Clarice Starling thought: Officious little prick.

Sitting before her one-time superior, Clint Pearsall, she reveled in the way his threats no longer seemed valid, or even worth her consideration.  Technically, she supposed he still ranked above her, but her common disregard to that assumption was provoked by the sense that he was no longer an intimidation.  Today, he decided to overwork her with news, news, and more news on current troubles, as though hesitant to give her anything that valued her time.  When he looked at her, she could see the doubt in his eyes, and furthermore noted he was beyond caring to be so easily read.

Of course, to say *he* solely looked at her differently was a laugh.  Starling suddenly knew what it was like to be a circus attraction.  A fully-fledged one this time.  And she thought the aftermath of Evelda Drumgo was bad.

When Pearsall moved, it was with quickness, as though he anticipated needing to make an abrupt departure.  This amused her, and while she didn't let that show, it provided entertaining thoughts whenever she should decide to step outside the office and into herself. 

The distance behind her eyes must have been evident, for now he was looking at her with sharp acuteness, waiting for her to speak.  Had he asked a question?  She was beyond caring.

"Pardon me, sir?" she asked, tilting her head as though recently awakened.

"I asked if you were interested," came the solemn reply.  He didn't even bother to sound strict, or exasperated at her lack of attention. 

"That's not what you asked," Starling replied calmly, her tone low and conversational.  "Let's be honest, no one really cares if I'm interested anymore, do they, Mr. Pearsall?  It seems I'm just the fallback girl around here."

Coolly, he arched an eyebrow, a shield of innocence coming over him, as though he had nothing to hide.  Again, Starling refused to let herself feel agitation.  Truthfully, she expected nothing more.  After all, these were the people she allegedly despised, and who likewise returned the favor. 

"Perhaps you'd be more than that if you could follow instructions."

Ouch.  That hurt. 

"What good does following instructions bring?  I've done nothing that you or any agent wouldn't have done should the information been clarified at the time.  I followed instinct instead of fact.  That's what all this is about."

Pearsall's disagreement was evident and need not be vocalized.  It was the same disapproving gaze everyone in the Bureau had issued her for the past three months. 

"Do you realize how difficult getting you assigned to this has been for me?" he asked, tone lower now, no longer agent-to-agent, as though she had smacked him.

For a fleeting moment, Starling wished she had.

"Well, I'm sorry you wasted your time.  I'm not interested."

The look she received blatantly disbelieved her.  It made her clinch her fists tightly.  "If this is what I have to do to gain my respect and restoration, then frankly, Mr. Pearsall, I'd rather leave the Bureau," she said as an afterthought.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to see him again."

Ah, the truth at last. 

"Starling, that's beside the point."

"I am entitled to reject the job, I'd think."

"The faster you learned the difference between your personal life and business, the better," Pearsall snapped, his temper finally nearing its fold.  Starling sat back, neglecting to be threatened.  Watching him was almost comical, the words he produced to scorn her having little or no effect.  To actually put value into his attempts at coercion was an empty investment.  It was to be expected, after the summer she had.  "That's what got you in this mess in the first place, if you don't remember.  Ignoring a direct order and following your 'instinct,' as you call it, instead."

Tedious.  Very tedious.  Not to mention redundant.

"I don't care, Mr. Pearsall.  There are plenty of other agents."

"Starling, people will *think* things if you don't take this job.  Not just the public, but people in this building.  Why doesn't she want to go after him again?  Return to a celebrated case?  Save her career?"  Pearsall made a point to watch her carefully, as though he had the intelligence to read her mind through body language.

"Celebrated because of my involvement, because everyone is dying to know what he'd do to me now.  I'd rather lose my job than subject myself to that all over again," Starling retorted in defiance, her eyes glistening dangerously.  "I've put myself before him on a silver platter twice now, and we both know the outcome.  First Jack Crawford, and now you."

"Crawford can't protect you anymore," Pearsall argued, as though the fact were of some relevance to their discussion. 

"Yeah.  Death does that to people."

A sigh of defeat.

"Starling…" Pearsall said slowly, his eyes now on the carpet of the office floor, suddenly struck with an ailment that physically forbade him from looking at her.  "The truth of the matter is you have no choice.  You're our best bet.  He won't come out of hiding for anyone else."

"You sound remarkably like Paul Krendler."

Round two to her.  Pearsall knew how she felt about the late Mr. Krendler, and his gaze shot daggers.  Again, Starling felt little more than amusement. 

In the three months that had passed since her last disastrous encounter with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Starling became accustomed to meetings such as these.  They were routine in number and length, differing only in content.  The first few weeks consisted of her continual career in the Bureau, something she still – despite everything – wished to maintain.  If only to keep that one sliver of corruption from overtaking her, and try, despite the disposition of her colleagues, to do some good in this crazy world. 

The words Dr. Lecter spoke to her at Union Station rang with more truth than she cared to admit.  They were the only words she called upon for reflection.  Everything else seemed surreal.

The truth in the matter was, Starling didn't care to chase Dr. Lecter again because she felt any attempt to apprehend him was doomed to fail.  He worked himself masterfully out of any mess, with or without outside help.  Watching him dejectedly leave Paul Krendler's kitchen almost made her pity him, simply for there was no peace with this man. 

Starling felt she would live a rather fulfilled life regardless whether Dr. Lecter was caught.  It wasn't so important to her.  She had his reassurances that she was safe.  Having lived ten years in blissful ignorance of his overseas actions weighed little on her conscience.

Of course, that man had been cut for meat.  If she knew Dr. Lecter, there was a stronger reason.  Her inward duty to protect the sheep charged her still, but with a realistic atmosphere.

According to him, it was *she* everyone should be concerned with.

Everyone.  Yeah, right. 

The last minutes of their time together had little or no affect on her.  Confirmation of the tabloids on his part, perhaps, but her feelings remained strangely unchanged.  Above and beyond everything else, she was Special Agent Clarice Starling, and would always be, despite the discontinuance of her occupation in the Bureau, should it come to that. 

Starling didn't cling to morality anymore – that much, she saw, was fruitless.  She still had her values and ethics, and whether or not she decided to refer to them, they would always remain with her. 

She didn't want to face him again, because it was difficult seeing a man like that repossessed by something more powerful than he even seemed to understand.  Their last meeting had closure to it, and she wanted nothing to jeopardize that.

Even her sustained career as a special agent.  There were certain things she would die happy never knowing. 

The lead the FBI had was irrefutable.  A man in Beijing found trimmed for meat.  An all too familiar calling card.  Some speculators suggested it was a copycat demanding attention, but Starling knew better after seeing the photographs.  Her confirmation seemed to be all the Bureau needed, as though she was suddenly an expert on Lecter murders.  She safely blamed that as being the only known person to see him kill someone indisputably and live to tell about it.

People were troubled by it more or less because no one knew rightfully why the doctor would flee to China.  Starling knew, of course.  It was inconspicuous, especially for him.  The only place less likely for him to willfully travel would be somewhere in Africa.  His resources never failed to impress her, even when they worked to her direct disadvantage. 

It was several minutes before Pearsall found his voice and was slowly coaxed to the present.  "Listen, Starling…does your career mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does."

"Do you understand what catching Lecter would mean to the Bureau?"

She appeared to consider the question.  "Why, yes, Captain Obvious."

The stare she received calmed her, more or less because she didn't know where her outburst came from.  Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to readjust.  One more attempt, though she knew it was hopeless.  If necessary, they would deny her sleep, food, water, anything to get her working on the case.  Lock her up and throw away the key.  Oh, the media would love this, as would be public.  She saw the dreaded Tattler headlines looming in the future, the sneers from colleagues, the glazed eyes of Paul Krendler that haunted her at night. 

Starling was sorry to say she regretted nothing of his death.  Such fate never seemed more deserving.  The initial shock of the moment had long worn off.  Looking back at that night, she had to wonder why she choked at the display.  It seemed more logical to laugh, or better yet, point and laugh.

("What if I made them scream apologies?")

Starling shuddered, her mouth forming for the last phase of her argument, the last before she would ultimately give in and accept this.   Not because she wanted to.  Personally, she didn't care to ever see Dr. Lecter again.  But life seemed to disagree with her on many things.  She didn't want reassignment the first time around, and thought the Bureau realized their mistake with the madness that followed.  Putting her and Lecter together was willingly dumping gasoline over oneself and striking a match. 

She didn't want to see him, see his gaze as she remembered it.  Watch him as he was cuffed, undoubtedly to take several agents down with him before any arrest could be made.  To see his eyes was to see the most personal part of herself, to see everything she ever shared with this man.  The part of her that was best left forgotten. 

And then the transfer back to the States.  Locked in a compartment with him all the whole way because no other had the courage, or the oath never to be injured.  Perhaps that's why they did this. 

Who the hell was she kidding?  That was *exactly* why they did this.  To the eyes of everyone in the world, she was Lecter's weakness, the one thing he couldn't have.  True romantics occasionally sent her hate-filled mail along with requests to contact Dr. Lecter for offers of marriage. 

When she was bored, Starling sometimes entertained herself by answering those letters.  Needless to say, most correspondents didn't bother with a continuous line of contact. 

"Mr. Pearsall…" she said carefully, her tone soft, needing no emphasis.  "I don't care how long it takes, what it costs me…but you must understand that going after Lecter is the last thing I want to do.  Yes, for personal reasons, but I've been personally involved since the Catherine Martin case.  He knows me, and he knows my weaknesses.  It's not smart putting us together.  You'll have more success without me.  Please."

"Yes, well," Pearsall said, his tone indicating blunt refusal.  Starling felt her heart sink.  "We know his weakness, and it's obvious you're it.  We wouldn't do this if it weren't absolutely necessary, but a Justice Department employee is dead now."

"So what?  That's just a job.  Does that make Paul Krendler any more important than, oh say, Benjamin Raspail?  Or Dr. Chilton?  How about Rinaldo Pazzi?  Think of these people.  You can't measure a man's importance because of his occupation," Starling stated, her eyes cold.

"Of course, but…" Pearsall trailed off, closing his eyes briefly as though pained.  With a collected breath, he looked to her again, this time with resolution.  She knew the conversation was over.  "Starling, you must push personal matters aside.  This is for the good of the Bureau, of society altogether.  What if our team goes and misses him because they don't know what to look for?  We need you there."

Starling's gaze failed to falter, but steadily she omitted a defeated breath.  When she could no longer stand it, she glanced down and nodded.  The movement made her ache, as though physical agreement to this forewarned upcoming troubles.  "All right, Mr. Pearsall, all right.  But I want you to understand…" Slowly rising to her feet, she averted her gaze upward once more,  "what exactly you're asking of me.  What this will cost me."

"Cost you?"

"My sanity.  I thought I'd store what little I have saved from our last encounter for the holidays when everyone else gets their seasonal depression."

"You'll do fine."  He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, but it was more for his benefit.

Shaking her head, Starling tore away, grasping her things and making the retreat to her familiar post, wall adorned with Lecter memorabilia.  They had added much since Krendler's demise, including a picture of the now-dead man with the top of his head grotesquely removed.

And then, in the corner, her picture, the doctored wound on her shoulder. 

He saved her; there was no questioning that.  In return, she attempted to stab him with a dinner knife and bash him over the head with a candlestick.  None of that she regretted.  For she was Clarice Starling – FBI, first, foremost, and always.

Still, a forbidden part of her was ashamedly grateful her attempts went so astray.  She told him she would never deny him his life, which remained true.  Now she was again in charge of his freedom, and wanted no reminder of the last time that occurred. 

We don't get what we wish for. 

Here she was, about to embark on another manhunt.  This time, they had a reliable lead, and no deranged – not to mention deformed – victim seeking revenge.  Who knows, it might work.

And tomorrow I'll win a million dollars, get the Nobel Prize, and be crowned the Queen of England.

A dry smile tugged at her lips.  Hey, anything was possible. 

Even this?

She had to hope.  It was all she had left.

*          *          *