Author's note: The story follows movie canon up to the kitchen scene in Hannibal and diverges from that point forward. If you like the story, please thank Green Jewels for convincing me to post it. If you dislike the story, feel free to castigate me in a review.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the use of these particular words in this particular order. Everything else goes home to its proper copyright owner at last call.

"Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?"

In contrast to the violence of his hands on her skin just moments before, his voice was gentle. From another man, she might have called it … affectionate. It seemed a ludicrous thought, that Hannibal Lecter might show affection to anyone. A ruse to lure her in, then, to trap her with his words and force her into revealing … revealing what?

Hadn't his choice of words been their own revelation? Did she expect him to speak any more plainly?

People will say we're in love.

Hadn't he carried her away from danger? Didn't his careful, neat handiwork burn against her flesh as new blood welled from her wound? Hadn't he showered her with gifts – the shoes, the dress, her enemy trussed like a turkey and served on a platter? Clarice repressed a shudder, suddenly glad she couldn't see past his shoulder to the other side of the kitchen where what remained of Paul Krendler sat motionless.

And now, after her ridiculously ineffectual assault on his person, hadn't he shown restraint? For a man as subtle as Dr. Lecter, such words and actions had been as blatant as a billboard in Times Square.

He was waiting for her to speak. His eyes studied her own, and she wondered what he saw there.

"As a gentleman, I would prefer not to press a lady for her answer, Clarice, but time is rather short."

Was it? Yes, that was her doing; her phone call had made certain of it. Did he think she was stalling him? What else could he think? Her head was laden with heavy thoughts, and the morphine fog descending now that her adrenaline rush had faded made it impossible to follow any thought to its conclusion. She could hardly do the question justice in this state.

Her voice, when she found it, was steadier than she'd expected.

"The short answer is no, Doctor."

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze never wavering from her face.

"Such a response bespeaks the existence of a long answer, Clarice. Must I ask you again?"

Was it his prolonged nearness or the strain of fighting the morphine that sent a tremor through her? The metal door was cool against her naked back; surely it might have provoked a shiver. But Clarice's mind was clear on this point, at least: It was the heat of the man in front of her that sent her nerve endings into a frenzied dance. She strove to imitate his even tone, knowing as she did that his keen attention could hardly fail to note the hitch in her breath.

"If I start the long answer now, Doctor, we'll be finishing it from either side of Plexiglas."

"Isn't that your fondest desire, Special Agent Starling? To see me incarcerated for my crimes?"

His answer had been swift, swifter than she'd expected, and she cursed the instinctive shake of her head even as she aborted the motion.

"Was that a 'no,' Clarice?" He leaned toward her, his body at a polite distance but for his lips nearly grazing her ear. "What's going on in that fascinating mind of yours, hmm?"

"Another time, Doctor." She was drowning in his scent. He was close enough now that she might tilt her head forward a little and lick the skin of his neck just under his ear, her mental voice supplied, and her body helpfully arched forward the merest fraction of an inch before the tug of her hair in the refrigerator door reminded her that the circumstances were far from ideal.

His exhalation against her ear made it clear that he had noticed her lapse in judgment.

"Is that an invitation, Clarice? Have I your permission to arrange another evening for us?"

"Another dinner party, Doctor?" She hoped he could hear the scorn in her voice. "I'd prefer one with fewer guests." Honesty compelled her to add, more quietly, "and no gate-crashers."

"Mmm. An intimate evening for two? You surprise me, Clarice. But how could I fail to deliver when my lady's wishes have been expressed so clearly?"

She should protest the appellation, certainly, was opening her mouth to do just that when a soft rustle of fabric reached her ears.

"Doctor?"

The slight sting at her elbow and the cooling rush flowing through her arm gave her the answer she sought.

"My apologies, Clarice, but you'll fare better with your Eff Bee Eye colleagues if you can claim no knowledge of the evening's events. It rankles, I know. You might take me to task for it later, should you remember this conversation at all."

She blinked at him as he drew back, but her eyes refused to focus on his face. She frowned. Her hand lifted of its own accord, fingers landing lightly against his cheek. Her thumb traced a slash of pink; his lips, she realized, as they moved under her touch.

"No candlestick, Clarice? No butter knife? My my, this evening has been momentous indeed."

Something in his voice niggled at her brain. He was using that soft, teasing tone again, the one that invited her, and only her, into … into what? His confidence? She felt the sudden urge to share something meaningful with him before her eyes drifted closed.

"Thank you … for the shoes, Doctor. They're lovely."

She sagged against his chest as he pried her hair out of the door, his heartbeat a pleasant, steady thumping beneath her ear.

"No lovelier than the feet they grace, Clarice."

She was moving now, her head dizzy with the shift, and warm bands beneath her back and knees convinced her that he had swung her into his arms. Her thoughts floated with her body.

… if you loved me …

The faint whisper against her brow might have been a kiss – or it might have been her own imagination carrying her off on a morphine tide.