silverusagi

Word Count: 4100
Genre: Slash, Drama
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence

Summary: Sequel to When the Devil Smiles Back. Three years after Hannibal Lecter’s escape in Memphis, Clarice profiles Will Graham. From there, nothing at all goes as expected.

-----

4

It was hard to keep track of time. She had no watch and no phone, and after about an hour, her internal sense of timekeeping began to falter.

Somewhere around two hours after she had last seen Dr. Lecter, Clarice smelled the unmistakable scent of meat cooking. She tried very hard not to think about what that meant, but mostly didn’t succeed. Sometime an hour or so after that, the bedroom door opened.

Dr. Lecter stepped in and unlocked the handcuffs without comment.

Clarice sat up properly, bringing her feet to the floor and perching on the edge of the bed. She looked up at him.

Dr. Lecter was standing in the open doorway. “I’d like you to join me for dinner,” he said.

She had suspected this was coming. Will hadn’t stirred once, and certainly wouldn’t be eating any time soon, which meant that any meal Dr. Lecter was preparing wasn’t going to be had by him. But even though she had expected it, that didn’t mean she was any more prepared for the actual moment and whatever her refusal was going to bring.

Despite her strategy of being agreeable, Clarice found herself incapable of not fighting him on this. It was a line she wouldn’t cross.

“Thank you, but I’d prefer not to,” she said.

Dr. Lecter’s face was unreadable, and for a beat he didn’t speak. “And I would prefer you join me.”

Clarice steeled herself, squaring her jaw and staring up at him. “I won’t.” The ‘You can’t make me,’ hovered just behind her lips, unsaid.

She knew he very well could make her, though that had never seemed to be his chosen method. But she resolved that unless he force fed her, she wasn’t going to eat anything he had cooked.

Clarice only held his gaze a moment more, dropping her eyes to the floor after that. It was bad enough that she was refusing; she didn’t need to further challenge him with a direct stare.

Dr. Lecter let silence fill the room, and it was just as uncomfortable as anything he might have said. She felt trapped, but didn’t waver in her decision.

“I won’t,” she repeated quietly, looking at his feet. “I’m not eating anything.”

After another moment, he simply said, “Very well. But you must at least join me at the table.”

“Why?” Clarice hated how small her voice sounded.

“So I may have the pleasure of your company,” he said, making it sound like a perfectly reasonable invitation.

When she glanced up, he looked darkly amused. Clarice didn’t have time to examine that too closely, because Dr. Lecter also had a hand extended toward her, a sign that he expected her to comply.

Steeling herself once again, Clarice took the offered hand as she stood, but let go once she was on her feet. As she moved past him through the doorway, she felt his fingers brush the small of her back. They remained there as he guided her toward the table.

It was as much a gesture of ingrained courtesy as it was a reminder that he was right behind her. For a few steps, there was nothing between her and the front door, but she was less than an arm’s reach away from him.

Once at the table, Dr. Lecter stepped to the side, pulling out a chair for her. He pushed it under her with perfect timing as she sat, and then moved to the opposite side of the table, where he stood to uncork the wine.

Clarice generally disliked men assisting her because she was a woman; it was a set of manners that simply rubbed her the wrong way. But Dr. Lecter’s adherence to extreme politeness was part of his pathology, and had little to do with her. He was engaging in the role of host, and all formalities flowed accordingly. She also suspected he would have escorted Will Graham into a dining room in much the same way.

Abruptly, Clarice realized there was only one real place setting, and it was in front of Dr. Lecter’s seat. Her eyes flicked from his plate and cutlery to the empty space in front of her.

Dr. Lecter saw her looking. He actually winked at her.

He reached over the table to pour a serving of wine into her glass, before pouring his own wine and taking his seat. She realized he had never intended for her to have a meal. He had simply been curious to see what she would do.

“You surprise me, Dr. Lecter.”

“No reason to waste good food.” A genuinely amused smile settled on his lips. “And I would hate to be considered predictable.”

Perhaps he knew that no one would commit cannibalism unless forced. Or maybe the appeal of serving his cooking to people had lain in their obliviousness. But it was not a question she was going to pursue further. She was a profiler, but she had no illusions of understanding him. Even if you could understand every separate piece of him, there was no understanding how those pieces moved in conjunction with each other.

Clarice allowed herself an arch smile in return. “I don’t think being predictable will ever be a charge laid at your door, Doctor.”

Dr. Lecter raised his glass. “To unpredictability. And surprising encounters.”

Clarice nodded in turn, raising her glass and bringing it to his. She took a drink of wine out of politeness as he did, before setting the glass once again on the table. It wasn’t wise drinking on an empty stomach, but if she only took a sip here and there and drank plenty of water in between, she should be fine.

She noted that although Dr. Lecter wasn’t serving her human flesh, he wasn’t serving her anything else, either. That was fine. She could survive without food until tomorrow. It wouldn’t be enjoyable, but it was doable.

There was a glass of water and a glass of wine in front of her. Dr. Lecter had the same, plus a place setting with what were obviously dishes from the cabin—a heavy stoneware plate with a plain blue border, a fork and knife, and a paper napkin. In the middle of the table was a covered casserole dish that had seen better days, having several chips along its edge.

Dr. Lecter lifted the lid to the dish, revealing something that might have been a liver or a kidney—God, she didn’t want to know—cooked with vegetables. He served himself, putting a helping on his plate, before once again covering the dish to keep it warm.

The table itself was small, with room for only two chairs, and both the table and Dr. Lecter’s chair were between her and the door. She had no intention of trying to run, but she couldn’t stop her mind from cataloging the information nonetheless. The table sat near the kitchen area, and the other part of the room had a couch and a recliner, both pushed to the walls. She could see Will’s blood staining the old wooden floor, directly underneath the hook. She could see a larger stain to the side, where Benton had died.

Clarice took another drink of wine, before mentally refraining as she set the glass an extra inch away.

“I’m surprised the wine is to your taste, Dr. Lecter,” she said, opening the conversation. She didn’t know much about wine, but she could tell from the bottle that it wasn’t expensive.

“It is not what I would have chosen, but it was what I found on hand,” Dr. Lecter said. He began to eat, cutting precisely one bite of meat with his knife. “We must make the best of what is available.”

“Indeed,” Clarice said, thinking of her own situation.

At that exact moment, Clarice wished more than anything he had just left her handcuffed to the sink. She would rather spend the night in an uncomfortable position on the cold, dirty floor than have to sit at the table and watch him eat the man she’d shot. At least the body was gone from the room. Years of observing autopsies had left her more or less indifferent to anything inside a body, but she might have actually thrown up if she could see the man Dr. Lecter’s dinner had been pulled out of. He wasn’t making her participate in this meal, but she was still an unwilling guest.

The handcuffs had not made an appearance at the table, which meant that either Dr. Lecter was confident in his ability to stop her if she tried to get away, or that he had already determined that she wouldn’t try to get away. She wondered if it was defeatist or pragmatic that she had come to the same conclusion.

Clarice shifted her weight in her chair, figuring she might as well get as comfortable as possible. She started to lean forward, but thought better of it. He probably had actually killed people for putting their elbows on the table.

“Tell me,” he said after another moment, “how have you found the FBI?”

“It’s challenging work, but I enjoy it. I’ve never once thought of doing anything else.”

“Your career has been a positive one.” It wasn’t a question, but the tone of his voice was closer to an affirmation than a prompt for more information.

Clarice paused for a moment, considering her response. “Have you been keeping track of me, Doctor?” she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral as she reached for her water.

“I receive a notification if your name is mentioned in an article.” Another small smile crossed his lips, as he nodded his head almost in deference to her. “Nothing more invasive than that, I promise you.”

Clarice supposed she believed him, if for no other reason than that the Christmas cards always came care of the FBI, and not to her home address. It was easy enough to set an alert; at the touch of a button, a phrase could be tracked for any appearance in new content.

“I haven’t been mentioned that much,” Clarice said. She watched him take another bite, trying as hard as she could not to think about what he was eating.

“No,” Dr. Lecter agreed, “but on the occasions you have, it was always in conjunction with a successful resolution. Despite only having a career of a few years, you’ve distinguished yourself quite well.”

“I do my job because it’s fulfilling, and because I’m good at it. I was never doing it for recognition.”

“Recognition comes when lives are saved,” he said, holding her gaze. “Would you shy away from your accomplishments?”

“I don’t have a problem with recognition, or with the public aspects of my job. But I do it because I want to save lives, not because I want the credit of having saved them.”

“Perhaps that is why you are so easily distinguished.”

Dr. Lecter picked up his wine glass for another drink.

“I won’t be so distinguished after this,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be the agent who let Hannibal Lecter get away twice.”

“Or the agent that got away from me twice,” Dr. Lecter said, giving her a true smile. The expression completely changed his face, his eyes crinkling as he raised his glass slightly in her direction. “A much finer distinction.”

Clarice watched him as he took a drink and savored it. She had glimpsed enough of him to know that he savored everything—every experience, every encounter. And while he had wanted to see what she would do when faced with a dinner invitation, that was far from the reason he had made her join him. Dr. Lecter actually did want to talk to her and he truly was enjoying her company. None of this was an act; his pleasure at conversing with her was evident.

Clarice looked at him for a moment more across the table. Then she asked, “Why am I sitting here, Dr. Lecter?”

He took his time in replying, spearing the last bit of meat from his plate and bringing the fork to his lips. He watched her thoughtfully as he finished it. Then he said, “I told you once that I find the world more interesting with you in it. That is one reason.”

“And the other?”

Dr. Lecter moved to pick up his glass again, slowly swirling the wine before he took a drink. “It’s curious. Twice now our paths have crossed, and each time you have inadvertently reunited me with Will.”

Clarice turned that statement over in her head. Finally, she said, “Are you saying I’m some sort of good luck?”

He smirked at that, his lips twisting slightly in amusement. “Merely that you have brought serendipity.”

“I don’t feel like serendipity.” Clarice decided it was time for another drink of her own wine.

“What is serendipity to one can be catastrophe to another.”

She arched a brow, setting the glass back down. “Are you my catastrophe, Doctor?”

“We’re sharing a pleasant conversation. Hardly a catastrophe.”

“Maybe I’m my own catastrophe,” Clarice said after a pause. “I seem to have a talent for stumbling straight into the thick of things.”

Dr. Lecter tilted his head. “As an FBI agent, you cannot be averse to danger.”

“No, of course not. But on two separate occasions, I’ve been investigating what seemed like a dead end and walked in on a serial killer. Literally, in this case.” Clarice took a drink of water. “I either have excellent or horrible luck.”

“Are you including me in that luck?”

“It wasn’t luck that produced our last encounter, Dr. Lecter.” There had been no coincidence there; he had tracked her down in Belvedere. “Or this one, either.” She hadn’t lucked onto him; Will had called him. However, it was beyond sheer dumb luck that she had stumbled across Will, especially given that the original murders had been months ago. The chances of them both being here on the same day and crossing paths had to be astronomical.

“Then we are back to serendipity.” Dr. Lecter moved to serve himself again from the casserole dish. When he was done, he replaced the lid with a clinking of glass. Still glancing down and beginning to cut the meat on his plate, he said, “You realize it is entirely possible that you saved Will’s life.”

He took a bite, politely chewing while he waited for her reply. The casual tone of his voice belied the importance of the words. His eyes were fixed on her, and Clarice felt pinned in place.

“I suppose so,” she said carefully. She was unsure where this was going, while at the same time suddenly certain that it was going somewhere in her favor.

“One can never know what might have been, but it has occurred to me that I likely would have found a wholly different scenario had you not fortuitously interrupted what was happening here.”

He would have found Will dead, he meant. Clarice couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What would you have done?”

Dr. Lecter speared another piece of meat—Will’s torturer—holding it up in front of him and focusing on it as he answered. “Something I would have taken great pleasure in, but not something that would have returned that which would be forever lost.” He brought the bite to his mouth, then chewed and swallowed. “You’ve done me an invaluable service.”

“And what does that mean?” Clarice asked slowly.

“It means we part as friends,” Dr. Lecter said, meeting her gaze. “And perhaps I will someday have occasion to return the favor.”

It took her a second to work out that he meant returning the favor of saving Will’s life. Clarice pursed her lips. “I saved Will’s life, not yours, Doctor.”

“I fail to see the distinction,” he said easily. “Will’s life is as necessary as my own.”

Clarice took another drink of water. “Would you find yourself obligated to anyone who saved Will’s life?”

“Obligated, yes. Though the form that obligation might take would vary, depending on the situation.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, and it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. An obligation fulfilled would be a quick death if Dr. Lecter were inconvenienced or compromised by the other person, which he likely would be.

“To others, I would be obligated,” he continued. “To you, I am indebted.”

Clarice smiled, wry. “If you’re indebted to me, turn yourself in.”

Dr. Lecter smiled in turn, not bothered by her suggestion. “I offer a return of the favor, nothing more.”

Clarice nodded, not expecting anything different. “Thank you, but you’ll forgive me if I hope that opportunity doesn’t present itself.” The circumstances would be undesirable on all counts, not to mention improbable. “I doubt our paths will cross again.” Not unless he was under arrest, but she left that part unsaid.

“As did I last time we parted,” Dr. Lecter said easily. “Yet here we are.”

“Serendipity,” Clarice repeated, almost to herself.

She suddenly felt hollow.

Clarice was not one for self-loathing, but she never hated herself more than she did in that moment. She hated that she had been so engrossed in the conversation that she had been more interested in what he was about to say than she had been resentful of him keeping her here. She hated that a part of her still felt like she was simply going along with it, hated that she was passively sitting here without being tied up.

Clarice heard the sounds of Dr. Lecter’s silverware against his plate. It seemed simultaneously far away and all too near. The table was small, making their situation look laughably intimate. She imagined throwing her glass at his head and running for the door. She imagined him stopping her, with varying degrees of violence.

She imagined staying exactly where she was.

When she looked up, Dr. Lecter was watching her intently.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

Clarice took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly enough that it couldn’t quite be called a sigh. “I’m thinking I should be doing something.”

“‘Something’ is vague,” he commented. “What, specifically, do you believe you should be doing?”

“I shouldn’t be sitting here. I shouldn’t just accept this.”

“What alternative do you have?” His voice was impartial, as if this were a theoretical exercise and not a situation he had created.

“There is no alternative, no good one. It’s in my best interests to do what you want.”

Dr. Lecter refilled his wine glass. “How does that make you feel?”

“Like I’ve given up,” she said bluntly. “Like I haven’t done everything in my power to do my duty.”

“Where does obligation to duty end and obligation to your person begin? Or would the FBI demand you sacrifice yourself on its altar?”

“I risk my life every day. This isn’t any different.”

“Risk carries reward,” Dr. Lecter said, studying her. “Only by weighing the consequences of risk to the potential reward of that risk do we make decisions. Plight is what drives you, and you will always place ending that plight a reward greater than any risk.”

“I’m well aware there’s no one here for me to save.”

“Except yourself,” he said, a smirk playing about the corner of his mouth.

“Yes. Except myself.” She paused. “But my first obligation is to others, not myself. My duty is to arrest you.”

“And yet you have made no attempt to do so.”

“Thus creating my moral dilemma.” Clarice laughed quietly without feeling. “Perhaps that’s what I should specifically be doing.” She took another drink of wine.

She wondered what would happen if she simply stood up and announced he was under arrest, even though she had no gun, no handcuffs, and no power. He was too polite to laugh in her face, though she suspected amusement would play a strong role nonetheless.

“Or maybe I should run for the door,” she said. “If only to have the satisfaction of knowing that I tried.”

Dr. Lecter took another sip of wine. “If you feel the need to do so, then that is what you must do.”

He didn’t sound particularly discouraging or encouraging of such an action. Clarice realized he was going to enjoy whatever she chose to do. He would be just as entertained by stopping an escape attempt as he was by watching her battle her own principles.

“The scales of risk and reward are tipped too heavily in your favor,” Clarice said, shaking her head. “I’m not going to run. I’m not going to fight. I’m fixed in my decision, I’m doing what anyone would do—yet I can’t help feeling compromised.”

“You struggle with what you know to be the best course of action versus what an ideal version of yourself would be able to accomplish.”

Clarice swallowed. “Yes.”

“You struggle with having something you’ve pursued so close at hand, yet still beyond your reach.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Lecter tilted his head, considering her. “Would you kill me, in this moment, if you were able?”

Clarice met his stare. “My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me that question. No, not without cause.”

“Putting your life or the lives of others in immediate danger,” he replied, repeating words from years ago to her.

“Yes,” she said. The silence hung between them, and Clarice slowly tilted her own head. “Am I in danger, Dr. Lecter?”

“No.” His eyes glittered in a peculiar way, and something dark and amused flitted through them. “Not without cause.”

There was the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth as he watched her.

“Touché, Doctor.” Clarice reached for her wine again.

That was the problem, of course. She wasn’t in danger as long as she did nothing, but there would be consequences to anything she did. It was a finely built game, one that he had constructed and left her to direct. The choice was hers, and yet there was no choice at all.

She’d known from the beginning that there was no way past Dr. Lecter, even if she had been inclined to try. But that hadn’t stopped her from questioning it, not while she was able to move and the door was in sight. The illusion of freedom was almost worse than the certainty of restraints.

“You’re holding me here against my will,” Clarice said. She had finished the wine, something she hadn’t intended to do. But it had seemed to be the only thing getting her through this conversation.

“A necessary measure,” Dr. Lecter said.

“By your perception.”

“Of course. We all serve our own perceptions.”

He moved to refill her glass, but Clarice waved him off with a murmured, “No, thank you,” before picking up her water and drinking the rest of it.

Then she said, “Most would perceive this as a dangerous situation. You are… generally considered to be an immediate danger by virtue of being present.”

Dr. Lecter smiled at that assessment. However, he said, “Perception is only pertinent to a single person; every situation will be perceived through the experiences and observations of the perceiver.” He regarded her evenly. “You would defend yourself against immediate danger without hesitation. Instead, we share a conversation.”

“That’s as much your doing as mine, Doctor.” Her lack of action had as much to do with her perception of the situation as it had to do with his lack of directly threatening behavior toward her person. “Am I sitting here because I saved Will, or because you wanted to have a conversation?”

“Both,” he said simply. “I would have desired a conversation with you under any circumstances. The circumstances under which we encountered each other simply made it all the more appealing.”

Dr. Lecter took another sip of wine. Then he loosely folded his napkin and discarded it next to his empty plate.

“Is our conversation over?” Clarice asked.

“For the time being.”

She saw that he was wearing a watch. “What time is it?”

Dr. Lecter glanced at his wrist. “Nearly nine-thirty.”

It was hard to believe only this morning she had grabbed a coffee for the road and set out before the sun was high. It seemed like another life.

“It’s likely that Will needs my attention,” he said.

Clarice couldn’t think of a way to ask if that meant it was time for her to be tied up again that didn’t sound indignant. However, Dr. Lecter took care of her dilemma when he simply stood and moved to her side, the picture of ease and grace.

He extended a hand in her direction, like this was all perfectly normal.

Clarice pressed her lips together and took it.