**I'm not Tom Harris-they're not mine. No copyright infringement intended, yadda yadda yadda**
Truth or Dare
By JadedDana
Part 1
I woke from an odd and slightly scary dream where thousands and thousands moths were fluttering around me, smothering me, to the sound of my phone ringing. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't part of my dream, that it really WAS ringing, and another moment to fumble at my bedside table to pick up. "Hullo....Starling here." I'm sure whoever was calling could tell I had been asleep. I expected it to be Mr. Crawford, telling me that there was an absolutely urgent file he wanted me to look at right then.
"Why hello, Clarice. Did I wake you?" the unmistakable voice, cool, polite, with undertones of metal and danger caused my heart to stop momentarily.
"Doctor Lecter." I couldn't think of anything else to say, I was still shocked. I glanced at the glowing red digits on my alarm clock almost absently as my still sleep-drugged mind tried to process the unexpected situation. 3:21. Somehow, the red reminded me of my caller's eyes--unearthly, just like him.
"I can see that I did. I apologize....occasionally I forget about the time differences. Have your nights been silent?" His voice is slightly mocking, with another note I can't quite place. Amusement, most likely. My mind struggles to think of some way to have the call traced, but I know there's no way it would work. Why, oh why is he calling? After the fiasco that nearly resulted in his death, I expected him to vanish once more into the shadowy streets of some European city, never to be heard from again. Hopefully.
"Doctor Lecter....why are you calling me? Where are you?" I know he won't answer, but I had to ask.
His rich and strangely terrifying laugh sends chills down my spine. My mind's eye sees him again, feeding Krendler a piece of his own brain, and I choke down some bile which has risen in my throat. "Ah, Clarice, now that would be telling. Suffice to say I am in a far better place than you would prefer to see me. Did you manage to escape from our last meeting career intact? Not until I was safely away did I even consider how our dear Tattler might misinterpret your situation. I trust you have not been harassed unduly?" How typical of him....taunting me and then expressing concern I was not subjected to rudeness. If he weren't a monster, I'd find it charming. But even as a warm feeling from his gentlemanly words rises, the image Krendler's open scull causes me to gag. I must admit I do not miss the cretin, but I still wake up at night sometimes, with the memory of that awful dinner keeping me awake. Sometimes it's even worse--sometimes I joined Doctor Lecter in the meal. The first time I had that dream, I awoke vomiting and didn't stop for hours. I draw my attention back to the conversation at hand.
"That rag was annoying, as usual, but Crawford managed to pull enough strings to keep me in the FBI, at least. Quantico is actually more enjoyable than I'd expected. Regular hours suit me. Why are you calling, Doctor Lecter?" This...man? creature? Other. The Other has always stirred up so many feelings in me, most of which I can't even name, and hearing is cool crisp voice on the phone, late at night, is causing them to all rise up at once, almost swallowing me up. Foremost, there's respect--his intellect, his taste, his manners--all deserve nothing but the highest respect. Disgust, certainly. Occasionally, in my darker moods, an appreciation for his sense of irony; his victims often receive a Dante-esque end. Anger, most definitely--angry at the way he toys with my mind, angry that he used Catherine's life as a token chip, angry that such a magnificent person could be such a monster. And thousands of others, unnamable. I'm angry mostly, though; angry that he called me in the middle of the night, angry because he destroys out of whimsy what I work so hard to preserve, angry that his monstrosity ruined my career, angry because deep down I know that he had little to do with my disillusionment, angry that did me the courtesy of telling me the truth about everything, including myself.
"Ah, Clarice. So impatient. But since it IS rather late for you, I'll indulge you and get right to the point. I missed our little games of truth-or-dare, Special Agent Starling." His voice has that tone, the iron undertones and playful overtones, which tells me he wants to play, but a game where the stakes are terribly high. Of course, he knows no other games. I'm puzzled by the truth-or-dare part; memories of me and the other girls whispering in the dark at the orphanage about stealing candy or first kisses seems decidedly out of place in this conversation. He continues before I can worry about it too long, though. "Our truth sessions were quite entertaining, were they not? And once I made my fortunate disappearance, I found that I occasionally missed your overly-honest, terrifyingly naïve manners, ill-fitting suits and cheap shoes. Regrettably, your untimely phone call cut short the 'dare' part of the game. Whatever happened to the dress? It was quite lovely on you--I hope you kept it." Ah. Truth--the exchange of information during the Buffalo Bill case. And he considers the dinner a DARE? Looking back, those adrenaline-filled moments with my hair caught in the refrigerator DID remind me of the rush of the challenge of a dare. Those moments all blur together, I don't remember the exact sequence of events. Whatever drug he had given me, combined with the emotional upheaval at watching a man eat his own brains and the massive amounts of adrenaline flooding my system leaves me only a blur of piercing eyes and a moment of anticipated pain that never came. Another memory, the Other whispering "that's my girl," remains locked in a little chamber of my mind simply because I have no idea how to feel about it. I do know THAT moment never made it into the police report.
"So Doctor Lecter, that doesn't answer the question. Why did you call?"
"tsk, tsk. You really must learn patience, Clarice. Especially with your new job as a teacher. Not everyone is as naturally talented with firearms as you. Do you terrify your students?" So he knows about my reassignment as Firearms instructor at Quantico. A feeling of unease rises in my stomach, knowing that he must have been paying attention to my life. What else does he watch, I wonder? Does he know how two nights ago I showed up on Crawford's doorstep, crying because I felt guilty? That he let me sob until I couldn't cry anymore and fell asleep on his couch? That I still have Bella's handkerchief in my jewelry box? I suddenly know the horrible feeling stalking victims must experience. Why me? Why doesn't he just disappear in Rome or Paris or wherever the hell he is and leave me alone?
"To be honest, Doctor Lecter, it's very late and I don't see where this conversation is headed. Will you please get to the point before I get bored and hang up?" I hope, knowing it's impossible, that he'll believe I would get bored and just hang up. I couldn't let him disappear like that again, and it's highly unlikely I will ever be bored when dealing with Hannibal Lecter, MD.
"Clarice, would you like to finish our little game? Your unfortunate phone call ended it before it had the chance to get really fun." His voice when he says 'fun' sends chills up my spine. I'm afraid to ask what his idea of 'fun' is. But I see a marvelous opportunity here. We might just be able to catch him, if he's implying some sort of meeting. I ignore the part of me that's anxious to participate in the game because it, too, feels a sense of a premature ending.
"What are you suggesting?"
"I suppose that will have to suffice for a 'yes.' You really should work on your conversation skills. Now Clarice, listen carefully. If you want to play, be a good girl and buy yourself a plane ticket to Moscow within the week. Take your cell phone, and that dress. And please, my dear Agent Starling, try to keep your rookie agent tag-a-longs to a minimum? They so rarely are worth the trouble to butcher. Ta." I hear the click, meaning he's hung up, but I still hear his haunting voice. After a moment, the automated voice comes on the line and tells me to hang up. I do, somewhat numbly. I glance again at the clock. The red of the Other's eyes glare back at me. 3:39. It's way too early or way too late for me to deal with this. I pull the covers back over my head, curl up into a fetal position, and try vainly to sleep until my alarm goes off at 5:45.
Fin
Part 1
Truth or Dare
By JadedDana
Part 1
I woke from an odd and slightly scary dream where thousands and thousands moths were fluttering around me, smothering me, to the sound of my phone ringing. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't part of my dream, that it really WAS ringing, and another moment to fumble at my bedside table to pick up. "Hullo....Starling here." I'm sure whoever was calling could tell I had been asleep. I expected it to be Mr. Crawford, telling me that there was an absolutely urgent file he wanted me to look at right then.
"Why hello, Clarice. Did I wake you?" the unmistakable voice, cool, polite, with undertones of metal and danger caused my heart to stop momentarily.
"Doctor Lecter." I couldn't think of anything else to say, I was still shocked. I glanced at the glowing red digits on my alarm clock almost absently as my still sleep-drugged mind tried to process the unexpected situation. 3:21. Somehow, the red reminded me of my caller's eyes--unearthly, just like him.
"I can see that I did. I apologize....occasionally I forget about the time differences. Have your nights been silent?" His voice is slightly mocking, with another note I can't quite place. Amusement, most likely. My mind struggles to think of some way to have the call traced, but I know there's no way it would work. Why, oh why is he calling? After the fiasco that nearly resulted in his death, I expected him to vanish once more into the shadowy streets of some European city, never to be heard from again. Hopefully.
"Doctor Lecter....why are you calling me? Where are you?" I know he won't answer, but I had to ask.
His rich and strangely terrifying laugh sends chills down my spine. My mind's eye sees him again, feeding Krendler a piece of his own brain, and I choke down some bile which has risen in my throat. "Ah, Clarice, now that would be telling. Suffice to say I am in a far better place than you would prefer to see me. Did you manage to escape from our last meeting career intact? Not until I was safely away did I even consider how our dear Tattler might misinterpret your situation. I trust you have not been harassed unduly?" How typical of him....taunting me and then expressing concern I was not subjected to rudeness. If he weren't a monster, I'd find it charming. But even as a warm feeling from his gentlemanly words rises, the image Krendler's open scull causes me to gag. I must admit I do not miss the cretin, but I still wake up at night sometimes, with the memory of that awful dinner keeping me awake. Sometimes it's even worse--sometimes I joined Doctor Lecter in the meal. The first time I had that dream, I awoke vomiting and didn't stop for hours. I draw my attention back to the conversation at hand.
"That rag was annoying, as usual, but Crawford managed to pull enough strings to keep me in the FBI, at least. Quantico is actually more enjoyable than I'd expected. Regular hours suit me. Why are you calling, Doctor Lecter?" This...man? creature? Other. The Other has always stirred up so many feelings in me, most of which I can't even name, and hearing is cool crisp voice on the phone, late at night, is causing them to all rise up at once, almost swallowing me up. Foremost, there's respect--his intellect, his taste, his manners--all deserve nothing but the highest respect. Disgust, certainly. Occasionally, in my darker moods, an appreciation for his sense of irony; his victims often receive a Dante-esque end. Anger, most definitely--angry at the way he toys with my mind, angry that he used Catherine's life as a token chip, angry that such a magnificent person could be such a monster. And thousands of others, unnamable. I'm angry mostly, though; angry that he called me in the middle of the night, angry because he destroys out of whimsy what I work so hard to preserve, angry that his monstrosity ruined my career, angry because deep down I know that he had little to do with my disillusionment, angry that did me the courtesy of telling me the truth about everything, including myself.
"Ah, Clarice. So impatient. But since it IS rather late for you, I'll indulge you and get right to the point. I missed our little games of truth-or-dare, Special Agent Starling." His voice has that tone, the iron undertones and playful overtones, which tells me he wants to play, but a game where the stakes are terribly high. Of course, he knows no other games. I'm puzzled by the truth-or-dare part; memories of me and the other girls whispering in the dark at the orphanage about stealing candy or first kisses seems decidedly out of place in this conversation. He continues before I can worry about it too long, though. "Our truth sessions were quite entertaining, were they not? And once I made my fortunate disappearance, I found that I occasionally missed your overly-honest, terrifyingly naïve manners, ill-fitting suits and cheap shoes. Regrettably, your untimely phone call cut short the 'dare' part of the game. Whatever happened to the dress? It was quite lovely on you--I hope you kept it." Ah. Truth--the exchange of information during the Buffalo Bill case. And he considers the dinner a DARE? Looking back, those adrenaline-filled moments with my hair caught in the refrigerator DID remind me of the rush of the challenge of a dare. Those moments all blur together, I don't remember the exact sequence of events. Whatever drug he had given me, combined with the emotional upheaval at watching a man eat his own brains and the massive amounts of adrenaline flooding my system leaves me only a blur of piercing eyes and a moment of anticipated pain that never came. Another memory, the Other whispering "that's my girl," remains locked in a little chamber of my mind simply because I have no idea how to feel about it. I do know THAT moment never made it into the police report.
"So Doctor Lecter, that doesn't answer the question. Why did you call?"
"tsk, tsk. You really must learn patience, Clarice. Especially with your new job as a teacher. Not everyone is as naturally talented with firearms as you. Do you terrify your students?" So he knows about my reassignment as Firearms instructor at Quantico. A feeling of unease rises in my stomach, knowing that he must have been paying attention to my life. What else does he watch, I wonder? Does he know how two nights ago I showed up on Crawford's doorstep, crying because I felt guilty? That he let me sob until I couldn't cry anymore and fell asleep on his couch? That I still have Bella's handkerchief in my jewelry box? I suddenly know the horrible feeling stalking victims must experience. Why me? Why doesn't he just disappear in Rome or Paris or wherever the hell he is and leave me alone?
"To be honest, Doctor Lecter, it's very late and I don't see where this conversation is headed. Will you please get to the point before I get bored and hang up?" I hope, knowing it's impossible, that he'll believe I would get bored and just hang up. I couldn't let him disappear like that again, and it's highly unlikely I will ever be bored when dealing with Hannibal Lecter, MD.
"Clarice, would you like to finish our little game? Your unfortunate phone call ended it before it had the chance to get really fun." His voice when he says 'fun' sends chills up my spine. I'm afraid to ask what his idea of 'fun' is. But I see a marvelous opportunity here. We might just be able to catch him, if he's implying some sort of meeting. I ignore the part of me that's anxious to participate in the game because it, too, feels a sense of a premature ending.
"What are you suggesting?"
"I suppose that will have to suffice for a 'yes.' You really should work on your conversation skills. Now Clarice, listen carefully. If you want to play, be a good girl and buy yourself a plane ticket to Moscow within the week. Take your cell phone, and that dress. And please, my dear Agent Starling, try to keep your rookie agent tag-a-longs to a minimum? They so rarely are worth the trouble to butcher. Ta." I hear the click, meaning he's hung up, but I still hear his haunting voice. After a moment, the automated voice comes on the line and tells me to hang up. I do, somewhat numbly. I glance again at the clock. The red of the Other's eyes glare back at me. 3:39. It's way too early or way too late for me to deal with this. I pull the covers back over my head, curl up into a fetal position, and try vainly to sleep until my alarm goes off at 5:45.
Fin
Part 1