even managing to take a look at the placenta while he was at it. 

"See anything wrong?"

"Nope – I mean…" He coughed politely to cover the faux pas. "One of the radiologists will have to look at it, but nothing stands out right now."

"Thank god," Clarice said, taking a breath. Her muscles started to relax, just a little.

"I have a perfect view of something if you're interested."

"What's that?"

"If you want to know the sex, that's something I can tell you right now."

"Is it a girl?"

"Without a doubt."

You're right about everything, aren't you, Dr. Lecter?

"Do you want a few pictures?"

"Baby's first selfie," Clarice said, giggling, "Why not?"

He smiled and printed off a picture of the baby's profile, along with images of her heart and feet. She wasn't sure if baby's first crotch shot was the best way to celebrate the occasion, but she was given a still of that, too.

Send it to Ardelia. She'll get a kick out of it.

Back in the exam room, Dr. Kimbrell reviewed her chart and lab work as Clarice finished getting dressed. "Everything looks good. If you sign a release at the desk, we'll send the records to your doctor in Virginia."

"I'll do that."

"I want you to take it easy, though. You're underweight and a little dehydrated. Eat more and better and have a bottle of water with you wherever you go. It says here that you run, correct?"

"Yes, but I've always been a runner – I started training for a half-marathon before I found out I was pregnant. Dr. Jones said I was okay as long as I didn't push it."

"Until your next appointment with her, you need to slow down. Walks or slow jogs, okay?"

Shit.

"Okay, Miss Starling?"

"Got it. Eat better, drink more, slow down."

"Your body and your…" he looked at the chart again. "Little girl with thank you for it."

You know just where to tug the strings, don't you?

"I'll do better. I promise.”

He touched her arm and smiled. "You're free to leave, Miss Starling. Without a wheelchair."

She grabbed her bag and walked out of the room, passing the nurse's desk. The nurse who had taken her to radiology, May, called out to her.

"Miss Starling?"

Clarice turned. "Did I forget anything?"

"I have your release."

"Right," she said, filling it out.

"And… ummm… I don't know how to ask for this, but my daughter adores you. Do you think that maybe I could get your autograph?"

Clarice almost dropped her pen. "Huh?"

"Kim wants to be an FBI agent when she gets out of college, and you're all she can talk about. She wants to be in the BAU one day, just like you."

How the fuck am I a celebrity? 

Clarice signed the tiny piece of notebook paper May gave her and finished completing the form.

"Do you have any advice for her? About being in the FBI?"

Keep your mouth shut and stay out of trouble if she can help it.

But Clarice smiled and remembered Will's words to her. "If she's accepted into the Academy, tell her not to piss off her instructors, learn to cultivate her empathy, and think like she's in law enforcement."

May scribbled the words onto a sheet of paper. "Anything else?"

"Tell her… tell her to never forget where she came from. It helps."

Especially when you have pricks like Paul Krendler constantly reminding you.

"Thank you, Miss Starling."

"Welcome." Clarice gave her the finished form and left.

Another nurse slid her chair next to May and watched her walk out. "You should have asked her what she was doing in Colorado."

"Probably a case. The SuperMax isn't far off."

"Yuck. I dated their last doctor for a while. He tried to examine that cannibal and got told the what for. He almost changed professions."

"I would have too. Wait a minute, are you talking about Mark?"

"Yep. The man scared him so bad he wet his pants, but I didn't tell you that."

"You couldn't pay me to do that job." May looked at Clarice's back as she walked through the sliding doors. "You don't think that maybe she's here to see…"

May and Anita shared a glance.

"Oh, hell no. That's Will Graham's baby," Anita finally said. "There's no way she'd be seeing Hannibal the Cannibal. They've got a list of celebrity inmates a mile long."

"You're right," May said. But the thought didn't entirely leave her mind or Anita's until long after the next trauma came in.

Wednesday, July 1, 2020
0837
Colorado Springs, Colorado

"You're late," Barney said. 

"I had to go to the ER this morning," Clarice whispered.

"What's wrong?" Collins asked. The man couldn't whisper for shit, and she stared at him until he lowered his voice. "What's wrong, Agent Starling?"

"Just a scare. The doctor said I was fine. Her too, for that matter," she said, then jerked her chin towards the monitor. "What about him?"

"He's been pacing since breakfast," Barney said.

"How can you tell? I can't even see him."

"He's in the blind spot," Collins explained. "His attorney said that having the camera pointed to his bed and facilities was an invasion of privacy, and the Warden made us move it instead of arguing. He's been burning circles in the corner."

"How agitated is he?"

"He's doing a good job of pretending he ain't when we do our checks," Collins said, discreetly spitting his dip in a Styrofoam cup. "But we can tell. Doesn't help that night shift said he couldn't sleep."

That makes two of us.

"More nightmares?"

"Frank said he was calling for his sister. Lecter was hoarse when we got here."

A sliver of compassion opened for Dr. Lecter, one Clarice quickly tried to squash. "Can I give him a cup of tea or… something? Is that allowed?"

Barney looked at her warily but took out a regulation mug from his drawer. There was a coffee pot behind him, and he poured it in the cup and passed it to her. "Fresh out of tea, Agent Starling."

"That’ll work.”

"Your breakfast tray is on the desk. Dr. Lecter didn't like the idea of us moving it too much," Collins said.

"Thank you. I came here straight from the hospital, but it took longer than I thought.."

"You coulda skipped a day."

"Doctor said we were fine. No need to lay in bed when all I do is sit in front of him and talk."

"You want a box to put your feet up on?"

Clarice looked at Barney and tilted her head. "Is that big family you come from the one you made for yourself?"

"Maybe," Barney said. "I've got four kids and one on the way."

"Congratulations."

"I'll bring a box to you as soon as I can empty one out in the storage room."

She smiled again and nodded towards the door. "Best not to keep him waiting any longer."

Collins hit the button, the loud buzz making her jump. Getting too tired, lonely, and hungry made her do that if she wasn't careful, and she needed to get something on her stomach if she was going to keep her cool in front of Dr. Lecter.

Chapter Text

Dr. Lecter was lying on his bed, looking through a heavy copy of Milton's Paradise Lost. His head was facing the back wall, where he had hung the sketch of Clarice as Mary Magdalene.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Dr. Lecter," Clarice said.

He didn't answer or even acknowledge she was there.

Clarice put the cup of coffee in the carrier and pushed it through, hoping it didn't spill. She kept her voice cheerful when she said, "I brought you some fresh coffee if you want a cup."

Still no answer, but he took a deep breath when she was near the glass.

Fuck it. Two can play that game.

Shrugging, Clarice sat at the desk and took the cover off the tray. Scones today, with clotted cream and thick jam. She stirred her spoon in the little bowl and looked down at it. It was too red, and after this morning, it turned her stomach. The tea in the mug was cold, but it helped settle things, as did the container of milk next to it.

There was a soft sound behind the glass. Clarice looked up, but other than flipping a page, Dr. Lecter hadn't moved.

I am not at your beck and call, motherfucker. 

A buzz, and Barney walked down the corridor, box in hand. 

"Should be sturdy enough," he said.

"Thank you."

Clarice put it under the desk and sat her feet on top of it. That did feel better, though it put her body at an odd angle in the straight-backed chair. She ate the scone dry, washing it down with the rest of her tea, and took a copy of the Journal for Criminal Justice from her bag. She was halfway through the last article when he finally spoke.

"You're bleeding."

You really can smell everything, can't you? 

"Are you injured?"

"I scratched myself while running last night."

Lie.

"You aren't wearing a bandage. What aren't you telling me?"

"What do you think I'm not telling you?"

"I overheard you whispering to my guards. They sounded concerned, and Barney the Benevolent brought you a box to rest your pretty little feet upon." He turned another page. "I don't enjoy being lied to, Clarice."

"It's not – it's not your concern."

"Isn't it?" He sat up, using a finger to mark his page, and turned to look at her. But there was concern heavy on his face, and the bags under his eyes added to the effect.

Manipulation. Plain and simple. All interactions and exams suggest to antisocial and narcissist personality disorders, at minimum. Don't let him in.

Except you did let him in the moment you let him touch you.

Clarice clicked her front teeth together, weighing her options. 

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I had some spotting last night. I went to the ER when I couldn't reach my doctor. All is well."

"Why aren't you at your hotel room?"

"I didn't feel like spending the day staring at the wall, and I'm not on bed rest."

"Hmmm."

If I'm not your therapist, you definitely aren't mine.

"I didn't even need fluids. See," Clarice said, taking off her jacket and showing off her arms.

His eyes went to the bruise in the crux of her elbow. "You had blood drawn."

"Well, doctors like to order blood, don't they? Gives them a little extra to bill for. Do you want to see my records?"

"If you're offering, send them through."

"I wasn't."

"Instead of taking the day off after a nighttime ER visit, you came here to see me? People will start saying we're in love instead of you and Will Graham."

She frowned and shook her head. "That's a two-way street, and the roads on both of your sides are blocked. What's your question today? Let's get it over with before we resume all these tests."

"Yes, let's resume those tests. All those credentials and certifications for administering and interpreting tests that help pad your little résumé."

"Last time I checked, I have more initials behind my name than you do yours," Clarice said with cheek. "You don't have to pad if you have the street cred to back it up. All your big credentials, and yet you had so much trouble keeping your clients alive."

"Haven't you ever had people coming over and no time to shop? You have to make do with what's available."

"I guess I keep plenty in the freezer for a rainy day. Plus, I don't really like to cook if I can help it."

Fuck.

"Why not?" Dr. Lecter asked, his curiosity piqued.

Double fuck.

"I'm liberated," she said, opening her bag to retrieve those damn tests.

"Question of the day. Quid pro quo."

Clarice could feel her eyebrow twitching. She was backed in a corner again thanks to her mouth, and boy howdy, didn't she hate feeling that way.

"I had to cook for my father when I was a child."

"Your father the foot soldier?"

"Yes. He, ummm… he wasn't capable of doing much around the house, and I had to take over. Cook, clean, all the domestic work. I hated cooking the most."

"Why?"

Because there was never enough food to cook with.

"If it's my guards you're worried about, they won't tell a soul outside of this facility. Codes of honor abound here, Clarice."

"Because I was seven and… it's a lot to ask for a kid, especially one that young. It didn't help that most of the time there wasn't enough to cook with."

"You were poor?"

"Yes. What little money came in after my mom died, Daddy drank away."

She hadn't meant to say that. She really hadn't meant to say that. It sparked Dr. Lecter's interest. He set his book on the bed and walked towards the glass, hovering over her.

"Your father was an alcoholic?"

"He was."

"PTSD?"

"In hindsight, yes."

"Shame there is only hindsight for him. Is he dead?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen my father in almost thirty years."

Why am I still talking?

"Why is that, Clarice?"

"Because someone finally noticed what bad shape we were in. Codes of honor abound where I used to live, too – a lot of looking the other way and pretending what they saw wasn't happening. And the people who tried to help got screamed off the front porch because 'Starlings don't take charity'. Not even when his daughter wasn't growing, and the clothes she wore when she was six were loose on her when she was nine. There are a lot of people in this world who don't have a cook and think a dinner of roast and potatoes is a nice meal instead of humble food, Dr. Lecter. Your sister died to make that, and… I remember being so hungry I would have died to sit at that table and get to eat some real food. You can make fun of my credentials and my degrees because they aren't as impressive as you think yours are, but I EARNED them. Academic and athletic scholarships all the way, and you better believe I still list them on my little résumé. I'm not ashamed of letting anyone know that I came from NOTHING and worked for EVERYTHING I've got. I wasn't some poor little rich boy who thought he was better than everyone else. I know exactly where I came from, and that's a primordial puddle of liquor and shit. I know exactly what it's like to actually be hungry, Dr. Lecter. It's a shame you were so full that you never had time to be anything other than thirsty for blood and other people's pain."

Tired. Hungry. Angry. Lonely.

Clarice hadn't realized that she had moved, but she was standing next to the glass in front of him. Her chair was overturned behind the desk, and she was on her toes to look at him better, not that it made a difference with a foot of long bone separating their height. She was panting, and if she looked in a mirror right now, she'd see how red her face was. 

Anger makes a woman look tacky. Well, Dr. Lecter, how do you like me now?

His expression was utterly impassive. They could have been talking about the fucking weather. Instead of letting it piss her off more, Clarice turned back to her desk and picked up the chair.

"Do you want to do next? You've got your pick between Stanford-Binet and WAIS – I didn't know how cooperative you would be. Or you could do both if I'm boring you."

"Both."

"I thought so." She took the tests from her bag and passed them through the carrier. "Let me know when you're done."

"You aren't going to time me?"

"What's the point? You'll be done in twenty minutes. I'll slap my rubber stamp in that section and save myself the effort." She grabbed her journal and took a breath, trying to find where she left off. A little cold water on her face would be welcomed, but she wasn't going to back off. Anyone else would have cut out, but Clarice wasn't going to run now that she was this far in.

Dr. Lecter completed the WAIS in fifteen. The Stanford-Binet, he used to make a series of origami birds that sat in a line in front of his table. A tiny chicken was on the far end, and he was moving the tail to make it peck when she looked up from Perspectives on Psychological Science. He'd been watching her read while he worked, and she'd been watching him work as she read. Now, their eyes met, and dammit if she didn't get a case of the giggles when he worked that tail harder.

"Is that funny?"

"A little."

"Good. I enjoy the sound of your laughter."

"You'd hear it more often if you'd quit needling me."

He'll do anything he can to needle into your mind.

The laughter died in her throat; the stale air around them immediately missing the joyful sound.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

"You're manipulating me, Dr. Lecter. It won't work."

"A cigar can simply be a cigar."

"Not with you. The cigar is always… more. Symbols and allegory, metaphor and illusions. Even laughter isn't laughter. It's all part of a bigger plan. Isn't it?"

Dr. Lecter took the form and put it in the carrier, and she met him there and grabbed it.

"Laughter is the great healer, Clarice. Did you think that I might have felt sorry for bringing up such painful memories?"

"No, I don't. I think you enjoyed it."

"That's where you're wrong."

She ignored him and returned to her desk, ready to grade his work in peace. In turn, he went back to his bed and laid down, picking up his book where he had left off.

Might as well give me a shiny red apple instead of making a bunch of fucking birds.

The fucking apple came with dinner.

Goddamn psychic mind reader, just like –

Nope.

STOP IT.

A whole apple was baked into a flaky pastry with salted caramel sauce and lemon ice cream, and it was one of the best things that Clarice had ever put into her mouth. She wanted to lift the little dish and lick the damn thing in front of him but restrained herself enough to swipe the remaining sauce with her pinky, bringing it to her mouth with a moan she couldn't control.

"I believe I have found the crack in your armor, my dear."

Clarice pulled the finger from between her lips and wiped it on her napkin.

"It won't put you in mortal peril to enjoy a good meal."

"It might while eating with you, Dr. Lecter. But that was good. My mother used to bake apples in the fall."

"Did it remind you of home?"

"A little."

"In a good way?"

"Yeah."

"Don't say 'Yeah'," Dr. Lecter said, a slight turn of his head showing his irritation with her choice of words.

"I say what I mean," Clarice said. "Would you like it better if I said, 'It makes me think of all the good times at home'? That would be a little fancier and equally true."

She swiped her pinky in the remaining sauce and tasted it again, taking nothing back as she watched an odd look pass over his face.

"How did your mother die?"

"I might tell you tomorrow. And then again, I might refuse. You never know, Dr. Lecter. You did leave that in my hands." She stood and stretched before picking up her bags. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Did the doctor do an ultrasound, Clarice?" 

"Yeah."

He didn't take her bait. "The technicians frequently print out pictures for their patients to take home."

"They do," she agreed. The unasked question hung between them, but she decided not to wait him out again. Picking up her tray, she nodded and said, "Good night. I'll be back in the morning."

"Sleep well, Clarice."

"You, too."

His eyes were on her until she passed the mark on the floor that Barney had placed for her, showing the spot where staff could no longer be seen. Clarice slumped her shoulders, rolling her neck before yelling out, "I'm ready!"

She walked through the gate as soon as they opened and put her tray in the bin next to the desk. Barney and Collins were gone for the day, and the night guards looked bored.

"I'll walk you up," Frank said in a gravelly, hoarse voice.

He took her all the way to the building's exit, not saying a word. She enjoyed the day shift more; the banter and encouragement helped. Now, she felt unsure of herself and nodded nervously when he held the door open for her to step through.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow night," she said.

Frank nodded and said nothing.

Clarice couldn't get to her rental car fast enough, hands shaking when she turned on the radio. The song was too familiar, and tears filled her eyes as she rolled out of the main gate.

Nothing's wrong as far as I can see
We make it harder than it has to be
And I can't tell you why...

Chapter Text

Thursday, July 2, 2020
2132
Colorado Springs, Colorado

"How are you?" Jack asked.

I feel like shit inside and out.

"I'm making it. You guys weren't wrong, but I think he's worse than he used to be."

"Explain."

"I don't know if I can on the fly. All this time by himself, without anyone he knows… there's an air of desperation around that cell. I can feel it every time I go down there."

"Is he planning something?"

"Probably, but it's not his escape if that's on your mind. No one has ever escaped from this facility, and the staff takes a lot of pride in it. I don't know, Jack. Whatever it is, I'm going to be blindsided before I leave on Sunday. That much I do know."

Jack was silent for a minute. "I can fly out tonight if you need help."

"No… I think he'll clam up if someone from the past appears. I can deal with it. And if I can't, I'll ask Dr. Bloom to put me down for twice a week until it's better."

"I don't like the amount of information you're sharing with him. It's dangerous, Clarice."

"I realize that. If it makes you feel any better, the person he's obsessed with is on the lam, and it ain't me. Plus, I don't think he'd come after me."

"And why is that?"

"He acts very paternal towards the baby. Protective. As preoccupied with appearances as he is, I think he'd be mortified if something bad happened to us that could be traced back to him."

"That's why he'd bushwhack you or have someone else do it. Dr. Lecter doesn't get mortified, Clarice, but he does get even. Don't put emotions on him that don't exist. At the end of the day, he doesn't have any."

"Ohhh, but I think he does," Clarice said, though she let that topic drop. "There's an element of elegance to his mental disorders, like… the Robin Hood of Good Living, but that good living has to be on his terms, or else you're fucked. Everyone has a moral code, even murderers and thieves, and he has one too. Look at the people the BAU has interviewed in the last forty years. There's nothing wrong with what they do, but if they hear about something other people have done that offends them, they are the first to start casting stones. And it's not just murderers – you know the pecking order in prisons."

"Honor amongst the dishonorable."

"Something like that," she said, frowning into the receiver. "I'll have to write a paper about this when I'm done. He fits so many of the diagnostic elements, and yet he doesn't. I know you and Dr. Bloom like to use the word Monster to describe him, but we need something better. He's a unique form of disorders – like the Gentleman Spy."

"Please don't compare him to James Bond."

Whoops.

"I didn't," she said smoothly. "It's an expression."

"Keep me updated. Are you getting any sleep? You've been sending your reports at all hours of the night and morning."

No.

"Pregnancy does weird things to your circadian rhythms."

Not really a lie.

"Can you take anything?"

"Other than a hot bath, I'd rather not start."

"Try. Would you, Clarice?"

Yes, Dad.

"I will. And I'll call if I can't press through."

"You do that," Jack said and ended the call.

June 2013
Florence, Italy

"What on Earth are you watching?" Bedelia said, leaning over his shoulder. "I didn't take you for being interested in sports."

"I swim," he protested.

"But women's track meets? Does it excite you to see young women running for their lives?"

In certain circumstances…

"I'm broadening my horizons," he said, keeping his voice light. 

"Hmmm. You're up to something, aren't you?"

"I'm up for everything, Mrs. Fell. You of all people should know that by now."

She frowned at him and picked up her purse. "I'm going for a walk. Would you like me to pick up anything?"

A personality would be nice.

"Whatever you like will liberally be removed from my coffers."

Bedelia kissed his cheek and blessedly left him alone.

When Hannibal was sure she was gone, he turned up the volume on his tablet and started the YouTube video from the beginning. A bright streak of copper burst ahead of the throng, and the tiny woman was indeed running as though for her very life. The dark green ribbon at the end of the four hundred meters broke and reformed every time he restarted the clip until he was fascinated by the reverse and inverse action. Almost like a teacup, but shredding against her determined chest instead of shattering to pieces on a stone floor. Ripping and mending, over and over in an endless loop of time until his focus was on nothing else. 

Like sewing, like surgery, like skin – like the pieces of muscle and flesh that had been removed from Mischa's small body could be reformed from the meat on his plate.

The idea came and went, as it always did. He'd tried it before, twice, and it had never worked. Perhaps it was best for that cup did not reform after all, and Hannibal sincerely doubted it ever could with her. There was something about her resilience that told him she could never be broken, though the idea of trying excited him deep within his mind. The train moving behind layers of fog continued to press forward, though without the speed she suddenly generated when the starting pistol cracked.

Newton's First Law of Motion states that a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it, and a body in motion at a constant velocity will remain in motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an outside force. Though Miss Starling's run was gently curved as she shot forward… it made Hannibal so intensely curious about the very nature of the Second Law and its application to her life that he pulled out his sketch pad.

The calculations were found when the apartment was seized by the Italian police. The mathematicians who reviewed them stated that the equations began brilliantly but fell into decline when they were doomed by what seemed to be wishful thinking. Newton had created that law while thinking about objects without their own will, after all, and Hannibal had made a leap that it applied to all bodies in the universe. It seemed he wanted all the outside forces on Earth to be removed: gravity, atmosphere, and time featuring prominently. And he wanted his object to shoot ahead like a star, hurdling throughout the infinite cosmos with all possible hurdles removed.

Hannibal Lecter wanted, it seemed, to be God. But instead of controlling the object, he wanted it to be wild, without the forces that would impede its progress. 

And if he had kept his own course of thought, undistracted by the unexpected force moving that train… he might have been able to prove His existence by working through those fundamental laws.

Now, he wasn't satisfied with the equations and left them, turning to a fresh page. A face came to mind, the first face she'd had in that classroom. The lights had been magnified by her awful choice of spectacles and the intense color of her hair. The effect had stayed with him. Much later, archivists would finally take note of how long Clarice Starling had been held whole within him when an art fellow noticed the similarity of her features in Hannibal's detailed rendering of The Woman Clothed with the Sun. 

When he was finished, he went back to his tablet for a little while longer, this time reaching the end of the clip.

"Love is begun by time, and time qualifies the spark and fire of it," he whispered. 

The tip of his finger hovered over her victorious face when the official placed a shining gold medal around her neck.

Friday, July 3, 2020
1442
Florence, Colorado

"I want to know more about the day your sister died," Clarice said.

"What would you like to know?" Dr. Lecter asked.

"Did you know what was happening?"

He shook his head. 

No fancy words. His nonverbals are never untruthful. 

Clarice stood and walked up to the barrier, resting her shoulder in the nook between glass and stone. It was opposite the one Barney preferred and had become a comfortable place to think when she needed to ask pressing questions. With her desk pushed slightly away from the glass, she was able to pace if she needed to, sometimes leaning into the very spot that Barney had first casually mentioned the tough little Agent to Dr. Lecter.

But too loose a question, room to wiggle – get it narrowed. 

"Did you know that your cook was going to kill her?"

"I didn't."

"How did you find out she was dead?"

Hesitation and several beats of time passed.

"I've told you where I come from, Dr. Lecter. Show me the same courtesy, and you can curse at me too if you want. Quid pro quo."

"But you haven't told me everything."

"Again, I'm not the one on your side of the glass. I asked you first. Talk to me, Dr. Lecter."

He turned to the back wall, staring up the cold, grey ceiling instead of his sketches. "Our parents had died in a train crash two weeks before, and I moved home from the school dormitory in town. I was taking a walk around our grounds when I smelled blood near the smokehouse."

"It could have been animal blood."

"But it wasn't," he said, turning to look at her. His expression was cold. 

"Did you go to the smokehouse?"

"I did."

"Was Mischa in there, Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes. There was no saving her; she'd been dead several hours by then. Her left leg was removed at the hip."

He knew. And he ate her anyway.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice. I've told you the worst memory from my childhood. Tell me yours."

Clarice took a deep breath.

"Quicker than that," Dr. Lecter said. "I'm not interested in your worst invention."

"The death of my mother."

"Tell me."

"She worked dispatch at the local police station. One night on the way home, she stopped at the gas station and walked into a robbery. The unsub shot her in the head just like the clerk and left. He was never found."

"Was she killed outright?"

Clarice nodded and tried to look away from him but couldn't. "My dad and I found her when she didn't come home. Gray matter everywhere. She never knew what hit her. My last memory of my mother is when I peeped through the store window and saw her with the back of her head missing. I didn't get the chance to see her in her best suit before they buried her, and I asked. But… I was too little and traumatized enough."

"What single detail do you remember most from her funeral?"

She closed her eyes. "The music. Her favorite hymn was His Eye is on the Sparrow. The minister's wife sang it after the eulogy. All her friends from the station left before it was over and cried in the foyer of the church."

"Do you ever sing, Clarice?"

"No, I don't. That's it. We've traded."

"Yes, we have. You've been very frank, Clarice. I always know. I think it would be quite something to know you in private life."

"Quid pro quo. You saw your sister and knew someone had dismembered her in a place where your cook would prepare food. Did you already know he was a cannibal?"

"Yes."

Clarice opened her eyes. He was standing next to her on his side of the glass. It was the closest they had been since the day she had let him touch her. Her skin started to tingle again over the spot where Will Graham's daughter had kicked his hand. "Why didn't you get help?"

"I wanted her death to mean more than what it was."

"Is that why you ate her?" Tears were at the corners of her eyes, and she didn't wipe them away. "Because it would be more meaningful if someone who loved her ate that meal?"

"Yes."

Something in her memory triggered, and she pushed ahead. "Was your cook the man that Chiyoh held prisoner?"

A smile formed that made her skin crawl. "No."

The tears wouldn't stop. Clarice rubbed at her eyes with her sleeves. When the carrier passed to her side, she startled.

"I can't bite from this far away," he said wryly. "But if I could dry those tears for you, my dear, I would."

A small washcloth was inside, and she used it to dry her own face with hands that trembled. 

"Who are you crying for?"

"All of us," she said.

"Do you cry very often?"

"I didn't use to. I was tough as nails before that raid." She looked at the washcloth and laughed through the pain. "I guess you didn't get what you asked for, Dr. Lecter. I'm not the woman who turned the Three Rivers Rapist into a blubbering mess. Not anymore."

"It might surprise you when you realize that wasn't the woman I wanted to meet. Each of us has a part we play to suffer through the days. I wanted to meet the woman who appears after you leave the prisons."

"Do you think this is closer to who I am?"

"You tell me."

"It might be. Getting ready to meet you, I felt more like myself than I had in months."

"Were you not yourself when you were on the trail of Buffalo Bill?"

"It was better, but… sometimes it wasn't. I might not have made the decisions I did if my partner had been alive." She sighed and tried to smile for him, then decided to freeze that thought from ever occurring again. "But I don't regret those decisions either."

"Such is woman," he said. 

"Well, then. On behalf of my gender: fuck you, Dr. Lecter."

He chuckled and shook his head. "What would it be like to know you, Clarice?"

Barney and Collins watched the scene on the monitor, a bowl of pretzels between them.

"Do you ever get the feeling that he's flirting with her?" Barney asked.

"You're just figuring that out?" Collins scoffed. "I knew he liked her, but this is giving me the creeps."

"Why is she giving him back that washcloth? He can get a fresh one anytime he wants."

"That's one sick fuck," Collins said. "I'll warn Frank and Pop that he needs time to himself tonight."

"Huh?"

"You remember how excited he was to touch her? He kept that hand near his face the rest of the damn day. Now he's got her tears. Someone like Lecter gets off on that."

"All this damn squid pro row they're doing… it's working. He's never talked that much to anybody, not even us."

"I hope she knows what she's doing. Ah, fuck. That was getting interesting. Here she comes."

Collins buzzed her in, and Clarice zoomed past the desk, saying, "I'm going to walk the supply hall for a while and stretch my legs."

"Uh-huh," Barney said. He turned to Collins. "Dr. Lecter is getting to her. That's the fourth time she's taken a walk today."

"Maybe the old boy really does need a reminder about who is on the other side of that glass. It ain't Will Graham, and it definitely ain't her."

"What do you want to do? Bait and switch?"

"Nah. Last time he caught on too quick, and it stopped being fun."

Barney pulled out his phone and flipped through his social media accounts. #StarlingGrahamBaby was trending again; apparently, someone at the hospital had leaked that she went in for an ER visit. 

"Motherfuckers," he whispered at the screen, but at least it helped him find the picture he wanted. "Keep the gate open. I won't be long."

Barney kept his phone close and walked down to the glass cage. He did a quick inventory of the blind side, seeing Dr. Lecter's books neatly stacked on the table next to his bed. And on the bed was the washcloth, a corner sticking out from underneath his pillow.

"Agent Starling went for a walk," Barney said.

"She mentioned her muscles were stiff," Dr. Lecter said from his table. 

The spot he usually favored didn't feel like the right one for this, and it would fuck with Lecter's head more if he stood where Agent Starling had poured her heart out to him. Barney moved there instead, back towards the camera, and pulled out his phone.

"Those pricks on the internet are talking about her again," he casually mentioned, pretending to flip through the screens. 

"Do enlighten me, Barney. What are they saying?"

"Her visit to the hospital got leaked, and it's all about the Starling-Graham baby. She's never going to get a break, is she?" Barney stopped moving his finger and turned the phone around.

Lecter raised a brow and stood, lacing his hands behind his back, and looked at the picture, though focusing more on the words underneath. Barney didn't take his eyes from Dr. Lecter's face. He might have started enjoying the occasional sip of pain too early in his new career. The tell was there: the lick to his upper lip followed by a little nibble. The eyes that Dr. Lecter flashed when he looked up were no longer kind.

"Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy. Especially when that knife is sunk into a man's gut."

"Are you talking about Will Graham or yourself?"

Dr. Lecter lifted his chin and coolly regarded him. "One day, you will come to realize how little difference there is between men. I can only hope that moment comes long before fate claims you."

"Is that a threat, Dr. Lecter? If it is, we will send her off and -"

"Bite mask, straitjacket, meals down the tube, and dignity pants? For the record, it was simply an observation. As much as I enjoy your taunts, Barney, I have yet to see them come to fruition. Empty threats grow meaningless, don't they? Similar to the Little Boy Who Cried Wolf."

"Except the Big Bad Wolf is right where he should be in her case. Don't forget how much Henry thinks of Agent Starling. My threats might seem meaningless, but he would shoot you and go to bed knowing he did the world a favor."

"And people call me a monster. It seems the devil's agents may truly be made of flesh and blood."

Barney sneered at him and walked back to the desk, giving his finger to the gate when it closed.

"You walked into that one," Collins said.

"I really hate him sometimes," Barney whispered.

"You ain't gonna rattle him any time soon. Every time she walks in, he struts around like a damn rooster. It's gonna take a fucking year to wear off."

"Goddamn it," Barney said, then looked at the ceiling. "Sorry."

"What did you show him?"

"This. It got to Dr. Lecter for a minute. Maybe more than that – he went to lay down."

"Or take a piss," Collins said and took the phone. The picture of Will kissing Clarice's cheek at the seafood restaurant was in a gossip magazine article. Under it was the beginning of a hundred comments speculating if that was the night the Starling-Graham baby was conceived. Collins looked at the picture and sighed. "They sure looked happy."

"Yeah," Barney said, putting his phone back in his drawer. "Yeah, they did. And that's something else Dr. Lecter won't ever be able to give her. A kiss, rewarded by that sweet a smile."

"Almost makes you feel sorry for him."

Barney looked at his friend until Collins' dour face cracked into a grin. "You had me worried."

"Not me you should be worrying about. Save it for the little Agent. Mitch and I are going to pray the rosary tonight if you want to come."

"I'm Baptist."

"Don't matter. Meet us at the breakroom at eight. Starling needs all the help she can get."

Chapter Text

Saturday, July 4, 2020
1605
Florence, Colorado

Clarice jumped when the carrier passed through to her side. She hadn't slept last night. Every time she had closed her eyes, she could feel someone next to her in the bed. Today she was twitchier than ever, and the espresso with breakfast hadn't helped.

"What is that?" she asked.

"See for yourself." Dr. Lecter seemed oddly at peace.

She placed her notes in front of her and walked to the carrier, looking inside. Several stacks of butcher paper lay within, torn to small pages the exact size of standard copy paper. She removed them and went back to her desk. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline after the first three sentences, but she didn't look up until she reached the last page.

"Is this the truth?"

"Yes. And you'll find the details never released to the public when you start digging, if you think I'm confessing for my own enjoyment."

"Texas, Connecticut, and London. You agreed to give us two. Why more?"

"Why not?" he asked. 

"Why early?"

"I think we should rest tomorrow, my dear, and spend the day discussing our old touches. Don't you? Or will you leave now that you have what you wanted?"

Clarice could leave. She wanted nothing more than to be in her bed in Annandale. But she'd made a bargain for a week, and she had to find out how he'd known she was Omega-track. If she'd made it this far, she was pretty sure she could do anything. 

At thirty-five, Clarice Starling was still naïve. 

"I'll stay," she said. "But you didn't touch Massachusetts."

"Oh, I must have forgotten. Silly me."

Her molars had gotten a workout in the last couple of days, and she ground them together before saying, "Fine."

"In the throats of the dead found on Plum Island were the cocoons of three silkworm moths. No one would know that other than the coroner and the detectives on the case. And you, of course."

"Why moths?"

"After your mother died, you and your father lived together, and you turned into his housekeeper. You resent cooking, yet you come to me every day looking spotless, and those atrocious jackets you keep wearing have been mended several times over by your own hand. Why do you hate preparing food, Clarice?"

She swallowed. "Pass."

"Then you'll never get to know why. And you'd hate that, wouldn't you?"

"You know most of it. Cooking isn't very much fun when there's nothing to make other than cornbread and collards."

"And yet."

She turned in her chair and put her head in her hands. No one knew the rest of it other than Peggy Lippman and the officers at the McDowell County Sheriff's Office. She didn't want Barney and Collins to hear, or whoever else was with them today. She stood and walked down the corridor, the gate opening before she could open her mouth.

"Turn off the monitor and wait in the stairwell," she said as soon as she walked inside.

"That's against the rules," Collins said.

The Warden was here on a Saturday and sitting to the side. Clarice spoke directly to him. "You don't get to enjoy this part of the show. Turn it off."

"IF I allow that, you'll have to be armed."

"You act like he can walk through walls."

"I don't put anything past him, Agent Starling."

"Then arm me. I'm certified on every gun in that cabinet."

Barney leaned back in his seat and considered her. "Every one of them?"

"My partner was a firearms expert. It's what we did on the weekends for fun."

"What do you like best?" Barney asked.

"The G43X that Henry had. Do you have one down here?"

Barney looked at the Warden, who sighed and nodded his consent. "Fine."

She took off her jacket when Collins passed her a shoulder holster, and she checked the gun twice before sliding it in the pouch.

"We'll give you ten minutes," Warden Thompson said.

"Thank you."

Clarice walked through the gate. When it closed behind her, cold sweat dotted her brow. She listened for the stairwell door, and when it slammed shut, she continued on ahead. Dr. Lecter stood from his chair when she walked up to the glass.

"Are we alone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What happened when you lived alone with your father, Clarice? Did he fuck you?"

"No."

"Did he try?"

"No."

"Then why haven't you seen your father in so long?"

Clarice! Goddamn it girl, get back here! RIGHT NOW. DO YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR COWARDLY ASS INTO A PULP WHEN I FIND YOU! Get back here and finish this with me like a good soldier, or BY GOD YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO SIT FOR A FUCKING WEEK!

"Because Daddy almost beat me to death when I tried to run away."

A sharp intake of breath, and he was in front of her. Dr. Lecter's nearness made her dizzy, or maybe it was what she just admitted. But she refused to cry about this again, not after so many tears had already been shed. When their eyes met, she felt real sympathy radiate from him, but his morbid curiosity won over anything that resembled affection.

"Was it the first time?"

"It was never that bad before. A kick in the back for burning toast, a punch in the face for not scrubbing the floors like Momma did. I could handle that."

"He broke your nose that day."

"Yes."

"What else?"

"My coccyx and five ribs. He also dislocated my left shoulder."

"Why did you run away from him that day in particular?"

"It was deer season, and there was no food left in the house other than some old potatoes and cornmeal. The greens that year hadn't turned, and we couldn't eat them. We had a big garden back at the old house, but we couldn't plant much around the trailer. The dirt there was shit," she said, wiping her nose when it started to run. Her heart rate was up, and her daughter was kicking. Clarice hoped she couldn't hear their words.

"Elizabeth raised silkworm moths as a hobby. She loved butterflies, but those pure, white moths intrigued her. And me. They release pheromones before they mate, did you know that? So much biological concern for a few seconds of reproductive function. I watched those tiny worms wrap themselves in a blanket of silk, then emerge into the creatures she loved so much. They used to fly around her as though they were dancing with their mother. Do you ever wonder if the primitive animals look to us as their gods? Us, their imago. I think they did that with her."

"But not you?"

"They knew better."

"Because you were the worm?"

He nodded, then shook his head. "Because I am every nocturnal animal they fear. Quid pro quo." 

"We went out to the woods, and he killed a doe and a faun. And I ran away."

"But you had real food. It should have felt like a victory."

"It didn't. Have you ever heard a faun cry, Dr. Lecter?"

"No."

"I have. They sound like… babies. Daddy killed that little baby's mother, and the damn thing started to scream. It ran out of the brush and laid down next to her, trying to nurse... and he shot it tooooo." She couldn't speak anymore. Clarice hadn't wanted to be held since Will left their hotel room in Georgia, and she needed him so much that her whole body started to shake. Her daughter kicked harder, sensing her distress. She put her hands on her belly and started to rub, trying to calm her unborn child, whispering, "It's okay. I'm okay. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm here."

A finger slipped through one of the vent holes above her head. Clarice looked up at it, then tried to focus on Dr. Lecter's face through her tears and saw that he was crying. She lifted her hand and touched his finger with hers. It wasn't enough to comfort her, but it helped more than he could understand.

"Once, I wanted to change who I was." His voice was the balm she needed.

"But you couldn't."

"One cannot change their very nature. I am who I am."

"Daddy wanted me to help him clean the deer. I ran away after he opened the faun's belly. Its stomach was full of milk, and…. I'd almost made it to our neighbor's house when Daddy found me. His hands were covered with blood, and he kept hurting me until I stopped fighting back."

"You fought him?"

"Every time. I've always been small, but it doesn't mean I'm not strong. I kicked his front teeth in after he broke my nose."

"Did he go to prison for what he did to you?"

"Yes."

"Then you saved someone their busy work."

"It's crossed my mind a few times, Dr. Lecter. I cooked the faun that night for supper, in case you were curious. I didn't have a choice. I thought he would kill me if I didn't."

"What did it taste like?"

"Sawdust and… pain. The sheriff and his wife were my foster parents. Tom was a deer hunter before Miss Peggy took me to the station. I don't think he ever picked up his shotgun again after I told him what happened."

"Miss Peggy was your neighbor?"

"Yes. She came by to drop off some of her daughter's old clothes the day after. Daddy was passed out on the couch, dead drunk. She took me away and told me not to look back. I never saw him again."

"How often do you dream of the faun?"

"Not as much since I transferred to the BAU."

"You thought if you could figure out what makes people turn into monsters, that it would ease your pain, didn't you?"

"I guess. It didn't work. Now… I see the dead and hear my father calling me a coward more than anything."

"Do you ever think that you should have continued on as a therapist?"

"I am a therapist, Dr. Lecter. Before the raid, I volunteered my services at a group home. I'll start volunteering again at a women's shelter in the fall." The smile on her face felt wrong. 

His finger caressed hers, the tip running over her knuckle. Beyond the gate, the stairwell door opened.

"That will be my guards and the Warden."

"Yes."

When his hand moved away, it left her greedy for his touch. Clarice wondered if she was as depraved as he could be. They took their seats and regarded one another.

"I always wanted to see you with a gun," he finally said.

"I figured as much."

"What do you carry at work?"

"A Ruger .45 ACP."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"Not this time."

"Will there be a next time?"

"You still have another piece of information for me. I'll be back tomorrow to get it."

"That's not what I was asking, my dear."

She shifted in her chair and shook her head. "New landlord, new baby. My dance card is loaded for a while, but I might call on you when it starts to empty out."

"Do you mean it?"

"You always know when I'm bullshitting you. What do you think?"

"I think you might. But then again, one never knows."

"What's for dinner, Dr. Lecter?"

"Lamb curry."

She could see Barney at the gate. He looked worried, but she smiled wanly and waved him off.

"How is our girl?" 

"I think she fell asleep. We must have bored her with all the talk." Clarice opened her bag and took out a tissue, drying her face and blowing her nose. Fresh tears sparkled on Dr. Lecter's cheeks. She made a decision and felt in the side pocket, removing the ultrasound of her daughter's profile and turning it around for him to see.

This time when he smiled, she felt no fear. "She has your lips."

"Thank you, Dr. Lecter."

"Thank you, Clarice."

Clarice stripped out of her clothes back at the hotel and left them on the floor before crawling into bed. Sleep claimed her quickly, the kind of sleep that leaves no room for dreams, especially when the cell phone in her bag was on silent and forgotten. 

It was the witching hour when she felt the arm around her waist. Believing that she was in that wonderful place where Will sometimes appeared in her dreams, Clarice hummed with happiness and covered his hand with hers.

"I love you," she breathed.

There was a sigh, deep and rich with emotion. "I'm so sorry to have to do this, my dear. I'll make it up to you. I promise."

Frowning, Clarice opened her eyes and turned her head. But the needle was already in her arm, and Dr. Lecter's face dimmed until peace blanketed her dawning terror.

Tuesday, September 15, 2020
2347
Cannon Beach, Oregon

Clarice sat on the floor of the library, slowly rocking the man in her arms. Revolving red and blue lights shone on her face, dazzling her eyes. The dress she wore had once been pure white but was now stained with blood. 

Before the police came, the room had been dimly lit by a waning crescent moon. She knew that now, understanding more about the night sky than she ever had.

In that pale light, Dr. Lecter's blood had looked black against the white silk. 

"Ma'am?" An officer crept through the door, the weird lights reflecting off his gun and badge.

"I told you that I'm not leaving him until after the coroner comes." Her voice was soft but so determined that he didn't argue.

"There are a lot of people here who have been looking for you."

"Who?"

"Jack Crawford. Rich Jackson. Ardelia Mapp. Will Graham."

Her breath caught in her throat, but Clarice kept her eyes on Dr. Lecter's face. She kissed his forehead and smiled, not caring that he could no longer smile back or feel her touch. His hand slipped from her belly, and she lifted it back in place, covering it with hers to keep it warm for a little longer. Underneath, a foot kicked, now so strong that it visibly bumped his hand, just as it had before dinner.

"Do you want me to tell them anything?"

She nodded and looked at the officer with dry eyes. "Tell them I'm coming home."

Chapter Text

Wednesday, September 16, 2020
1645
Salem, Oregon

The hospital room was mauve.

Over a hundred years ago, William Henry Perkins accidentally created the compound while trying to make quinine, the medication known for treating malaria. Serendipity, the discovery was called, and it made Perkins a rich man. Mauvine and the subsequent synthetic dyes transformed the world of medicine and pathology, including cancer treatments.

Clarice knew these things now. She also understood swans better than she ever did and had heard their final song for the first time in her life. 

Vaguely, she was aware that her mind had become an intricately woven tapestry that she didn't always recognize. 

The mirror to the side was two-way – it's not hard to tell when reflections don't look quite right. But then again, before she went to live with Dr. Lecter, Clarice's reflection in the mirror never seemed like it belonged to her. In that house by the sea, she was finally able to see herself for who she was. And what's more, she liked the person she saw, more and more every single day.

Especially when Dr. Lecter was by her side, whispering into her ear.

They were talking about her. The room was virtually soundproof, but she knew what silence meant. Planning the next action, trying to figure out the next approach. She had only seen doctors and nurses up until now, including a psychiatrist who paled in comparison to the man she had held until the coroner promised her that Dr. Lecter would not suffer the indignity of an autopsy. 

His cause of death was too obvious to need one.

Clarice had also chosen not to suffer the indignity of completing a SART exam. 

The door handle turned. Ardelia walked into the room, wearing body armor and openly crying. Clarice had not seen her closest friend in almost three months. She scooted over, moving the IV lines out of the way when Ardelia sat next to her and started to weep. Clarice put her arms around her friend and held her, rocking Ardelia as she had Dr. Lecter when he died in her arms.

Ardelia doesn't cry much. It was a long time before she could quiet herself enough to look at Clarice.

"The gunpowder is gone," Ardelia said, touching her cheek.

"Yes. He removed it last week. Who is listening?"

"Everyone. Do you care?"

"No." Clarice touched the cold Kevlar. "Why the vest?"

"They didn't know how you would react. One of the doctors recommended restraints and a bite mask, but you handled our pictures well enough."

"I don't rip out throats, Ardelia. That was never my style." Clarice looked at her friend's hand. Next to the emerald ring that Clarice had sent to her was a wedding band. "This is new."

"It's actually old. It was Rich's grandmother's."

"He finally asked?"

Ardelia shook her head. "We asked each other. When you disappeared, it seemed stupid to wait any longer."

"I'm glad," Clarice said. "No two people were better matched than you and Rich."

"That's what everyone keeps saying. Especially after seeing us work together to find you," Ardelia said, tucking a strand of hair behind Clarice's ear. There were large diamond studs at her lobes that no one had thought to remove. With her hair still pulled back in a heavy chignon, Clarice didn't look like herself, but she might have looked more like herself than she ever had.

The glass warped slightly, and her daughter started to kick.

She knew Will was on the other side, waiting for his turn.

"What do you remember after he took you from the hotel? You wouldn't tell the psychiatrist. Will you talk to me?"

Clarice closed her eyes and nodded.

Sunday, July 5, 2020
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains

The vibrations and hums around her let Clarice know she was in the back of a van. She must have fallen asleep on the way to the raid – she was bad about that if she didn't sleep well. For a moment, she decided that the last six months had simply been one of those dreams that can trap the mind like quicksand. 

When she couldn't open her eyes, she groaned and said, "How far are we from the Fish Market, Johnny? I think I have a migraine."

"Shhhh," a familiar voice said, but that voice did not belong to John Brigham.

Clarice managed to open her left eye enough to see Dr. Lecter above her. Her senses rapidly returned after that. She felt rough carpet against her legs and could smell radishes and turnips somewhere near. An IV was attached to her arm. Her head was in his lap, his hand still under hers as it rested against her middle.

"Am I dreaming?" she asked.

"No," he said. Dr. Lecter wasn't in the blood-red scrubs from the SuperMax. A crisp white shirt was open at the neck, and he smelled like expensive cologne.

"Please don't hurt us," she whispered. 

His hand on her shoulder constricted, then gave a reassuring pat. "I promise."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?" Clarice didn't mean to sound so young, but she was very tired and had been given heavy sedation.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he said gravely. "I swear on Mischa's grave that I will not harm you, Clarice. I've come to value your life too much to end it now."

She believed him and decided to never ask him again. It wasn't that she felt safe with him, and she hadn't yet decided if he was evil or not. But she already understood something that hadn't completely formed as a tangible idea in her mind and wouldn't until more time had passed.

"How?"

"How did I escape?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell you as soon as we get home."

"Home?"

He smiled. "Don't worry. They've taken care of everything for us."

The van stopped. The driver's side door opened and closed, and an unfamiliar voice said, "I have you for the next two hundred miles, Dr. Lecter. Please let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," Dr. Lecter said, not looking up. "Do you want to rest a little longer? You haven't been sleeping much, have you? You can't catch it up, but this will help."

Clarice closed her eyes when the needle touched her skin. Rest sounded like a great idea, and she really didn't want to know about anything else.

Monday, July 6, 2020
1831
Cannon Beach, Oregon

When she woke again, Clarice was in a semi-dark room that smelled like freshly cut irises. In a primal way, she understood that she was near the ocean. For the first time that she could remember, her muscles felt loose and relaxed. Her skin was very clean, scented with a minty emollient that gave her a deep, comforting warmth.

There was movement in the corner of the room, and she opened her eyes wide. Dr. Lecter stood at a distance like he had the first time she met him. His stillness reminded her again of a caged lion. Though this one was now freed to do as he pleased, he was watching over her, holding in all that energy. Even though he should have frightened her, Clarice was happy to see him, and she offered a small smile.

"What day is it, Dr. Lecter?" she asked.

"Monday."

"Which Monday?"

He looked proud of her. "Monday, July 6."

"Is it morning or evening?"

"Evening, my dear. I thought your doctor would have warned you about burning that candle at both ends."

"He did. I haven't been sleeping much this week."

"Why?"

She didn't want to answer, but she was so tired of bullshitting everyone that she made a vow to stop it. "Because I kept dreaming that you were in bed next to me. Sometimes I could feel you there before I fell asleep."

"Is that something you want?"

"I don't know."

"Did I frighten you in your dreams, Clarice? Was I the Big Bad Wolf?"

"You didn't scare me. I was more confused than anything else."

"Hmmm."

Clarice tried to look out of the gauzy curtains but couldn't see the landscape. "Where are we, Dr. Lecter?"

"By the sea."

"Which sea?"

Again, that look of pride. "The Pacific."

She thought of two people wrestling in the waves and how good and cold the water had felt after such a long day at the prison. Clarice hadn't understood how happy she had been, nor how much she could have truly loved John Brigham if she had let down her walls. The tears started back up, sliding over her cheeks and onto her neck.

"I thought being on the beach would make you happy. We can go wherever you please if it doesn't."

"It does make me happy, Dr. Lecter. Not all tears are sad, you know that."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I'm done with the bullshit. Honesty from here on out, but I maintain the right not to answer something if I don't want to."

"I promise you the same thing." He hadn't moved. "Does this mean you wish to continue your therapy with me?"

"Is that the way you viewed our conversations?"

"Towards the end? Yes."

It was nothing she hadn't felt herself, no matter how much she had wanted to deny it. "Will you be my doctor?"

"It would be my honor."

"You were supposed to tell me how you knew I was Omega-track on Sunday."

"That was our agreement. You slept for much longer than I'd expected, or else we'd have had this conversation yesterday."

"Will you tell me now?"

He nodded and leaned against the wall behind him. Dr. Lecter told her of the first time he ever saw her, pontificating to Will from the back of his lecture hall, and how much she amused him. Then he delicately explained overhearing her altercation with Paul Krendler and how much he came to admire her strength. He described the hours he spent online while he was in Florence watching Clarice's old tracks meets. He even knew how many medals she'd won over the course of her life, all for sprinting. The letters she had received had been dictated by him, and the ring on her finger was his own carefully crafted design.

"How many times have you seen me? That I don't know about?"

"Only three."

"But here –"

"Here is outside of time. I hope it remains that way for as long as it can."

The medication was out of Clarice's system, and her mind was more alert than it had been since waking up. The tally was wrong, but the only time she could recall ever seeing him was one that he should not remember.

"When was the third time you saw me, Dr. Lecter?" 

October 2017 
Chesapeake Beach, Maryland

Clarice felt like she'd been run over by a freight train.

After a late-night flight to Maryland, going directly to the goddamn house on the bluff, and working for over twenty-four hours with only one break to pee, she was all the things that were dangerous to her mental health. 

And she still had the fucking master bath to finish processing.

"Brian Maynard Zeller, I FUCKING hate your guts!" she yelled, hoping he could hear her through her thick N95 mask.

"Newbies get the worst scut!" he yelled back, his voice equally muffled. "Let me know when you've swabbed every single dot that lights up!"

This was payback, plain and simple. As much as Brian liked Clarice, he also didn't like that Pete Arnstein had called her to help over their buddies in Quantico. She stood and stretched her back, then took a look around the room, checking her progress. 

I guess it doesn't matter who is the top and who is the bottom when you're as eager to fuck as these horny bastards.

When was the last time Clarice had been this excited to have someone in her bed? The truth was never. The reality of sex had always made her feel like something was wrong with her. The buildup was nice enough, maybe, but once it started happening, she'd just as soon be anywhere else. 

But these two… 

Now, she wondered exactly what she had been missing. 

"I could eat you, too, and have you begging for more before lunch. Gagging for it, if you're lucky."

She shivered and immediately regretted everything.

The sound of a helicopter whirring in the distance pulled her back to herself. She carefully walked to the window and saw the basket was occupied.

Holy SHIT.

"Pete! BRIAN! They found him!"

There was no running out of the house. Clarice had to carefully walk her lines and dress out of her gear, listening as the helicopter got closer. They had already landed when she arrived at the beach, a group of men standing in a circle around the body.

"WHY AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING?!" she yelled over the slowing chopper blades. She'd passed Jack Crawford as she ran the path to the bottom of the cliff, but she could see his shadow slowly creeping behind her.

"Leave it to a fucking woman," one of the local cops said, thinking she couldn't hear.

"What!" she yelled. The blades were still, but she was so pissed she didn't bother lowering her voice. She looked at the rest of the small crowd. "I don't speak misogynist pig; someone needs to translate."

"He said LEAVE IT TO A WOMAN!" another officer offered. "This bastard is almost dead. His heart is beating ten a minute. After what he's done, we are letting him die."

BullSHIT, we are.

"WE ARE NOT GODS!" she yelled.

"She probably has the hots for him." It was the first cop who spoke, and he looked at Clarice with disgust. "After working in that bedroom, you probably need a reminder of what some good old-fashioned fucking looks and feels like."

Clarice punched the shit for brains in the mouth. 

"Excuse me, Officer Sneed," Jack said behind her. "You and I need to have a conversation. NOW."

Clarice kneeled on the ground next to Hannibal Lecter touched his neck, searching for a pulse. When she couldn't feel anything underneath her fingers, she placed her tiny hands on his chest and started CPR. One of the men from the Coast Guard team joined Clarice, giving respirations with a bag while she continued with chest compressions. 

"I'm Carl. For the record, I was outvoted," he muttered. 

"Can you still take him to a hospital?"

"We let our fuel get too low; it was pure chance that we spotted him on the way back in." He gave two more breaths. "I called for a bus to come and get him, but I don't think anyone will be in too big a hurry to get here."

"How long can you keep this up?"

"As long as I have to. Just tell me when you need to switch."

She nodded and kept pushing, but after three minutes, she was done in. Her arms felt like jelly, and she was sweating so profusely that she felt like she'd just sprinted five miles.

"Do you know what kind of man you're saving, little girl?!" one of the officers yelled at her.

"I know exactly what kind of man he was!" Clarice yelled back, groaning when her back started to ache. "HE WAS BETTER THAN ANY OF YOU!"

"Careful," Carl whispered.

"Swap. After this cycle," Clarice panted, feeling his bones crunch under her hands.

Awww, did I break a rib? Hope it hurts like hell when you wake up, Dr. Lecter.

She was almost done counting to thirty when she felt a hand weakly touch her thigh. She'd worn a pair of running shorts underneath her jumpsuit, and the hand felt clammy on her bare skin.

"Who's touching me?" she asked.

"Not me. Not after seeing your right hook," Carl said, looking at the crowd around them before leaning over to look at Clarice's leg. "Wait, stop. It's him. Goddamn. You're one tough son of a bitch, aren't you?"

Clarice lifted her hands while Carl checked for a pulse. The hand on her leg was searching for something, and she placed hers on top of it, moving it back to her knee. Dr. Lecter's hand was cold but warming against her overheated skin. His eyes were moving behind his lids, which Clarice read as a good sign. Carl took a penlight and checked Dr. Lecter's pupils.

"PERRLA," he murmured, then yelled, "Hannibal Lecter, can you hear me?!"

The hand under hers twitched. 

"He moved his hand," she said. "Is that enough?"

"He's got a shit GCS, but it's better than zero."

There were fresh sirens in the distance, probably the same ambulance that had driven away yesterday with Will. 

Clarice looked at Dr. Lecter, then leaned down close to his ear and whispered. "No soap opera ending for you. Supervillains and literal cliffhangers? Jesus wept for such a dumb-assed cliche."

She could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth turn up but blamed it on the shifting sun. 

Clarice moved back when the paramedics loaded him onto the gurney, not realizing that she was still holding his hand until they started carrying him to the ambulance. When she finally let him go, there was peace within her that she had finally done the right thing for a change.

"That was a brave thing you just did." Jack Crawford's voice was behind her. "I was inclined to let him die, too."

Clarice shrugged. "He needs to pay for what he's done. I don't give a fuck what those cops or Will Graham thought."

"Then I guess you haven't changed that much since you were in the Academy." 

"I wouldn't change for anyone, Agent Crawford."

"Are you almost done in the house?"

"I can keep going after I take a break," she said. "There's still the bathroom, and –"

"And Brian Zeller can process it, as he was assigned. When's the last time you had something to eat?"

"Before I got on the plane." She turned and looked at Jack Crawford for the first time in over four years. He looked… bad. Like a damn ghost walking the Earth. The last five years of his life had been riddled with poor decisions, and she remembered reading that his wife had died not too long ago. The cops and other agents on the scene had looked at him with contempt since she arrived at the house, but the only thing Clarice could feel for the man who had been outwitted so many times was her genuine compassion. 

It didn't have to be like this. It never had to have been like this. Whatever god had written his story had fucked up beyond measure.

Clarice took Jack's arm. "I'll tell you what. If you can get me out of the house for a few hours, I'll buy us both some dinner."

"It's nine in the morning, Clarice. What day do you think it is?"

Whoops.

"Then I guess we better get breakfast? Still my treat."

"There are some diners in town. You okay with something greasy and hot?"

"Fuck, yeah."

"And you still haven't figured out how to watch that mouth, have you?" he said, cracking a smile that deepened all the scars on his face.

"Hell no. And I'm not going to start anytime soon, either."

Monday, July 6, 2020
1850
Cannon Beach, Oregon

"You were almost dead, Dr. Lecter. I thought you were dead for a few seconds. How could you possibly remember that?"

"I've spent almost three years trying to reason it out. The human mind is more complex than any of us can comprehend. I suppose that even though the lights were out, someone was still at home."

"How bad did your chest hurt when you woke up?"

"Vigor, thy name is woman. To wit, it hurt like hell." 

"Serves you right for trying to cop a feel the second you fell back to Earth," Clarice said, giggling when he blushed. 

"Do you feel like trying out your legs?" he asked after clearing his throat. "There are some slippers by the bed if you need them."

Her legs were more unsteady than they both preferred, and instead of letting her fall, Dr. Lecter quickly came to her side and helped her back in bed. One of his eyebrows lifted when she scooted over and patted the space next to her. But he followed her lead, laying on top of the thick duvet.

"Why am I here, Dr. Lecter?"

"May I hold your hand while I tell you?"

Clarice slipped her hand between them, and when he took it, she nervously smiled. "I don't think a man has ever asked permission to hold my hand."

His thumb twitched, almost imperceptibly, before he said, "After spiriting you away as I have, I'll do few other things without your permission."

She nodded and squeezed his hand, holding the errant thumb between her thumb and forefinger. The smile on her face vanished as Dr. Lecter explained exactly why he had wanted her with him. And after he explained what he wanted her to do when he decided their time together should come to an end, her face crumpled like tissue.

For such a simple plan, nothing about it was going to be easy. 

When she started to cry, he asked permission to hold her, which she gratefully gave him.

"Who are you crying for, my dear?" he murmured against her ear. "Surely it's not for me."

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'd blame it on the hormones, but we'd both know I was lying. Maybe I'm crying for Will. You should ask him to help you."

"And give him the pleasure of finishing what he started? Not in this life," he tutted, taking a handkerchief from his pocket before gently wiping her face. "Will Graham will have an easier time once he understands that not everything about me was about him."

Clarice laughed through the pain of hearing his name. "I guess you're right."

"I know what these tears are for. Jack always recruits for the qualities he is missing. He wanted your sympathy and compassion, didn't he?"

"I could say the same thing about you, Dr. Lecter."

"Touché," he said. "Do you need to think about it?"

A beat and she asked, "What about the baby?"

"I'll be your doctor in more ways than one. Body and mind, they go hand in hand."

"Thank you. And don't think I'm unappreciative, but that's not what I meant."

"Then say what you mean."

Clarice met his eyes and didn't look away when she said, "My best friend has to know that we're safe. It'll kill her if she doesn't, and I don't need another death on my conscience."

"Proof of life," he said, nodding. "What do you have in mind?"

After he helped her to the en suite, Dr. Lecter disconnected her IV and carried her to a dining room that overlooked the surf. He'd made himself busy while she was asleep, preparing a meal he knew she would enjoy: The Sunday Gravy, a recipe he had obtained years ago after enjoying it many times in Boston. Nothing fussy, no adornments on the table other than a single vase of daylilies. 

At the table, they designed a simple ring. A single cabochon emerald set in gold, with the initials AM-CS inscribed inside the heavy band.

To Clarice, it looked like a captured tear. 

To Dr. Lecter, it looked like the odd highlights in Clarice's eyes. 

The sketch sat on the table after he took her back to bed. In Clarice's handwriting was a brief note that would be sent with it:

Dear Ardelia, I'm fine and so is the baby. I know this will scare you. He said won't hurt us, and I believe him. I'll be home soon, I promise. I love you. Clarice.

They made sure that their fingerprints would be easy for Jimmy to match. And when Dr. Lecter quickly realized she had written the note to help ease the mind of more than one person, he diplomatically kept it to himself.

Chapter Text

Then
Cannon Beach, Oregon

When Clarice woke again, she was alone. Now that she had her bearings, she recognized the soft morning sun glowing through her window. The hep lock had been removed from her hand during the night, and there was an indent next to her in the bed. It felt warm under her hand, as though he had left a few minutes ago.

They had stayed up long after dinner, talking about nothing and everything and all the things in between. Dr. Lecter wanted to know more about her, down to the journals she preferred to read and the music she listened to when she drove home from work. Clarice didn't find herself that interesting a topic of conversation, and she fell asleep mid-sentence, trying to describe why she loved sitting on the floor of her kitchen over any other place in the house. That detail had pleased him. She had seen it in his eyes as they glowed in the low candlelight of the library.

When he'd asked to touch her stomach during the times her daughter became active, she'd given him blanket permission. Dr. Lecter's child-like expression of awe was enough to draw her in further, though whether or not he was losing himself in a delusion or fantasy was something she decided not to explore. After being left alone for so many months, sharing the madness with him didn't bother her like she thought it would. If anything, it gave her a secret thrill that someone seemed to care about her child other than Ardelia and Rich.

The scent of coffee was heavy in the air, and she could hear chamber music coming from the center of the house. There was a wrapper hanging behind the door, but she ignored it and the slippers, deciding to wander out of the room on her bare feet. The nightgown she wore was voluminous and white, and if she'd thought to look in the mirror when she passed it, she would have seen how sheer the fabric was in the morning light.

The instrument sounded like a piano but different, lighter, and with more spring in the notes. Clarice followed the music instead of the scents and found Dr. Lecter playing the harpsichord in a large library. If he heard her, he gave no indication. She sat in a chair off to the side and listened to him play. Normally, classical music put her off, but after attending the symphony in Boston, she had decided to give it another chance. She curled her legs under her and watched him as he played, listening to the clipped notes come together to make a song that could have easily put her to sleep.

She was so relaxed that she hadn't noticed the music had ended until the air was still. Harpsichord notes do not carry, after all, so he might have just ended the song. Without turning around, he greeted her with a simple, "Good morning."

"Hi."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did, thank you."

"Do you want to see the rest of the house? It's bigger than what two people would need, but our benefactor has been generous."

"I would like that. I felt like I needed to leave breadcrumbs when I wandered down here. The music helped."

He turned in his chair, the movement too sudden. Dr. Lecter wasn't used to having another person in his space yet, and it would take time for him to reacclimate to some of the social niceties he had formerly lived by. The action made Clarice jump, her nerves returning as his eyes focused on her. 

"Breadcrumbs? Do you think I'm going to bake you into a tasty little pie?"

"Poor choice of words," she said. "Forgive me, Dr. Lecter."

When he chuckled, she relaxed.

"I do have something in the oven for both of us."

"Not a pie?"

"Not yet," he said, flippantly enough that she laughed with him.

"How do you think… never mind."

"What do I think you would taste like?"

"Yes."

Dr. Lecter moved like a cat, in front of her before she was aware he was moving. "May I?"

She gave him her hand, holding in a moan when he deeply inhaled the scent of her skin. She swallowed and whispered, "Well?"

"I can't tell from smelling you, my dear."

"Then why did you…?"

When he coyly smiled up at her, she lifted a hand to swat him. 

"Play nice, Dr. Lecter."

"I always do." He didn't move yet, his hand hovering over her belly. "Is she moving?"

"A little. You might not be able to feel it."

"May I try?"

"You don't have to ask, Dr. Lecter. I'm sure my…" She felt a lump in her throat that she swallowed down. "I'm sure our girl misses you."

He hummed happily when he pressed his hands against her, both of his hands searching for the tiniest of thumps and rolls. He looked so utterly happy, completely spellbound by what he was experiencing, that it was easy to forget the cruel man who could inhabit his body. 

Was this another suit? Clarice doubted it, sensing that such a pure, feral emotion wasn't one that could be conjured from thin air. Whatever this was, this was as much a part of him as the compulsion to kill and take of his victims. 

Duality of man, often as terrifying and mysterious as the Holy Trinity.

She had been softening to him since the moment he touched her in the exam room, knowing it was dangerous and giving into every look, every laugh, even the moments they challenged each other. It was so easy to run her fingers in his hair, using her thumb to smooth away the lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead. 

When their eyes met, she felt the softening within him, too.

"Do you love her?" Clarice whispered.

"You will always carry the best of me within you. She's proof that it's real."

"Why did it have to be like that for you before?"

"Where you never afraid of your shadow?"

"No. I don't think so."

"I believe that about you. I truly do. It's what drew us to you. All that light… who wouldn't be greedy to bask in its glory and drink of it like holy wine?"

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said about her to her face. After a lifetime of words like violence being hurled at her by the world, Clarice let herself bask in the wonder of words like worship, and love.

There was a sleek Jaguar in the garage, the keys on a hook beside the door. A telephone sat in the kitchen and library, and a computer monitor glowed in the home office two doors down from her bedroom. A thousand outs offered, but she closed her eyes to the sight of freedom.

After the last year, the idea of going back so soon didn't appeal to Clarice all that much.

"What are they saying?" she asked as they walked to the balcony off the great room. It was chilly, and Dr. Lecter took a blanket from a basket and placed it around her shoulders.

"On the news?"

"Yes. Have you been watching?"

"Enough to keep updated. I never told you the details of how I got out."

"I don't want to know," she said. "I'll find out later. After."

He nodded and understood what she wanted to know. "They believe I've abducted you to… Cut up one of those old touches we share. It might not have helped that I left a note on my table."

"What did it say?"

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"It said I approve of this one."

"And what else did it say, Dr. Lecter? It doesn't sound like you to be so concise. It sounds more like what would be politely edited for release to the media."

He motioned for her to sit with him on the lounge. She sat a tall glass of iced tea on the table and took her place.

"In its entirety, my note read: 

Dearest Will,

I approve of this one. My hope is that you might eventually learn not to flee from love the moment it awakens. Until then, I'll keep these lovely creatures safe in my nest. 

Hannibal

P.S. However, I must confess to you, I'm giving very serious thoughts to having her for your just deserts."

Clarice was relieved that she worded the note to Ardelia as she had. It might not give either of them any peace, but knowing she was hopeful about the future might be something. Still, she giggled despite her worries. If she'd been in Dr. Lecter's place, she'd likely have written the same thing.

"Was I wrong?" he asked.

"You know you weren't."

"Are you willing to tell me what happened, now that we are without the extra eyes and ears that lived with me in my dungeon?"

"He… I woke up alone in our hotel room in Georgia. I got a note, too, though mine was nice and neat. I'm sorry. That was it. I had just killed Buffalo Bill, had spent most of the night shaking and trying my damnedest not to worry him with all the emotions I had inside. But he was sorry. Everyone is always so sorry, aren't they?"

"I never was."

"Do you know that I actually appreciate that about you, Dr. Lecter? I'm so sick of everyone being so sorry for what they do but being sorry enough not to do it. You might have lived without morals, but at least you were honest. Even when you weren't, you were."

"Is that why you called me better than those men on the beach?"

"Yes. Jack made Officer Sneed apologize for what he said to me. He was so sorry. But he wasn't. Neither was Paul Krendler. And I seriously doubt Will Graham was when he was walking out the door with a bag full of the liquor that I bought for him. He probably doesn't even know I'm missing. He's on his beach in the Keys or lying down in a puddle of puke like he was the day after I got to Marathon. Just like you said in your letter. Just like my fucking father."

She's expected those words to sound bitter, but bitterness was an emotion that had been leaving her since she found out she was pregnant. It was better this way. Better to do this alone while she carried the sweet memory of something almost wonderful than to face a lifetime of something awful like her mother had done. 

"Then I might have chosen the wrong choice of words to say when I woke you in your hotel room."

"The rub is that I believe you, Dr. Lecter. You wouldn't do this if you felt you had another choice, would you?"

"No."

Clarice looked out to the sea and sighed. "I think that's why I've come to like you since we met last week. You're a straight shooter. For the most part."

"Did I hear you admit that you like me, Clarice?"

There was no denying her words, and she bravely said, "Yes."

When he cautiously reached for her hand, she met him halfway. 

"I like you too, or else I'd never asked for you to visit me in that terrible place."

"You didn't even know me."

"Who truly knows anyone?" His thumb brushed over the ring on her finger, and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it reverently. 

Wednesday, September 16, 2020
1802
Salem, Oregon

"Did you love him?" Ardelia asked.

"I know everyone will say it was Stockholm Syndrome, but it wasn't. I love him. I think a part of me started loving him the moment he reached his finger through the hole in that damn glass to try to comfort me," Clarice said, covering her mouth with her hands. There was an audible crash in the next room, violent enough that the sound burst through the walls, but she ignored it.

She swore she wasn't going to cry; she'd promised him from the start that she'd shed no tears after he was gone. But there was a dull ache where a full heart had been the day before. She'd savored something that should have never been, the fruit of a tree that had blossomed in the shadow of the warped stag. Like Eve and Persephone, she was changed by what she had tasted.

“Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo
Lei paventosa umilmente pascea
Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.”

Clarice hadn't been aware that she was speaking until she saw Ardelia's ashen face.

"When did you learn Italian?" Ardelia asked.

"I… I don't know. It just happened one night at dinner. I had enough college French and Spanish that it just… I don't know."

Chapter Text

Wednesday, September 16, 2020
1911 
Salem, Oregon

The room felt emptier after Ardelia had been in it. But Clarice understood why she had to leave as she did: arms crossed over her chest, head down, and more confused about the last ten weeks than she'd been since first receiving that call that Clarice had disappeared from her hotel room in Colorado Springs.

There was silence again, and Clarice rolled over in the hospital bed and closed her eyes. She must have dozed, then lingered in that half-way place between dreaming in wakefulness. In that muzzy, unfocused dreamscape, she could feel him with her, massaging her lower back and whispering such beautiful things to her and her daughter. 

Dr. Lecter had told her she mustn't dwell in the past and that it wouldn't do not to move on to the future. But the simple truth they both knew towards the end was that she would always miss him. Even now, in the state of dreaming where he almost felt real, it wasn't enough to ease the longing she felt to see his face.

When the door opened, she knew who it was before she opened her eyes. He was angry, as he should be. As she would be if she were in his position right now.

"Are you sleeping, Clarice? Or are you pretending?" Rich asked.

"Both," she said, rolling over to look at him. Rich's cheeks were dark with anger, and the vest he wore looked wrong on him. 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Do you know how many nights she stayed up, worrying about you? How upset she was when she got your note and that ring? She almost tossed the damn thing in the Shenandoah River instead of turning it in. She thought you were saying goodbye."

"I didn't know if I was or not. I could have been with him ten days, ten weeks, or ten years. I had to tell her something, and he let me. I thought it would give her hope."

"Well, it didn't," Rich said. He started to pace the room, arms folded over his chest. "If anything, it made it worse."

"I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry would be a good place to start."

"I'm not sorry, Rich. I did what I felt was the right thing at the time. I won't take it back."

He glared at her, but Clarice didn't back down. If anything, she held her back straighter and met his cold gaze head-on. It didn't work anymore, and there would be no more laying down for the father when he started to show his bullying nature, nor would she scream or throw punches. 

"Who are you?"

"I am who I am. Who I was supposed to be before my life got screwed up."

"Okay. Then what did he do to you to make that happen?"

"Nothing. He was my doctor."

"Doctors don't fuck their patients. It's why you refused a SART exam, wasn't it?"

"And I never signed consent for his treatment, either, so it doesn't matter. They won't find anything other than regular, consensual sex."

"It's not consensual when someone is holding you captive."

"He didn't hold me captive, Rich. He asked me to stay with him, and I said yes."

"After drugging you and fleeing half-way across the country with you. He also asked you to kill him. And you said yes to that, too? Just like that."

"Just like that."

"Why?"

"Because I understood him. You've never felt out of control of your life, have you? Had all your options and choices taken away or lived with the idea that your body might become someone else's science experiment in a lab. I once wanted to develop my empathy, and I got the chance in March. But I had no idea what it was really like to live with so many paths of thought until he let me into his mind."

"And just who was treating who, Clarice?"

She opened her mouth to speak and closed it. Rich was right, not completely so, but enough to give her pause. She'd asked for him to be her doctor, but she hadn't fully realized that in doing so, Dr. Lecter had agreed to become her patient, too.

Then
Cannon Beach, Oregon

They always spoke about the past in the sunroom downstairs. Sunlight was surrounded them, and the sound of the sea was calming when Clarice's mind got too noisy for her to control. A large sofa, one of those huge sectionals that felt more like a bed, sat in the center of the room instead of two chairs. Instead of facing each other, staring the other down as though in confrontation, Dr. Lecter held her while she spoke.

Touch became important to them, and after the first days of uncertainty, they gave into the decadence of such a simple action. Dr. Lecter had been starved for touch most of his life, the need worsening after six years in solitary confinement. And though Clarice could have touched people or been touched every day, she hadn't let anyone in that far. Not even Ardelia or Johnny. Will had been the closest to easing that need, but it hadn't been enough.

On that sofa, held safe against Dr. Lecter's body as he gently massaged her arms, she finally spoke about how bad life had been after her mother died. It was centered around her father's mental illness and addiction, but some pains went much deeper than what she'd ever understood. Insecurity about food and stable housing fed into the pain as much as his fists and words, forming a neurotic nature that was not natural to her.

There was also her mother. The sainted woman in Clarice's young eyes finally was examined by a more even, though hot-tempered, gaze.

"It's not that I'm saying she was bad, Dr. Lecter. But why did she take it? Why did she set an example for me to take, take, take? Love him through it, Reecie. What a load of bullshit. I'd been better if she told me to stand up for myself and run as fast as I could."

He patted her arm and shifted her weight from his chest. "Here, let's sit up for a minute. My arm is getting numb."

"Do I need to do a neuro check?"

"After," Dr. Lecter said, helping her sit on the edge of the cushion. "You are about to become a mother yourself. What would you do if you were in her position, with a husband who could barely get out of bed and a child on the way?"

"I would have left and done it on my own."

"I wouldn't expect you to say anything different. But lean back on what you know. Your mother had you late in her life. She was also deeply religious and from a town where everyone knew everything about their neighbors. How easy would it have been to leave with those judgmental eyes on you when you were at the market or church on Sunday morning? It could be a matter that she thought she could protect you better if she stayed."

"And a fat lot of good that did when she went and died on me. She had a gun in her purse but didn't take it inside with her. She could have protected herself and me, and she didn't because she had enough money for the damn beer sitting in her pocket. Why didn't she grab her purse?!"

Clarice was so worked up that she lost her balance trying to stand and fell backward on the soft cushions. The ceiling was made of glass, but bright blue sky blocked by her hair. She puffed out a frustrated breath to push the stray strands from her face. There was a hard kick inside; someone wasn't happy with all the upset. She grabbed Dr. Lecter's hand and placed it on the left side of the growing bump.

"Who exactly are you upset with? Your mother or yourself?"

"Both of us," she said, closing her eyes to stop the tears.

"Why?"

"Because… I don't think it's in my nature to back down or to fight back so hard. But I learned to do it from her, and Daddy didn't help when he hit me. Instead of strength coming up when I need it, it's turned into… "

"Rage."

"Rage," she agreed. "And chaos."

"What would it take to get rid of all that anger, Clarice? To stop the negative cycle before it affects the next little girl in your family?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do, and you've already started it here. My thoughts are that you need to speak your mind, even when it's hard. You need to confront the men in your life who have used their power over you to try to control your actions. And you need to forgive your mother for failing you."

"And how do I do that, Dr. Lecter? She's been dead for thirty years."

"A little exercise, when you're up to it. But not today. I do want you to think of some of the things you would say to her if she were in the same room with you. It might be better to see her as heavy with child as you are right now."

"Heavy with child? What century are you from, kind sir?" Clarice said, smiling. She opened her eyes and saw Dr. Lecter's face hovering over hers. He could be so intense when they spoke, but his expression seemed playful now, like it did when he was up to something. "What's on your mind?"

"I'll let you know when I have everything together."

A beat. "You have power over me, too, Dr. Lecter."

"Smart girl. But I'm not trying to control you the way Uncle Jack does with his good intentions or like John Brigham, who wanted more than what you could give but couldn't let you go."

"There's a huge 'but' in there, somewhere."

He bit his lip. "I want what's best for you and our child."

"Whose terms is that wish on, Dr. Lecter? Yours or mine?"

"I would hope both. In the end, likely mine. Do you still trust me, knowing that?"

"Tell me this: is your desire linked to her having a better life than I did?"

"Not only that. I want her to have a better life than I did, too."

Clarice chewed on that thought. For years, she'd thought he was a poor little rich boy and had even said as much to his face. But she was learning that not everything was as it seemed, and even money could not make a child feel at ease with their life.

"Okay," she said.

"Yes?"

She nodded. "Yes. I trust you."

"You probably shouldn't."

"I'm aware of that."

His face was gone. He laid next to her on the sofa and took her hand in his, staring up at the sky with her. Eventually, she turned to watch him as he kept looking up at that peaceful sky. "One day of sunlight in five years. I can't imagine it, Dr. Lecter."

"Technically, two days," he mused. "This sky reminds me of that one on the beach, the day you brought me back from the dead."

"What could you see?"

"At first? Nothing. Consciousness was a construct well before they found me, and I was deep within my memories as I drifted out to sea."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Mischa. All the paths in my life have led back to her. When I knew I was dying, I saw her face and heard her voice." His breath caught in his throat, and she held his hand tighter in hers. The fine tremor in his thumb was worse than ever, and she tried to hold it still. "She was telling me to come home, come back home. I hadn't seen my ancestral home since I was sixteen, when I went to live with the Lady Murasaki in Paris. But Mischa was there in the gardens, chasing fireflies and telling me to come home."

"Was it heaven?"

"I never thought I'd redeem myself enough to see such a place. Maybe it was." He closed his eyes and brought their entwined hands to the center of his chest, where his heartbeat was solid and strong. "I could hear the world pressing on, the words of men who wanted to let me die. And amongst them a familiar voice, angry and screaming that we were not gods. I looked away from Mischa and saw another face perched high above me, her hair like a fiery crown around her head. Still angry, still screaming, this time that I was a better man than all the supposedly good men that surrounded us. I think my curiosity about what she meant won, and I was fully back in the reality of this life, with a pair of broken ribs as my reward."