Chapter Text
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August 31
I leave for school in two weeks. Mischa has been growing increasingly agitated and tense the closer we come to my departure date. I’ve tried to remind her that I’ve gone away before and she’s survived, but she’s grown too accustomed to having me at her beck and call over the long summer. During the past week her highs and lows have been extreme - one moment she’s pleasant and charming, the next she is sour and resentful, accusing Robert and I for every wrong ever done to her.
Yesterday I suggested that we escape the city for a day and head out into the country, hopefully to cheer her up. She agreed, and we borrowed the car. Within half an hour in the fresh air and green sights, the cloud above her head disappeared. All day she was smiles and laughter, and we spent hours wandering the moors and woods, sketching birds and trees and landscapes. She was entranced with the warblers and songbirds - for every sketch I drew she produced ten far better than mine.
I know that she doesn’t want to slip into her episodes, that she wants to be happy and inspired and carefree all of the time. It seems like these days she is only like that when we are together. It’s difficult to watch her sink into anger and unrest. I know how brilliant she is at her best.
I try to be strong and supportive for her. The truth is, I dread returning to school. She is my only equal - I will miss her. More than she knows.
- Excerpt from the journal of Hannibal Lecter, age 17
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It was incredible, how one incident, lasting for only a few seconds, could derail Hannibal Lecter's carefully composed life.
He had always been a patient man. He could wait a long time for the prey to stumble into his trap, for the pawn to fall to his rook. In prison, he had waited nearly eight years for Clarice Starling to show up - perhaps he had always been waiting for her, unknowing.
Clarice. She had not derailed him - she had set his course.
At first, she had been little more than an amusement - a young, pretty, poverty-born recruit with enough ambition and rage bottled within her that it threatened to consume her whole. He could see it flickering behind every downturned glance, see it in every diluted smile. He was curious about her. He wanted to see how far she would go. Then she shot Jame Gumb.
It is a brutal, alchemical transformation - the change from innocent to killer. Hannibal found it held the power to alter one completely - to reveal one’s truest nature. The power to kill and rise above, to become godlike - when used properly, it could be euphoric, transcendent. Or it could devour you from within.
He had watched that transformation nearly destroy Will Graham, he had seen Abigail Hobbs pulled apart in her struggle between guilt and and exhilaration. He himself had grasped onto that power and used it to grow. Long ago, he had tried to give them an understanding of how they could master death to become better, more whole - complete. He had been rejected.
Hannibal wished he had been able to see Clarice after her first kill. He read what he could in the papers, seen what was available on television, but it was only a surface glimpse of the depths of Clarice’s roiling psyche.
In the years that followed, it became clear that Clarice had not been destroyed by her transformation. She became much more than a curious amusement to him.
Killing Jame Gumb, for her, had been necessary - she did not struggle with this fact. She had to slay the wolf to protect the lamb. It was integral to her, to the very fiber of what made Clarice, Clarice - her dogged determination to seek justice for the victimized. It was what had first sent her to his little cage - it was how they were together, here, now. The world will not be this way within the reach of my arm. Those words had come to her, and she had decided to free him from the clutches of Verger.
For that, he was thankful. He found himself thankful for many things these days. He had patiently outlasted all of his petty tormentors, the rude and banal fools who had misjudged and roadblocked him for so many years, the wrongfully righteous and unenlightened. Those that had hated him and hunted him down were of no consequence any longer. They were now distant constellations in his life, softly illuminating the background of his history.
But Clarice. Clarice was the sun.
Still, he was grateful for those that had crossed his path, steering him into his rightful orbit.
He was thankful to Jack Crawford for, in his hubris, sending a trainee to question him.
He was thankful to Bella Crawford, for slowly dying of cancer, distracting Jack away from his cases at the FBI.
He was thankful to Paul Krendler, for so thoroughly victimizing his Starling at the Bureau, that she had become disillusioned with the whole institution.
He was thankful to Mason Verger, for bringing him back to the States, within Starling's reach.
He was thankful to Frederick Chilton, whose hunger for the limelight had forged that fateful transfer to Tennessee.
And truly, he was thankful for Will Graham - for proving, in the end, to be incorruptible. He was thankful that Will had stopped at nothing to put him in that horrible cell. That cell had given him the greatest gift he had ever received - the chance to meet Clarice Starling.
Clarice, who had turned her office in their villa into an investigation war room. Crime scene photos, victim profiles, maps with pinpoints where bodies had been found - he had thought these things were long behind him, relics of a past self. Yet it was these relics that he now found Clarice pouring over, rereading every line, retracing every route. Here she had gathered every shred of proof she could find, creating a cocoon of of murder and death, in which she hoped to metamorphose evidence into clarity and justice.
Apparently, you could take the girl out of the FBI - but you never could take the FBI out of the girl.
Hannibal stood in the doorway, undetected, sipping his wine as he observed her.
He did not want to interrupt. Currently she stood, studying her map, each point of interest marked with a pin, attached to the photographs that TattleCrime had leaked.
Hannibal loved to watch her work. Truly, this was Clarice in her element - her eyes narrowed as she inspected each scrap of evidence, her tongue peeked between her lips when she was deep in thought, she ran her hands through her hair when she came to a dead end. It was an exquisite display. He wondered if this was how she had looked as she had investigated him, trying to track him down before Mason Verger did. He felt a violent surge of jealousy for those who had witnessed her beauty while he had been in exile, halfway around the world.
“Are you going to pour me a glass, or is the vintage too valuable to share?” Clarice asked, without turning to confirm his presence.
“There is nothing in this world too valuable that I wouldn’t hesitate to throw it into the sewer, if you asked it of me,” he replied.
She turned to him, and briefly he caught a glimpse of her unfocused vision, darkness swirling beneath her pupils. It was a look he had not seen in her eyes for many years. It disappeared quickly as she grinned at him, her eyes narrowing.
“Flatterer,” she intoned, approaching him. “And a liar.”
He did not bother to contradict her as she took the glass from his hand, and took an appreciative sip. She met his eyes and downed the rest of the glass in one gulp, her eyes glinting - a test. Determined to pass, he made no comment on her crass behavior.
Clarice grinned up at him, and rewarded him by folding herself neatly into his arms.
“Thank you,” she said into his chest. He pressed his lips into her hair. “I needed that. I could use three or four more of those, to be honest.”
He hummed, stroking her hair.
“Perhaps you would prefer to confide in me, rather than the bottle. I promise I am a better conversationalist.”
“You’d be surprised with how pleasant company bottles can keep,” she muttered, then pressed her lips to his neck. “They’re very good at keeping secrets.”
“And do you have a need to keep secrets from me, Clarice?”
He put his hands on her arms and pulled away, so that he could look into her eyes. The darkness was back - she looked through him and beyond him.
Clarice blinked, refocusing her vision and meeting his stare.
“Yes... No. No, of course not. I just… I just wish that you were on the same page with me on this. I know you want me to just block it out. It doesn’t concern us. And you’re right. But I can’t.”
She turned from him and paced back to the wall, lost again to the web of blood and death.
He studied her back, the stern set of her shoulders, the soft line of her hips. He wished that she could become more than flesh and bone, become truly immortal, made of silver and iron - that she could cross oceans and right all the injustices committed by her wretched tormentors, and return back safely to him. But she was no avenging angel - as beautiful and deadly as she was, Clarice was still only human, bound by the constraints of mortality.
Clarice, who had now given herself wholeheartedly to a murder investigation she had no chance of closing. She did not have all of the pieces, did not have access to all of the information. Her arm did not reach from Buenos Aires to Quantico.
“He has to make a mistake, or they’ll never catch him,” she said, mostly to herself. “Theres no evidence to lead them to his safe house. The trail is broken.”
She traced over the map with her hand, index finger lingering over a scrawled red circle in southern Michigan. She had assembled this wall in the past two weeks, right after she had seen the face of the latest victim in the news. He knows the thoughts she is chasing from her mind - if only I had the resources available to me at the Bureau, if only I were not a fugitive, if only I could travel freely in the States… But none of those options would ever be open to her, ever again. She had made her choice.
Hannibal would not, could not interfere with her obsession, but he could see it eating away at her - watching the the FBI run in circles, while having crucial information that she had no way to communicate to the authorities without exposing them both.
“You punish yourself for situations beyond your control. But we are partners now - your suffering is mine to bear as well, Clarice. My warnings to you are not empty words - I cannot watch you become consumed with vengeance for crimes not committed upon you.”
She turned to him, giving him a thousand ton stare. Within it he saw anger, resentment, trust, love - and pity. To her, there was no separation between her and the victims pinned across her wall. She pitied him for not connecting to the anguish of strangers, like she could.
“Then maybe you won’t have to watch much longer,” she said.
Hannibal heard the threat in her words. He gripped her shoulders, gently locking her body to his.
“Clarice. It’s not safe for you to return. You go back, and those that you ran from will catch up. They will find you. They will lock you up far, far away from me. Would you really choose the path of vengeance, over a life with me?”
Her eyes softened, focused on his. Warm nights spent drinking champagne on their rooftop, gazing out at the glittering city below them. His gentle instructions as he teaches her the tango in their dining room. The pressure of him deep inside her as they share the same breath, as she digs her fingers into his back. This is what she would have to give up.
She collapsed back into him. Her arms reached around to grip him, vice-like. He returned the embrace, cradling her against him.
“I’m lost, Hannibal,” she whispered.
“You have everything you need to find yourself again, in here,” he kissed her forehead. “You can use me as your guide. But I doubt you truly need to. You know who you are, Clarice, and where you belong.”
She nodded, her grip loosening, her body staying close to his.
“I’m going to the attic for a while, I need to clear my head,” she said, drawing away from him at last.
‘The attic’ was what she called her memory palace (she had always hated that term), although it functioned just like his own. Hers was smaller, more functional than aesthetic, but it grew every day. Often, he followed her there, and they built it together - but not today. Today she needed her solitude. He nodded.
“Find me when you come back. I’ll prepare dinner.”
After she left the room, he remained, inspecting her work station. Truthfully, he would rather be taking her to the Teatro Colón tonight, or discussing literature, or engaging in anything that would bring delight to Starling. But if she needed to retreat for now, he would let her. He knew better than to get between Starling and her quarry.
At one point in his life he would have admired the work of this killer, perhaps he would have even sought him out - but now his handiwork seemed banally Freudian, trivial and pointless. Barely worth anyone’s attention - least of all his or Clarice’s.
Strewn across the desk were a laptop and several folders, bursting with leaked investigation reports and photographs. Something caught his eye - a corner of a newspaper article peeked out from one of the folders, and the fragment of the picture attached to the article struck at his memory. He pulled it out, and realized why it called to him.
The picture was of Will Graham. He was haggard and angry, glaring at the camera as he shielded someone behind him from the photographer. The figure behind him was Abigail Hobbs. They stood outside of the courthouse where his trial had been held - a long, drawn out circus of a prosecution. The headline screamed - ABDUCTEE OR ACCOMPLICE? THE TRUTH ABOUT WILL GRAHAM AND ABIGAIL HOBBS REMAINS ELUSIVE.
He laughed softly at the article that followed, full of inaccurate details and outlandish extrapolations that were far from the truth. If only the author of this drivel could have ever comprehended the murky and gray actuality - far from the black and white reality suggested by the headline.
Hannibal flipped through the rest of the folder’s contents, each piece about Will Graham, curious as to why Clarice had compiled this collection. Most of them were from Hannibal’s arrest and trial. Will had no connection to the current case, had not been involved in any casework since Dolarhyde had cut up his face. Then, he reached the final article in the folder - the author of which was Will Graham himself.
It was about Clarice.
THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INCOMPETENCE: How sexist internal politics let Hannibal Lecter escape from under the FBI’s nose.
Hannibal sat down and read the entire piece, word by word.
It was startlingly accurate. Will defended Clarice for her actions in the Bureau, up until her disappearance. He berated the FBI for allowing Paul Krendler to become as corrupt and powerful as he had. It was an extremely compelling piece of writing.
He understood now why Clarice had added information about Will Graham to her stockpile. She saw a kindred spirit in him - someone who empathized like she could, someone who empathized with her. Across oceans and stretches of land and time, having never met her, Will Graham saw her and understood.
Pieces of a plan began to click together in Hannibal’s mind. He would use whatever resources necessary to keep Clarice from being consumed alive by her dead-end investigation - and now, he realized he had more tools to use than he had thought.
First, he needed to remember.
He retreated to his own memory palace now, to a room where he kept a copy of a particular recollection. It was of the events that had set off Clarice's obsession. He did not dwell on this memory as often as she did - but if he could find something there, anything that might help Clarice - he had to take another look.
It was supposed to be a brief trip back into the States - they were to retrieve some cash and a new set of ID's that he had stowed in one of his drop boxes. Starling had already been anxious about returning to her native soil, and so they stayed deep under the radar. She had convinced him to forgo his usual comfortable arrangements, and instead squat in abandoned vacation homes across the Midwest. He agreed that it was very discreet. At first, it was thrilling - wearing the clothing of their unknowing patrons, drinking their wine, browsing their libraries - they felt like rebellious teenagers, skirting on the boundaries of the law.
It was on the southern edge of Michigan where everything changed.
Hannibal found himself in their beat-up pickup truck, Clarice at the wheel, just as it had been that night. They had already found a cabin deep in the woods, apparently unoccupied, where they would stay for the night. Clarice was now pulling off the road, into some bushes in the woods - about a half mile away from the cabin, just in case someone might see the car and become curious. It was well concealed, and they could easily find their way back for a hasty escape.
It was a short, cold hike to the cabin; Hannibal felt the dry twigs crunch under his feet, the crisp November air bite at his skin. They were practically on the front porch when they heard the roar of an engine, and saw distant headlights filtering through the trees. Clarice quickly pulled Hannibal into cover, just as an SUV hurtled down the gravel road and stopped right in front of the cabin.
They stood, frozen, in the woods, waiting for the occupant of the SUV to retreat into the cabin so that they could make their escape.
What happened next would be seared, permanently, into Clarice's memory.
A man of average height and broad shoulders emerged from the driver's seat. He was not particularly striking - he had no distinctive features, and was overwhelmingly average in appearance. What was striking was the creature he then pulled from the trunk, and cradled in his arms.
Long, gleaming blonde hair poured from the girl's head, and hung over the man's arm. Her head hung slack, and she wore little more than a nightgown. Her face, peaceful and serene, was like the portrait of a sleeping angel. Her pale limbs dangled in the air, bobbing gently as he carried her into the house.
They didn't know it at the time, but soon enough, that girl's face would be staring up at them from countless newspapers - the latest victim of the serial killer the papers called Dracula.
Hannibal and Clarice had encountered enough dead bodies to know one when they saw one. She turned to stone beside him, and then he felt her jerk towards the cabin.
"No, Clarice. It may not be what it looks like," he whispered to her, wrenching her back towards him. "We are in no position to get involved. We have to turn back now."
She did not move, eyes locked onto the cabin door, behind which the man and the girl had disappeared.
"Now, Clarice," he said, and the tone of his voice told her he would not repeat the instruction again. She turned to him.
"Something's not right in there, Hannibal. I know it isn't."
He pulled on her, but she wouldn't move. She stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"She's right you know. There is something very wrong going on in that cabin."
Hannibal spun around to face the source of the voice. He wasn't supposed to be here.
"You had him right there, and you let him go," Will said, his gaze piercing straight through Hannibal. He stood among the trees, as though he had always been there.
"I had to," Hannibal spat at him, "I couldn't risk getting involved. We couldn't risk it."
Will laughed at him, and began to walk away.
"We had him right there, and we let him go," Clarice whispered next to him. Will continued to laugh, and sank into the forest.
"Will," Hannibal called after him, "Will!"
“Hannibal.”
A hand on his arm startled him out of the past, and dragged him into the present. Next to him, the current, material Clarice stood looking over him, a concerned expression on her face.
"Hannibal. Hannibal - are you alright?" she asked, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “You looked like you were having a nightmare. You never have nightmares.”
He collected himself, kissed her fingers.
“I’m sorry, I’m fine. I was just lost in thought,” he said, and she climbed into his lap, nuzzling his neck.
“You were muttering to yourself. It sounded like you were saying will. Will what?”
"Will Graham," he said into her palm. There was no point in lying. "I found your folder. I was thinking about him.”
She whipped her hand away from him, gasping in mock scandal. Her eyes glittered with mischief.
"Oh - so you were dreaming about an old lover - calling out his name, even!"
Still, she straddled him as she she scolded him, and began to unbutton his shirt. Hannibal gripped her hips, working his hands under her shirt.
"I wasn't dreaming. I was remembering - and thinking. About you. You seem refreshed from your trip to the attic - cleared your mind?"
Clarice pulled back, running her hands through his hair as she searched his eyes.
“For now. I refocused on what is important to me.”
“As did I,” he returned. She met his eyes and the affection he found there sparked a fire deep inside his center.
"You never met Will Graham, did you?" he asked. She shook her head.
"No, I tried to get an interview with him for my investigation, but he had disappeared. No one could tell me where he had wound up after Dolarhyde. It was pretty clear that he didn't want to be found."
Hannibal hummed in thought, and leaned in to kiss Clarice. She kissed him back, eager and hungry.
“Would you like to meet him?” Hannibal asked, as they broke away to breathe. She laughed against his lips.
"You ask like it could ever be a possibility," she said. She lurched back in to kiss him again, but he turned slightly, and her mouth landed on his chin. Dejected, she glared at him.
"I think you two would get along. He's quite a bit like you. And a bit like me. But wholly and completely himself. He would definitely be fond you," Hannibal said.
Clarice rubbed her thumb on the back of his neck, surveying him coolly. She always did know when he was up to something.
"Hannibal, if you want to invite a third party into our bed, all you have to do is ask. I know you're no stranger to the concept. And I would certainly be open to such an arrangement, if the situation was right."
He started to laugh, but was cut short as she attacked him, mouth ravenous and unforgiving. Her body ground against his, her hand pressing against the growing hardness between his legs. Hannibal shifted, reaching up under her skirt - but she swiftly pinned his arms against the chair, trapping him beneath her.
“I assume you wish to skip dinner and go straight to bed then?” he breathed into her ear. She smiled against his cheek.
“When I’m done with you, you won’t even dare to think about someone else.”
Hannibal accepted her challenge by thrusting upwards into her. She gasped, releasing her grip to wrap her arms around his head as she pressed her wetness against him. His hands found her panties and he pulled them down, caressing her rear.
Clarice moaned beautifully into his mouth as they kissed, and he was done with their playful fumblings in the armchair. He lifted her up, and carried her to their bedroom. Once inside, he dropped her onto the bed, where she shed her clothes, tossing them onto the ground.
He marveled at her body, sleek and poised, open and waiting for him. His Starling. He melted into her, his body fitting into hers perfectly. Their limbs aligned effortlessly, each movement creating sparks of pleasure under his skin. Clarice lived up to her threat - she sent all of his senses reeling, his mind intoxicated by her scent.
She would never cease to surprise him, infuriate him, excite him. He would do anything to keep her here with him, like this - alert and engaged, not swallowed up by guilt and helplessness.
Hannibal knew what he had to do. If he and Clarice could not go to the FBI with their information, he would use a trusted messenger to go to them. The FBI was indebted to Will Graham for helping them catch Frances Dolarhyde.
Clarice slept beside him, serene. For tonight at least, she would not be plagued by visions of mutilated girls with angelic faces. Briefly, he remembered watching Will sleep - in their cottage, he had been undisturbed by his usual nightmares. How fleeting their time together had been.
When he closed his eyes, he imagined he would open them again to find Will resting on the other side of Clarice. He could already smell the other man - the cheap aftershave, the dirt from his boots, the sweetness of his skin. Hannibal took a deep breath. He cleared his lungs then opened his eyes, dispersing the vision of Will.
He was getting sentimental in his old age. Will would be useful, yes - but he need to stay focused, and not get caught up in his desire to once again be face to face with the other man. No bars between them. To be able to reach out and touch him. To witness what kind of man he had become.
If Hannibal pulled the right strings, sent the right signals - Will Graham would come to him. It had been far too long since he'd last laid eyes on him.
He would need Clarice's help organizing the lure. Some of the plan she might find quite to her tastes.
Will and Clarice, together. He smiled at the thought. Soon enough, he would sculpt his vision into reality.