why hello there

Hannibal: **Gets Clarice some beautiful clothes/jewelry/dinner/whatever**

Another conversation was coming, but it was avoided for the time being. Clarice showered in the guest bathroom; earlier, she had tried peering around the house—still mad but a bit embarrassed by the outburst. The door had been put back into place since she showered, and the water had been cleaned off of the floor. Hannibal was nowhere to be found. I really did it this time, she thought. Her body relaxed, and her face softened. She didn’t think it was appropriate to laugh, but the thought still surfaced, prompting a sad smile. I pushed around the violent centerpiece of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. And he just cried. Shithouse mouse. The smirk dissipated as she ruminated further... She had hit him. Being a domestic abuser wasn’t just rude; it was boringly common. 

She moved the thoughts about violence to the side and shifted her attention to the cause of the scuffle. I don’t know what he expected. Hannibal knows the depth of my old relationship with Jack, as much as he hated him. He told me to say goodbye to my father, so why not Jack?

Your daddy and Jackie Boy aren’t the same, she reminded herself. At this moment, she was both grateful and resentful that her internal voice of reason was that of her husband. At least it was helping her see his view. Okay, so the relationship isn’t necessarily comparable. But why would he think I wouldn’t come home? Did he really read my intentions so incorrectly?

Clarice laid awake in the guest bedroom for hours.

~~

Hannibal Lecter relies on his intuition; it may just be his most famous attribute. On rare occasion, though, his cunning will fail him. On the day that Jack Crawford died, it most certainly did.

However, he doesn’t know that yet. Instead, he is reclined in repose at the seat of his harpsichord which he does not play. As he is off in one of the ill-visited quarters of the home, Clarice would be unable to hear the notes carrying from her position in the guest room; even so, he does not play. Hannibal gleaned a look of disgust and frustration from her earlier, and thus, he was certain his Starling would take flight by the morning for reasons known but difficult to accept. There is no reason for him to play.

Poised on the bench, he disappeared to his memory palace without struggle. The difficulty came when he walked down the halls, closing each door that had belonged to her. Hannibal contemplated as he walked: There is a certain symmetry to this—an appreciable one. Clarice’s hotheadedness had been a defining feature of hers, whereas he relied on coolness. He chastised himself for his own emotional outburst; it was unlike him to breakdown, and though he had allowed himself to become vulnerable to his wife, with her likely departure, he had to withdraw from all this fragility. He had to shut down. He had to be the ice to meet her violent fire. 

Thus, he closed her doors, sealing the emotional ties within each.

~~

Hannibal emerged at the sound of her voice. He had not heard her approaching in nor had he smelled her. 

A few paces away from the harpsichord, Clarice stood. Hannibal had been contemplating whether to address her as Clarice (Perhaps too informal at this point...), Agent Starling (But even when she goes back, she won’t be an agent...), or Miss Starling (Ummmm, I don’t like this one very much...) when she interrupted.

“Hannibal,” she started. 

“Ah.” He paused but spoke again before she could continue. “I see you’ve finally decided to join me. Had enough tossing and turning up there, or did you come down to use me as your personal punching bag again?”

“No, no. I just think-”

He cut her off again. “You know what I think, Ex-Special Agent Starling?” Oooh. That works, he thought. “Well, actually I wonder. I wonder if that was how Daddy took care o’ Mommy when she wouldn’t shut ‘er yap.” His imitation of her accent—which she had long abandoned—made her flinch. “If Ma didn’t have dinner on the table at five-o-clock, yes siree, she’d be in some kinda trouble. And boy, does Clarice still wanna be like her Daddy! No matter what,” he emphasized with a drawl, “she’s gonna stand by him. It sure do seem that way tuh me!” Hannibal smirked, and his face betrayed no warmth.

The room had felt colder to Clarice when she had walked in. She had expected him to be upset, but she hadn’t expected this. The woman paused and considered the implications: her musings were correct. He really did misread her, and now he was trying to drive her away. Well fuck that. 

In their years of marriage, the couple had picked up on a few of each other’s traits. For one, Clarice was not going to allow a bit of intimidation break her. He came close to doing so in Baltimore, but he would not again. She steeled herself, adopting a bit of his icy demeanor.

“No, Hannibal. My father did not hit my mother. I think I would’ve told you by now, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away; rather, he just pursed his lips and smiled. 

Then, he began: “As you know, I don’t try to predict you because it often proves fruitless.” He looked off before setting his gaze squarely on her. “However, considering these... outbursts of yours and the contempt plain on your face, I have bought you a ticket back to Arlington in time for dear Mr. Crawford’s funeral. For my safety, I will also be leaving, but not to Virginia. I know how much you must miss Jackie; please, give him my regards when you go. Maybe if you scream and pound on his grave hard enough, someone will hear and they’ll finally find you... Three years after you were reported as a missing person.” Lecter’s eyebrows shot up, and he shrugged. “Though I doubt you’ll be reinstated, as you haven’t kept your resume up to date. It will be no problem for you, though, Clarice.” He gave her a kind, patronizing look. “You’re a very smart girl. When you rediscover that the FBI has no use for your intelligence, try showing off your trophies from the firing range. Maybe even tell them about your skills in hand-to-hand combat... I could write you a glowing reference!”

Hannibal was perfectly still in his seat with his wife just beyond him. He waited patiently for her to break. He wanted no end to be left untied when she left. Your turn.

“I see you still try and lick tears after you’ve tired of tasting your own.” Clarice took a slow step toward him. She needed to crack his facade quickly. “Fortunately or unfortunately, I have no intention of moving back to the States. I find that I’m quite happy right here.”

Only she could have noticed the slight twitch of the doctor’s right eye upon this admission. And she did.

Starling inched closer. “Now, about this ‘contempt plain on my face’...” She mirrored his voice and flat expression; her imitation was even better than his had been. “Did ya happen to consider that it’s because you just tried to tear me apart—unsuccessfully, I might add? Let me tell you what I know, Doctor.” She hammed up the formality in her tone. “I know you’re not comfortable feeling worried about another person. I know that you felt vulnerable when I was gone, and I know you didn’t like that.” 

She paused, remaining collected. She raised her voice a tad for this last bit. “Lastly, I know that you ASSUMED. And if there is one—just one!—good thing that goddamned Jack Crawford taught me over the years,” she laughed, “it’s that, when you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME. Trust me, baby, you did just that. And despite what your intuition told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She did it. The true stoic’s face had broken, and Hannibal the Cannibal sat, dumbfounded. He opened his mouth and then closed it. She continued.

“I’m sorry that you misread my motivations. I spent yesterday reflecting on how I had gotten to this point, and I had come home feeling glad. I was planning on going upstairs to find you, drawing a bath for the both of us, and then dancing later on in the evening. Your assumption got us a bit sidetracked, though.” Looking down at her watch, it was 2am. Holy crap. She focused back on him and noted that he was still unmoving but appeared less rigid than before. The room felt like it had finally warmed up.

Clarice took a last step towards her husband. Now above him, looking down, she said, “I am sincerely sorry for hitting you, Hannibal.”

Finally, he stirred. “Clarice, I have not once so much as laid a finger on you in anger...”

“I know. Ironic, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

His wife smirked at that, and he returned the favor. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. You know what else won’t happen again?” She held his chin and spoke softly. “You doubting us. I’m with you for the long haul. Where the hell did you even think I was going?”

“Ummmm. To be candid, I’m unsure of what I thought your plan was. I assumeddddd,” he looked up at her teasingly, “that you were leaving because of a change in heart.”

“My, Dr. Lecter, you didn’t have every one of my steps planned out before I could even think of them? What have I done to you?”

“I can now definitively say that you bring out the worst in me.”

Clarice laughed and sat down next to him. “Crying? And worrying?” She was feeling more relaxed, placing her hand on his leg as she started laughing harder. “Why am I not surprised that you consider that to be Hannibal Lecter at his worst?”

Her husband just smiled back at her. She saw his cheeks blush almost imperceptibly, which then prompted a further fit. It wasn’t long before they were both laughing.

“You had better... go back... into that memory palace of yours... and open up my doors ASAP,” Clarice ordered while catching her breath.

“And how did you—?”

“You were sitting on that bench for quite a while before I called out to ya. Try not to forget about me so soon, huh?”

“I wouldn’t even think of it.” Never again, he added silently. “But I must ask... Would I be incorrect in assuming you still want to dance?”

Part 1 of 2 

Hours had passed, and Clarice had not yet come home.

Her husband cooked dinner, read, watched the news... He tried to distract himself from the gnawing of her absence but was failing miserably. It all seemed so incredibly domestic, and yet it wasn’t. Dr. Lecter was just worried about his precious Starling as any fawning spouse would, but he knew her reason for not returning was far more complex than working late hours at a job or getting caught in traffic. She had been liberated since their days at the German’s house, yet her internal monologue debating good and evil would not be silenced. No matter how much he blew in her chrysalis, Clarice Starling was Clarice Starling. 

And now Jack Crawford is dead, just as dead as her daddy. And she left because of it.

Hannibal pressed his lips together softly while sitting in the kitchen and tried his best to have an objective thought. I’ve really gotten too attached to her. He laughed. That’s quite the understatement. Quickly, though, his laugh lines faded and were replaced with a worrying frown. It had been six hours since she’d left, and there was no crossbow that could bring her back if she had indeed left for good. Her unpredictability—though usually fun—was now deeply troubling. The doctor speculated about what Clarice would or could have done since she grabbed her purse and her wallet (IDs and passports always at the ready) and walked out the front door. He was really getting scared now, pushing back thoughts of a life not worth living. He didn’t know how long he was seated here, but nothing interrupted him until the squeak of the door.

Starling entered, leaving her shoes in the entrance closet and moving to walk upstairs without a word to Hannibal. Still sitting in the adjoining room, he listened and walked through his plan for this scenario. He was going to walk up to her quietly and ask her how she was feeling. He was going to touch her only if she welcomed it. He was going to make sure his wife was truly home.

But, as he rose from the chair and rushed into the foyer, the plan was abandoned. Seeing Clarice soaking wet from the rain with slightly puffy eyes over Jack Crawford—of all people!, he thought—made him lose it. The objectivity was gone, replaced by worry, anger, and hurt.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”

“I’m not a child, Hannibal.”

“You’re drenched! Christ, Clarice, you could catch your death on a day like today... Out for seven hours in the sleet! And about Jack Crawford? A mentor stands by their student to help them grow. Jack Crawford marked you as deplorable long before Paul Krendler came for your career, Agent Starling...” He drew out the syllables, and he started again, this time his voice much louder. “What are you mourning him for? What more could you want here, from me? What do you want from him?”

Clarice’s eyes bore into his frantic pinwheels.  She saw desperation and anger. She did not see sympathy. 

“Honestly, what the fuck, Doctor? I may be here with you, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten myself. You know that better than any friggin’ person on this earth. I’m not expecting ya to have empathy for me, but could ya at least take a step back and try to fucking understand? Let me get the fuck upstairs and leave me alone.” She started to walk, but Hannibal reached out and gently stopped her arm.

“Please, Clarice...” his muscles tensed. “Enlighten me with why you must grant Jackie any of your own understanding.” He looked at her, teasing. Mean. “I hardly see how he deserves it. A manipulator with a worse record of it than my own, one who abandoned you—not only ten years ago—but within the past few years, as well.” He paused, trying to think logically but failing. Her face was plain with confusion and frustration. She really had been thinking of leaving. He didn’t understand why but didn’t stop to contemplate it. Now Hannibal was screaming.

“Where are the search committees? Where are the news articles enlisting help in finding the precious kidnapped FBI agent? He knew where you were, Officer Starling. He didn’t know what I would do with you, but he knew you were with me. And he didn’t care at all.”

“Enough of this shit! Don’t you think I know that already? Leave me the fuck alone.” Dr. Lecter moved closer, clearly intending to continue probing, but Starling blocked it. She grabbed the arm with which he was holding her wrist, and—with hands planted on his chest—slammed him against the closet door. Hannibal flinched as he hit the door hard, knocking it out of the sliding track with his weight. The door was off and pinned between the man and the closet wall. The act lasted but three seconds.

When he stood, Hannibal looked at Clarice and blinked. She stared back at him, eyes alight with rage. She looked like she was going to hit him again until she surveyed the damages to the closet and then looked back at him. He no longer looked surprised—just sad and disappointed. His eyes welled.

She almost left me.

And she’s ready to do it again.

“I didn’t think you were going to come back.”

Thank you so much! I’m much obliged.