#cstarling

Dennis blinked at her, then laughed despite the chaos that was going on in his mind. This ghost was loud.

"So much. I wouldn't even know where to start. Just--" He flinched, putting his hand to his head. The wailing had started up again. Dennis wanted to shout back I'm the only one who can hear you, and I'm trying to do something about it. PLEASE STOP. But he knew this one was beyond listening to him.

CLARICE STARLING : I KNOW OUR RELATIONSHIP IS SUPPOSED TO BE FAKE, BUT I CAN'T HELP WHAT I FEEL. / MEME.

there are candles burning around them. their smoke holds notes of sweetness; mingling beautifully with the subtle spices emanating from the hand - made soaps in use. before him, @cstarling is within the clawfoot bathtub -- faint steam coming off of the warm waters where it laps around her figure. her hair, soaked; and his fingers work the shampoo within the dark, thick strands diligently. the movements across her scalp are sure, and thorough, but his touch is undeniably gentle when it brushes over the delicate shell of her ears. those hands, which have caused pain; orchestrated theatrical slaughters and created grotesque art. hands that held no shortage of death at their finger tips, yet could treat her with such care.

with her leaning back against the porcelain tub, it affords him to the best vantage point to wash her hair. he starts at the scalp, and works the shampoo down to the ends until each section is completely saturated. in the other room, vivaldi's la verità in cimento plays on an old - fashioned record player. her words make his fingers pause momentarily, before he resumes; and lets out a low sigh. hannibal does not respond right away. instead, he reaches for the pitcher of clean water he set beside the tub, and carefully pours it over her head; washing away the shampoo's residue until the water runs clear. then, mollified between his hands, a thick moisturizing conditioner is applied to the wet strands.

❝   so tangled in your own perception of things, of how they should be based on your steadfast moral compass, you could not see things how they were.  ❞ he is not disappointed, nor angered. in fact, hannibal is not surprised at all -- by either side of the statement. if anything, he is pleased; knowing she has finally arrived to exactly where he desired her to be. again, clear water is poured, removing the conditioner, and leaving her hair silky and with a whispering fragrance that is gentle on the senses. his fingers trail from her scalp, down to her neck and shoulders; skittering over the skin there as he leans in. the scent of her hair, her skin, is clean. fresh. more alluring than that however, is her warmth; the scent of being alive, and in this moment [ irrefutably ] his.

❝   mio caro -- what precisely made you think it was ever a fiction? that we were not already entwined, in every other meaningful way?  ❞ it is then that he tilts her head back, exposing the vulnerable line of her lovely throat; hannibal's hands settle there, on her neck. the action is possessive, but not without adoration in the weight of it's presence.

it's been a peaceful sort of day, both of them meandering through the hours, sometimes together, sometimes apart. here, with her in his arms, a book in his lap, he thinks a life full of simple nights like this could be enough for him. his nose presses to her temple and a kiss presses to her cheekbone.

hands fish into his pockets. it takes charlie a moment as he rocked back on his heels. "we gotta give it up." he said. "the trial has run cold and we're no good to this case if we freeze out here." he was used to cool washington winters. seasons where the flakes billowed around them like a snow globe upturned. it was nearly ten and they should head back into town anyway. it was cold, and would only become colder in the coming days. there was a storm coming.

❝   that man who left -- that . . . thing. what did he say under his breath, clarice? what vulgar words did he think he had any right to speak, let alone think?  ❞