See Disclaimers on Chapter 1
A/N: Lecter's opinion of the X-Files does not necessarily reflect the author's own. I'm sorry for taking so long to get this chapter out. My only excuse is that once again, college has been a bitch. *hangs head in shame* I'll try to get the next chapter up much sooner.
Thanks to those people who reviewed Chapter 5: Aine Deande, Saavik, shir-ran, Hanniballover1181, MK, Nanci, Steel, Jstarz927, luna, ironist, Marcus Aurelius, Dixihnsnluver, LadyofTruths, JB, Danny, shiva, orangesky, guber, Fumblepaws, Anisky, KatZ, Kate, shaninigans and Spinjunct.
Shout outs go to my bitch Tilly, and to Lu and Jules.
For Spinjunct. I love you. *yes, gag me now*
**
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
- Robert Frost, Fire and Ice -
Ground Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:59 p.m. Day 15Guillermo Ruiz stared apprehensively at the unnaturally still figure of Hannibal Lecter, seemingly frozen in place and eyeing his hand in rapt fascination as ruby droplets mixed with amber, staining the white of linen.
The other man's eyes had gone dark, darker than usual, darker than he thought possible. Dark as the blood staining the pavements of some of the crime scenes he used to work on, seeping into the cracks and becoming part of the night. Somebody's life glistening in the moonlight.
In all the thirty-something years he had been acquainted with Lecter, he had seen him in a variety of states, dispositions and frames of mind. He had seem him sober, slightly less than sober, blind pissing drunk and then personally nursed him back to sobriety once again just as Lecter had done for him. Though the man had an extremely high tolerance for alcohol, he was by no means immune to it and when an assortment of kinds of it is ingested in great quantities . . . well, a man can only stay abstemious for so long.
Ah, the mad, bad, wild and crazy days of the college years. Weekends spent carousing in the bars located around and near the campus. The endless flow of women, alcohol and—he grinned to himself, not in the least sorry—some not quite legal, mind altering substances. They weren't exactly what you could call angels, and hell, they still weren't although he suspected he had come to settle down after all those years. Lecter, on the other hand was a different story.
Even during those carefree times, he had known that behind that ferocious intellect his friend was a formidable man capable of great anger and wondered where along the way had the final threshold been breached, that final fuck-up that opened the floodgates and unleashed the tightly-reined violence lurking within the fire-blackened chambers of the good doctor's mind. He had shied away from even contemplating it before, but now the issue was unavoidable.
When initial information came out of the truth behind Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter's murder spree, Ruiz and his wife had been the only ones of the doctor's acquaintances who hadn't been surprised. He supposed that on some level, he must have been expecting it. Nobody else did. Baltimore society never anticipated that the successful, brilliant, charming, elusive and oh-so-sought-after psychiatrist was capable of such atrocities.
But just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there.
The tree in the forest routine just never seemed to work in real life.
Ruiz had caught a glimpse of it one whiskey debauched night when he had looked into his flatmate's eyes and nearly recoiled from the bleak, soulless expression looming in their depths. Their very blankness called out to him and yet there was nothing else he could do. Not even to break eye contact. He was looking down into the emptiness of the abyss and it stared back at him, unflinching.
He wondered what it was about the dark that seemed so undeniably compelling.
**
St. John propped his elbow lazily onto the bartop as he angled himself into one of the seats while waiting for the bartender to take his orders. He couldn't believe his good fortune. It seemed that for once in his lackadaisical life, Lady Luck was actually smiling down on him and showering him with all the good graces he believed was his by virtue of birth alone and never had to work for a single day of his existence.
St. John was a rather arrogant and self-assured man.
He was, during moments where he basked in his superior masculinity, indeed a man if not a man's man. However, unlike most males who are prone to be more visually oriented as opposed to tactile, St. John preferred to savour the more tangible things about his lover. Being able to appreciate her beauty was all well and good. After all, everyone else had the same privilege. It was a free country and last he checked there were no laws against staring at a beautiful woman – or asking for her phone number like every Tom, Dick, and Harry out there. But to Malcolm St. John, it was the physical aspect of their relationship that he had come to value the most.
It wasn't just the sex – though he would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn't enjoy their amorous encounters – it was everything about her.
Starling, in his mind, tasted like rust and stardust - were he to ever have the dubious fortune of ingesting said substances. Playing tonsil hockey with the unpredictable Clarice Starling was like being engaged in pleasurable lip lock with a ticking time bomb. He would never again understand how his friends and acquaintances could wax poetic about their lovers tasting like Sunshine (too much sunshine will lead to sunburn and skin cancer) or Strawberries (made him think of fruit baskets) or – he shuddered at the thought – Love (how the hell would you know what love tastes like, anyway? Did they feed you that as a child, cos I sure as hell didn't get a sample). Starling was none of those things and yet all of them. She was impulsive as she was attractive, intelligent as she was dangerous and he had always felt he was trotting a very finely marked line whenever he was with her. Trotting. Heh. What was he? Her little tiny bitch lap dog?
Come to think of it, that wasn't such a bad thought he smiled to himself. He didn't mind so much being her pup. As long as she was partial to leather collars.
The thought made him grin even wider.
A large, warm hand clamped down, biting harshly onto his shoulder.
Turning around, he was greeted by the usually smiling blue eyes of Guillermo Ruiz.
Only this time, they weren't twinkling. Not a bit.
"We need to have a talk," the older man said, motioning for the younger to follow him.
**
Upper Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 10:02 p.m. Day 15The minute St. John left her side to get more drinks, Starling's senses went on complete red alert, knowing fully that somewhere in the club a furious cannibal currently stalked. Her ocean blue eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar pair of murderous maroon ones and checking on St. John who appeared whole and unmolested save for the rapacious stares of several women, lounging indolently at the bar.
Not for long apparently as a slight, dark figure made his way through the throng of dancers who instinctively parted from him like the Dead Sea. Lecter stretched out a hand as if to tap St. John on the shoulder but at the last moment, looked up at Starling, and the frozen expression on her face. He smirked, seemingly satisfied at the discomfiture this caused her and threw her a mock salute before disappearing once more into the crowd.
Starling attempted to follow Lecter's movements, but in the end, lost him just as the harsh disco lights began to blink, throwing the writhing masses in odd shades of shadow and light.
"Good evening, Clarice."
Startled out of her crowd scrutiny by the dangerous honey tones of her quarry, Starling slowly rotated her head and took in the presence of the slight man before her, a study in contradictions as he stood lazily feet firmly planted apart. Posture tensed and yet unperturbed, arms resting at his sides, regarding her with an intent look. Her eyes roved keenly over his fine form - trained still after all these years; taking in the well cut dark suit, the doctor's impeccable sense of style making itself known as always.
He was looking very calm and composed, showing no signs of the fury that had engulfed him earlier. Until her gaze drifted to his left hand, tiny rivulets of blood dripping tracks into the carpet.
She did the first thing that entered her mind.
**
Senior Crime Scene Investigator Doctor Guillermo Jose Maria Ruiz was at the moment, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. Relief that Lecter hadn't decided to murder the young man and apprehension as to what his intentions were towards Clarice. The way the doctor was looking earlier, he wouldn't have been surprised had his friend simply given in to the urge to castrate and oh-so-cheerfully follow that impulse up with an impromptu dissection. On the dance floor no less. Ruiz briefly deliberated whether or not he were insane as well, as that particular imagery actually caused a slight smile to linger on his lips.
Instead, Lecter had coolly gotten up and told Ruiz to "See to the pup. I must speak with Clarice," and disappeared into the crowd before he could make a reply.
He hoped he wouldn't be charged as accessory to murder were anything to go wrong tonight.
Exiting the stuffy atmosphere of the club and into the balmy embrace of the night air, Ruiz's attitude changed from that of a completely mild-mannered, much-loved-though-considered-by-some-to-be-slightly-batty uncle to positively forceful, do-not-you-dare-fucking-mess-with-me, taking a hold of the younger man's arm and squiring him across the street to the other side. A parked van effectively hiding them from the view of anyone at the club and slamming the taller man hard against the vehicle's side panel with a loud thunk on the metal.
"What the fuck do you think you're--" St. John began to say in protest.
"Stay away from her boy," Ruiz cut in, pressing St. John further onto the worn panel in addition to his warning. He stared the younger man face to face.
"Just who do you think you are to tell me that?" demanded St. John shoving the older man aside and stepping away from the rusting vehicle.
"Someone who knows that she's much to good for you, you wretched young spalpeen. Believe me, there are things beyond your control and things that you weren't meant to have and she's one of them. Don't ask."
"What the hell kind of drug are you on?"
"Let's just say that there are some people whom you would never, under any circumstances want to meet if you value your internals and one of them is a--ah, friend of hers. That girl is like a daughter to me and if you even--"
"Fuck it, Guillermo, you're even crazier than I thought," St. John hurled at Ruiz before turning around to return inside but was stopped at the feel of the other man's hand on his arm. "Let go of me, Guillermo."
"Not until we're clear."
"We are clear."
"You listen to me boy," said Ruiz gravely, squeezing the younger man's arm a little more. St. John's eyes narrowed in irritation and he tensed in anticipation for a fight.
A mobile went off and he looked to Ruiz to answer it.
"Hello," the forensics expert barked sharply into the receiver, brow furrowed in concentration. "For once in your life, get straight to the point, man. Oh. I see. Uh-huh. Fuck almighty. Has anybody moved the--? Good. See to it they stay that way. I can be there in ten minutes. No, I'll do that. Alright." He pushed the antenna back in and closed the phone with an audible clap, shoving it forcefully into the pocket of his blazer.
"What was that about?" enquired St. John. The entire tone of the conversation made him uneasy.
"We have a double homicide."
"Fuck. Where at?"
"Upriver. Garden District."
"I'll go get Clarice."
"No, he--" Ruiz butted in, looking as if he were to add something more then hesitated. "We have to get there right now. I'll call her."
"I'll just be a minute--"
"I said I'll call her," insisted Ruiz fixing the other man an almost threatening look.
"Fine," acquiesced St. John, thrown slightly off-kilter by his colleague's strange behaviour. "I'll drive."
**
Leading the doctor to one of the miraculously empty (And a hallelujah to the big man from up high for that, Starling mentally muttered. Having someone see her in the company of one of the top-notchers on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted was just what she needed to officially catapult this evening into one of her 'Five Worst Nights' list, an interesting if not impressive inventory that included such memorable events as 'Having-To-Watch-Paul-Krendler-Happily-Eat-His-Brains' and 'Running-Away-Astride-A-Blind-Horse-Only-To-Be-Brought-Back-Then-Placed-In-An-Orphanage-And-The-Horse-Killed-Anyway'. Fuck. She just hoped that St John, wherever the man was, had the good sense not to come looking for her else things just might get ugly), unisex bathrooms, she pushed him through the door before slamming it shut and bolting the both of them in. There was a couch at the far end by the sink.
"Sit," she commanded folding her arms over her chest and looking not in the least intimidated by the sight of Hannibal Lecter's left eyebrow creeping leisurely up to meet his hairline in an expression of that was leaning towards humorous. "And wipe that smirk off your face."
The other eyebrow shot up to keep its brother company along with the upper right corner of his mouth, although the doctor nevertheless complied.
They glared at each other in silence—Lecter with a good amount of detached amusement gracing his patrician features and Starling with an even greater amount of just-about-bordering-on-incensed irritability as she yanked paper towels from the dispenser near the mirror and used some of them to blot the still-bleeding cuts on doctor's left hand. The others she doused liberally with tequila from an abandoned and fortunately unopened bottle tucked away in one corner right behind the ubiquitous potted plant.
"What the fuck did you think you were going to do? Gut him? In public?" she demanded, wiping away some of the blood. They looked deep. In all honesty, she was slightly surprised that he was taking this with remarkable stoicism. Any other man she had known would have been blubbering like a baby at lesser injuries than this. Then again, she reminded herself, Hannibal Lecter was no ordinary man.
And she, Clarice Starling, was currently on bended knee between his legs.
Under different circumstances, she would, very much like a cat on fire, have quickly risen and place her derriere beside him, ignore the questioning look he would undoubtedly give her and carry on with the task, soldier. However at present, she really didn't feel the need to give him the pleasure of knowing he had flustered her. Although her present position still caused a slight pink tint to appear on her cheeks. Thankfully, this escaped the doctor's notice, as he made no remark of it. Apparently, he hadn't guessed where her thoughts had wandered off to or if he had, he was too much of a gentleman to share it.
"I don't believe I was," he said finally in answer to her question, seeming almost surprised at the rare honesty and unexpectedness of his response.
"Got that right. Okay, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it is going to hurt me . . ." she warned, pressing down on the cuts with the tequila-soaked towels. Starling half expected him to either hiss or flinch at the initial contact.
He blinked.
She gave him a questioning look and then shrugged mentally at his lack of reaction, getting on with cleaning and to some extent, disinfecting the nicks, making sure there weren't any leftover slivers of glass in them.
He sat through these proceedings without drawing back, lecturing or even uttering a single complaint. Which was a pleasant surprise.
"Well, that's that," she said, wrapping his hand securely with his white handkerchief, now spotted here and there. Starling took a swig from the leftover alcohol and after an inner debate that lasted all of two seconds passed it to him. She was taken aback when he accepted and drank from it without even pausing to wipe the mouth. Lecter examined her handiwork with a critical eye.
"I know it's not up to your usual standards, doctor, but please do bear in mind that I am a police officer, not a nurse."
He quirked an indolent eyebrow at her.
"Oh, that's quite all right, Clarice. More than passable, I daresay. Although there is one thing you left out, however--" he handed her the tequila.
"Yeah? What?" Starling took the bottle from him. He waited until she had raised it to her lips.
"Seeing as how you've performed the part of Florence Nightingale so well, why don't you just play the role to the hilt and include a kiss to make it all the more better?" he said – quite seriously – just as she tossed her head back for another swallow. Lecter admired the smooth alabaster column of her neck.
And the way her eyes widened in disbelief.
"Excuse me?" Starling spluttered on the tequila, her lungs and nasal cavity on fire, her thoughts going into hyper drive. Helphelphelpshitfuckanddamn!
"Your concern touches me profoundly. Are you quite certain you aren't up to kissing me even if just for the pure purpose of enhancing my feelings of well-being?"
"In your dreams."
"Who let that particular cat out of the bag?"
Starling flushed. Was he flirting with her? Possibly. He had uttered the statement in all seriousness yet he also had that lazy smile on his face that sent chills up her spine and, she wasn't exactly sure she liked that look in his eye. She cleared her throat in an attempt to recover.
"Ahem," said Starling, clearing her throat in an attempt to divert the subject to somewhere more comfortable or at the very least, less uncomfortable. "Ah, well, back to before. A kiss for your boo-boo? Ah do declare doctor, could it be that your preference in diet has finally caused your IQ to be reduced to that of a five year old?" she drawled in a bad parody of Scarlett O'Hara and was rewarded by another, if infinitesimal, smile from the doctor. Vivien Leigh she was not. Why oh why did she have to have the strangest defence mechanisms? Time to derail the train of thought. "Tell me something, doctor. If you've known about me living here all this time what was stopping you from coming out and making contact with me?"
"Making contact," he ruminated on those two words, thankfully abandoning (although in all likelihood he was probably shelving it away for a resumed discussion at a later date) their previous discourse. "Ignoring the extraterrestrial analogousness of your phrasing - you've been watching that atrocious television program again haven't you – the simple truth of the matter was that--"
"The X-Files, doctor. That atrocious television program is called the X-Files."
"Knowing said television program's title does not excuse its reprehensible quality and your poor preferences when it comes to--"
"You envy me my educated tastes," sniffed Starling in a superior manner.
"That I will not dignify with a response."
"You're digressing."
"Getting impatient, were we? Do stop interrupting--"
"Patience has never been one of my strong points."
"Naturally. Else you wouldn't be Clarice Starling were you otherwise. Although apparently, asperity is--"
"You warm my heart," drawled Starling mockingly.
"All under the best of intentions, I assure y--"
"Doctor, some of the worst shit on this planet has been done 'under the best of intentions' as you say. And I don't think it was a coincidence that you chose to phrase it that way."
"You give me far too much credit. As I was saying--"
"You know, I'm really far too clever for you to try to change the topic without me catching on. Surely you've come to realise that before."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Immensely."
"Are you mocking me?"
"You've only just now noticed?"
"That was not a rhetorical question."
"I didn't interpret it as such."
"Then do not answer the question with another question."
"You're giving me lessons now?" she tilted her head and gave him a challenging look, trying to see through the slight alcoholic glaze that had begun to swarm over her vision.
"Your behaviour has become appallingly rude, Clarice," warned the doctor lightly.
"Is that a threat?"
"Make of it what you will."
"Doesn't matter. It's empty anyway."
"I never make empty threats."
"The bottle," Starling shook some of good ol' Cuervo at him. "I meant the bottle. It's empty." She took a better look at the three inches or so of liquid at the bottom. "Or nearly empty. Close enough."
Lecter smirked at her.
"Okay, strange smile on serial killer's face. Should I start fearing for my life?" said Starling, a bit too flippantly. "Forget what I said, can we change the topic now?" she added when his expression did not change.
"And what subject might you wish to converse about, Clarice?" said Lecter, all accommodating serenity and condescension.
"I don't know, anything."
"Shall we discuss you, Clarice. From what I remember, women seem to enjoy discussing themselves."
She studied him amusedly, polishing off the last remaining liquor in the bottle. "So let's talk about me, then. What do you think of me? Of my life right now? Cos before, you know, you really seemed to enjoy dissing me and belittling my lifestyle before. Calling me tornado-bait, trailer-camp white trash if memory serves me right."
"Do you really want my honest opinion, Clarice?"
"Sure. Why not? It's not as if I haven't heard it all before. Surprise me, Doctor Lecter. Tell me something you haven't already said. Enthral me with your acumen," she snarked, rolling her r's and drawing out the last sentence. If Starling was consciously aware that she was verbalizing the same phrase to him as he had to her so many years ago in the damp of a Baltimore dungeon she made no notice of it and neither did Lecter enlighten her.
"Very well, then. I shall tell you if only to appease this masochistic streak you've suddenly acquired. Do spare me the schoolgirl tears, however, hmm? It seems to me that at present you are trying to break yourself out of that self-imposed mould you have so willingly placed yourself within. You wish to . . . shake things up a bit. Put some spice into that monotonously boring excuse of what you call a life. This—affair, or whatever it is you have with St. John is simply the little Starling pretending to be a naughty girl and carousing with the bad boy her daddy would never have approved of were he alive. Pity. I would have thought such things were beneath you, osculating in public and draping yourself all over the boy like a bitch in heat. Tell me, Clarice, what other things is that mouth of yours capable of?"
Starling felt the unwelcome rush of anger scorching her cheeks and making her blood boil. For a moment she contemplated on breaking the bottle over his head and using the jagged slivers to gleefully vivisect the bastard.
Instead, she slapped him. Hard.
She could see the red outline of her palm imprinted on one pale cheek.
The bastard hadn't even flinched. Just stared at her steadily with those disconcerting maroon eyes, asking her the silent question: Did that really make you feel better?
It didn't. Because Starling knew that whatever happened, however it may happen, she would never win with this man.
But then, neither would she lose.
That last thought unnerved her.
In light of that, she decided that a tactical and hasty retreat would be the best course of action, thereby preserving whatever bits of dignity she had left that she hadn't offered up for him to shred and destroy.
"I really think I should go home now," said Starling, pushing herself off the floor and swaying unsteadily as she got to her feet. Lecter moved to follow. "No, just—stay here, alright? I just gotta look for St. John, he must be worried right now." A flicker in those dark, dark blood eyes that told her he was less than pleased at her answer. Starling wondered how much cheek she could get away with. How long does it fucking take to piss the hell out of a cannibal? Apparently nobody knew as some brave (or unbelievably lucky) soul had yet to come up with an answer to that particular question as the fortunate few who had been privy to the honour of pissing off Hannibal Lecter had ended up being in a condition not fit for the extraction of such golden information.
"I will be the one to escort you to your apartment," he pronounced in a firm tone of voice that told her resistance would be a futile, if not wasted activity.
Clarice Starling, a.k.a. the immoveable object finally meets the irresistible force. She nearly choked at the idea. Lecter the irresistible force. Who woulda thunk?
Sighing, she acquiesced.
"I'll just go and grab my coat."
**
They walked in companionable – if slightly unnerving – silence for a while. The night was warm, hardly unusual for this time of the year, air heavy with moisture and the promise of rain.
"Well, this is me," said Starling as they came to a halt at the entrance to her apartment complex.
"May I walk you up, Clarice?" enquired the doctor in an oddly courteous tone considering everything they had been through that night.
Starling looked at him wryly. "Would anything I say dissuade you?"
"No."
She shook her head in mock exasperation. "Then you didn't have to ask."
Lecter smiled while he held his hand to the small of her back as they went into the apartelle together. And not a moment too soon, for almost immediately after the door had shut behind them, the raindrops started to pour in that soft but steady drizzle that meant it was going to last the whole night and possibly a good part of the next day.
They ascended the stairs quietly, aware of the late hour and Starling really didn't want to disturb her other neighbours. It wasn't as if she saw them often enough for them to actually be able to locate her and take her to task for making such a racket but she figured there was nothing to lose by giving them their quiet anyway. That and St. John telling her that Mrs. Johnson who lived in the apartment across the hall had apparently smacked him upside the head with her cane for daring to stagger out with a raging hangover at six thirty in the morning, his boots thumping heavily on the wooden floor.
Stopping in front of her door, Starling fumbled to fit the key into the lock, her coordination still slightly tequila-impaired. She mentally cursed herself for bring gifted with clear speech even when tipsy when she unmistakably had to trade in dexterity for it. Starling had the distinct feeling she got the wrong end of the bargain.
"Clarice?"
"Yeah?" she replied absently, concentrating on getting her door open.
"Mso--" he mumbled.
"Wha?"
Lecter cleared his throat and tugged a little at his cuffs. "I said that I was sorry. My remarks earlier were entirely uncalled for. I did not have any justification at all to instigate a verbal attack on your person. Not when you were evidently doing your best to be civil to me and--" he smiled "--playing nurse."
"Oh," said Starling eloquently just as the key slid into the lock, regarding the doctor with an expression not unlike that of a poleaxed heifer.
"And Clarice? I rarely – if ever – apologise. Take this moment and store it for posterity," he added in a lower tone of voice.
"Well then in that case I'll keep it in mind. Apology accepted, doctor," said Starling, regaining a modicum of composure, her lips curving into a slow and unconsciously sensual smile. Her hand lingered on the doorknob as if she were hesitant to take leave of his company.
Hannibal Lecter, though no stranger to alcohol, could not decide whether the intoxication he felt at the moment was due to the amount of liquor he imbibed or whether it was simply (if there was anything simple about her) because of the presence of the woman before him. A wise man however, he decided that since fortune had presented him with an unexpected opportunity which he didn't really deserve, the last thing he should be doing is correcting the mistake.
He leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.
**
Somewhere on Third Street, the Garden District. 11:45 p.m.It was raining again. St. John couldn't believe it. Luck wasn't a lady, luck was a bitch.
"Have you given Clarice a ring yet?" he asked Ruiz, raising his voice to be heard over the crackling din of the handheld radios simultaneously being used.
"Yes, but her mobile's out of coverage," the other man lied smoothly. Ruiz wore over his casual evening attire a dark windbreaker that bore the words "Crime Scene Investigator" stencilled onto the back. Other, similarly outfitted men swarmed the house's grounds.
St. John's white shirt was slowly getting soaked as he stared absently at the fanciful elegance of white Greek Revival mansion before him.
He took out his mobile and dialled Starling's number, frowning as he got her voicemail. Ringing her apartment yielded the same results and after the twelfth attempt, he felt very certain that the next time he stayed over at her place he would smash that infernal answering machine of hers.
He dialled her mobile once more.
**
Corner of Bourbon and Esplanade. 11:48 p.m.Fierce. Gentle. Fire. Ice. A veritable cacophony of contradicting sensation imploded upon her, making her head spin in a manner she hadn't felt in a while. For that matter, she had never, ever even felt it before, with anyone else. This wasn't the mad, bad, and dangerous to even contemplate excitement of a Malcolm kiss. His kiss made her toes curl and her cheeks blush. But being kissed by Hannibal Lecter was like having those oh-so-secretive silken tendrils of fire and desire creep their way stealthily about her entire nervous system, looping around Starling's propriety and systematically destroying all vestiges of control she might have at one time possessed. The pressure of his mouth on hers corrupted all her norms and twisted them to his fancy, in the process undergoing a rebirth of everything she believed to be the median.
His hands were tangling into her hair, wrapping around her neck, thumbs lazily stoking the thin skin at her collarbone feeling for her pulse points and Starling was on fire.
It was thrilling. It was exciting. It was electrifying, exhilarating and any other superlative adjective you would care to attach to it. Thoughts of champagne supernovas in the sky were popping in her head as Lecter determinedly, languidly and so very thoroughly, mapped the hollows of her mouth with the expertly meticulous authority of a man who has kissed a thousand women and more. In some part of her rapidly misfiring brain, she doubted the accuracy of that suddenly coughed up figure. But why think of such things when you were being slowly, deliberately and completely driven out of your mind by the sheer intensity of the man's delightful ministrations?
He tasted like brandy. For some strange reason, he tasted like brandy, not the tequila from the bottle they were sharing a while ago. Brandy and something else. A darker, spicy and unidentifiable taste, which she presumed to be him that she knew, would continue to cling to the back of her throat long after this was over. Not that she wanted it to be over. In fact, she was surprised that she could still think much less make conscious decisions.
One last gentle tug at her lower lip before he stepped back, cocking his head to one side, a slight smile upon his impassive features. "Good night, Officer Starling."
He smoothed his black suit and turned around, once more walking away.
She touched the fingertips of her right hand to her mouth, still tingling from his kiss. She imagined she could still taste him in the air.
Starling was left with the indubitable feeling that her brain had just been Lecterfried.
**
Anisky – You wouldn't happen to have some leftover Polyjuice, would you?
Marcus Aurelius – Barbecue time's been rescheduled. :D
A/N: With thanks to the superbly talented Screaming Ferret for the term Lecterfried. The lyrics of Oasis have been borrowed and twisted as needed to embellish. Nietzsche, Nabokov and Terry Pratchett have been quoted and butchered.
"Little. Tiny. Bitch. Lap dog." Sugar & Spice by Wendi
"You envy me my educated tastes."
"That I will not honour with a response."
-The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King. Sorry, I don't have my copy with me right now so I can't verify if those were really the words, but I think they are.
Alright, that was it, peeps! Please R/R and tell me what you think. Flames will be used to light Snape's cauldron and if possible please direct to [email protected].