Chapter 9

The Eleventh Hour

Hannibal Lecter propped his chin on his hands atop the steering wheel, waiting. He would not move his Jaguar until the Sardinians finally left. Currently, they buzzed around his large pick-up, hefting the tree in the back to search under it, throwing out the manual and papers from the glove compartment onto the forest floor. Lecter and his jet black car were tucked under the low branches, deep in the shadows of the park. Without a master holding their leash, the kidnappers were like a pack of wild dogs, roaming after his scent but chaotic and easy to provoke. It had taken very little to gather them all and lead them to the park and his decoy car.

He would not miss the look or feel of the truck, but it was a reliable vehicle and made him practically invisible in Virginia. It would be a loss, but better than his own head-or whatever appendage they might choose as a trophy, should they get the chance. Lecter had cleaned it out of any real evidence of his residence, instead tucking in a few papers from New York, including a stolen room key from the hotel he had patronized whilst visiting. That would keep them busy, and my, did he want them busy.

Focused and paid, they had been dangerous. Loose and hateful, they were just as lethal, but not as interesting, like tools that had lost their novelty. The chase had been white-hot before, and the doctor had been careful, dreadfully so. But now...now they were an annoyance. A distraction, and a chore. Boring.

He had much better things to occupy him, and on stolen time; none of which he planned to use scampering about the state evading their pig-eyed gazes.

Whoso list to hunt him was a fool. He had already been tagged by a creature more deadly; he pressed a finger to the skin around his neck where red marks that declared for Clarice am I lay.

It has not been long since he left her bed, not long since they slept, more exhaustion than actual dreamy slumber. Awake and aware, and now with free welcomed access to her figure, Hannibal had explored at leisure. They were like the tide, receding into lazy touches, slow movements before another wave of activity overtook them building up like a cresting wave and crashing into bliss.

Dr. Lecter inhales the scent of the forest through the crack of the window, but only smells her pine shampoo. He feels her hair against his cheek, her shoulder under his lips, even her strong runner's legs around his hips again. Lecter hears her, soft and sweet in his ear.

He is not prone to the trite desire to make a woman overly vocal, but the small whimpers and squeaks that had escaped her bit lip were as soothing to him as cricket song in summer.

They were unlike her, and Clarice had tried to stifle them against his mouth and chest and pillows. Perhaps she was embarrassed. No doubt many lovers had taken her honest sounds and created a symphony to their pride-used her like an instrument in their selfish orchestra, demanding her song without earning its tune.

Yet by the time the sun rose, both intruder and time clock, she was freely expressing her delight. It made him smile, not with pride, but a mirror of her emotions. Her joy was rare to see, rarer than her weakness and tears. And now, the sight of them both belonged to him alone.

He sighed, over indulging selfishly in memory. The last time they had made love with exhausted lethargy, Hannibal propped on his arms to better see her face in sweet pleasure. Her own were lazily wrapped around his neck, fingers combing through his hair, twining it around her fingers as she smiled at him…

He shifted in his seat, now bored and uncomfortable. That was how the day had gone, vacillating between awful boredom and the discomfort of rushing about, setting up a false scene in the forest to send his would-be hunters away. Far out of state and mind, and leaving him to submerge in this new experience.

He checked his watch, but then spied one of the men-Carlo?-looking under the truck for any rigging that might set the vehicle a flame when they started it. Lecter's fingers tapped against the leather of the wheel. In his chest, a coil of impatience began to twist. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be out of the cold, away from these people that reeked of pigs and sweat and death, and away from the hunt.

Away from the frigid cold that crawled over his flesh, piercing inside to his very veins. Lecter does not like winter, and it's dead colors and dead air, stale with no scents to sample. Nothing to distract from the cold emptiness of memory, from sinking back into another frigid lonely place where only the clouds of his own breath in the air and the corpses of children kept him company, and high dark walls blocked out the sunlight while he waited waited waited, empty-hearted, empty armed, and hollow without his sister.

Lecter swallows and focuses on the shine of the pick-up truck, the warm spots created by the yellow floodlight the kidnappers had brought along. He focused and carefully picked his way backwards, away from the trap door that emitted cold and the stench of a stool pit. The doctor tilts his face to the side towards his car's window and inhales. The forest, greenery, and dirt-and time stopped waiting for new life.

Hannibal wanted to leave, leave this tedious spectacle, leave the cold, leave his car which now seemed far too small for him. He wanted to go back to Clarice, go…

The word echoed in his mind like a forgotten clock in a distant room. Hannibal had been so long without a place-a nomad who laid his head on a pillow, in a bed, in a house but never a home.

Home had seemed a childish concept, tucked away with parental need and comfort when manhood settled over his person. Self-dependency replaced security, shelter more important than belonging. But now he had a place, made for him, and it was not a side of a bed or room in a dresser. His place was a woman with long shining hair, bright eyes, and sweet-smelling flesh.

And when he was done with his selfishness, collecting memories to sustain him the rest of his life, his place would still be with her, or at least her occupancy in the universe.

Her place, her purpose-his purpose. His duty, and responsibility. The coil in his chest tightened, it needed release. Eyes snapping open, he counted the men swarming his abandoned car. No, too many. He couldn't take them, and he did not have his crossbow. There would be no snap of relief, no sudden silence, and peace for him here in this forest, unknown and yet achingly familiar. No, he would need to ease this anxiety another way. A better way.

It took three hours for them to finally depart. By then Lecter was tired, nearly perspiring with the effort to remain focused and not let the cold seep into him and turn back time. He drove to Clarice's duplex purely by memory, exhausted from the effort to remain present and focused on the mechanics of driving, like regulating breathing to avoid vomiting.

Stepping into her kitchen, he inhaled the tacky but safe scent of lemon Lysol and generic store-brand hand soap. The forest however lingered on his person. He shucked off his hat and gloves, placing them on the table. A little calmer he noted Miss Mapp's car absent from the driveway. His own Jaguar was parked two blocks over.

Up the stairs, to the left and at the door of her bedroom. Now the scent of jasmine, lilies, and musk, and the soft inconsistent glow peeking out from under the door. She had lit a candle. Within, Clarice, peacefully asleep, the blankets tucked up around her chin. Even she was escaping the cold, having finally swapped her summer comforter for a thick blanket and spare quilt.

He does not go to her yet. He wants to eliminate the scent of dirt and sweat and fear from his flesh and has no desire to leave the smell on her sheets all night. Carefully lifting the candle from her dresser, cupping a hand around the flame, he moves to her bathroom, not wanting to turn on the cold white overhead light. Folding his clothes carefully on her hamper lid, he steps into the shower and turns the water on as hot as it will go.

Soon the room is humid, almost unbearable, but has vanquished any chill.

Alone in the dark, Clarice Starling opens her eyes. The soft glow from her now emanates from her bathroom, and she can see the steam pour out. Waiting until the water stops, Clarice finally slips out of bed. The silk of her nightgown unfurls to her ankles, a breath of fabric over her legs. It felt luxurious, it looked just as fine. And happily was not too wrinkled from their struggle the night before. As a replacement for her ratty old FBI t-shirt and cotton panties, it would more than do.

She reached into the closet and pulled out two extra pillows. A second of hesitation as she looked at her bed-preparation, concubine ready for her lord and master, next customer please-and pushed away the nagging thoughts. Too long had she shackled her private dealings to the thoughts of the public. Too long had the FBI been a cold and abusive bedmate.

She had resumed her debate that morning over the clothing Lecter had gifted her, albeit with much less ire. Possibly due to her exhaustion but more to do with the barren nature of her home. No photos on the wall from memories gilt in golden sunlight and friends, no messages on her machine from concerned voices, employers, or fellow agents. Every time the sickly feeling of use crawled over her, and the faint whisper of whore tickled her ear, she would look at these things, these empty places where comfort ought to have lived.

The body could not live without water, and the soul could not survive neglect. Starling had decided, watching as Mapp waved and drove off to start her two week visit home, that if she would not be given the tools to survive, she would take them. Ardelia fled to the comfort and base of her soul's survival. To a place where pride and empathy dwelt for her. She would rest there, and fill up her canteen of affection to last her the months she would work in the sterile federal desert of the FBI, sipping carefully of the knowledge that she had a safe shelter of love, with a place designed for her.

And Starling had not found such a place for herself in Jack Crawford, or the killing of evil, or even the tedium of the agency. She had found it in this bed. She had found it in Memphis and in Baltimore. Clarice had been led to still waters again and again and like a stubborn child, refused to drink from his spirit's well, starving her soul.

She would not return to the desert thirsty again.

That was how Lecter found her, making a place for him in her bed. She paused, taking in the sight of him, the candlelight illuminating the points of his face the rest of him cast in shadow. For a second Clarice mourned the features that were familiar to her again but found the tableau .of him, freshly cleaned and clad only in a towel comfortingly domestic. Natural.

Clarice came to him and took the candle from his hold, returning it to the dresser, feeling his eyes roam over her body. Lecter's fingers on her shoulder sent a shock down her arm. It was still a novelty to her, human touch. He turned her to face him, fingers tucking back her hair behind her ears, sliding the locks off her shoulders. He gently ran his fingers under the straps of her gown, knuckles grazing her collarbone as he felt the craftsmanship of the lace. Red eyes dancing, reflecting the fire behind her as he appraised the sleepwear, lingering on the Venetian lace that cupped her breasts, ending in an empire waist with the long swath of silk hanging freely, only hinting at the curves of her hips beneath where it began to cling.

Fingers sliding over flesh, over lace, and then his large warm hands covered her chest, gently feeling the pliant flesh beneath cloth. Her hands came up to cover his instinctively, to follow the veins and the bone beneath his skin. At her soft stutter of breath, his eyes found hers again. As Lecter's head lowered, Clarice's heart hammered in her chest. How odd, that for all these times, she still felt that same rush of exhilaration, the sensation of falling, from something as simple as a kiss?

Every encounter had begun with purpose, but now there was only the draw of attraction, the pull of want as her lips met his in a soft brush. She felt his lashes brush her cheek as he pressed on, kissing her again and lingering, melting from one kiss to the next. Her body tingled with excitement, like charged static waiting for release. Under her fingers his thumbs began to brush and caress, following the lace around to her back, drawing her close until she was pressed against him, belly to belly.

Lecter slid the straps of the gown off her shoulders, but as he moved away to let the gown slide off to the ground, he swayed. Starling took his arms, steadying him, and peered up into his face. She looked passed the angles of his cheek and line of the jaw, now registered the lines around his mouth, the purple under his eyes. Whilst she had slept off his ador, he had risen every day and left her in the morning, escaping the light and law.

Clarice shrugged the straps back on and took his fingers from her back. Leading him to the bed, she took his towel and made him sit on the edge. Carefully, she rubbed his hair free of water. It was still thick and dark, and without product or moisture, fell unruly over his ears and forehead. Starling wanted to lean back, to drink in the rare sight of the doctor uncomposed, freshly washed, and totally stripped of clothing and reserve. But as she moved, he caught her waist. His cheek pressed against the soft plane of her belly, and Lecter held her there, inhaling the scent of pine and the lavender dryer sheets she used on her bedding.

He seemed content to stay that way. Starling placed her hands on his head, losing her fingers in his hair. He was too weary to fight, too tired to escape if she still wished him harm, but still returned to her. Some of our stars… Starling posed the same danger to the doctor as Lecter did to her. And still, he came back to her as readily as she accepted. Was it too far-fetched to think that he too was a thirsty soul? Perhaps her well was not so dry as she thought.

Clarice was no longer a young cub. She had seen too much and knew too much. This would not last, this peace they found in one another. This quiet and silence that reigned between them. It was a shelter from the storm, propped up against the chilly, killing winds of change and climax. Starling felt it instinctually that even as they lingered here, quiet and comfortable, that outside the world was turning, leading up to something, to the end of all the ambitions and efforts of men who attempted to use them like pieces on a board. The game would end eventually, the clock striking twelve.

For now, however, Clarice would enjoy her eleventh hour, may it give her some comfort when it was all over.

Carefully disentangling herself, Starling pushed him back against the pillows, rounding the bed to her side. As she slid under the covers once more, she saw Lecter lift his pillow and peer underneath. Wellspring she might be, but even exhausted, he was keen enough to check for snakes. Starling lifted her pillow as well, and the tissue box for good measure.

When he settled down, his hands found her again, sliding her across the mattress until she was against him once more. Clarice hid her cold nose in the crook of his neck and felt the sting of tears. Her skin hunger was sated, she had something to hold and someone to hold her. And as the candle's flame died, she wished,-wished harder than she had in her orphan bed so many years ago.

Starling wished with all her might that whatever happened, his warm body solid against her would not become as cold as marble in death as so many of her men had.

Art Referenced:

Whoso List to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt

"There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am"

There's also an Evanescence quote if you can find it.