SquidgeWorld Archive

Chapter Text

All the King's Horses
By Simarillion

Fandom: Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

Universe: Once again the story is a very randomly chosen mixture of movie-verse and book-verse with a dash of my own interpretations. (gah, this is fanfiction after all!)

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham (eventually)

Warnings: Violence, bad language, political incorrectness

Summary: There is a new serial killer on the move but who is going to stop him.

Beta: Malakai_Amlug

Disclaimer: None of the herein featured characters are mine and therefore I do not make any money with this story. They rightfully belong to Thomas Harris and DeLaurentis Pictures.

Notes: For all the people waiting for a relationship between Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, you are reading the wrong story, this is a slash fanfiction. For all the people reading this and waiting for a PWP, you should move along at once, this is a very plot heavy novella. By the time you reach page 50 you will be sorely disappointed about the lack of smut. For people loving happy endings and meaningful love declarations, move along, this is a very dark story. None of my plot heavy stories (written or orally told) have fluffiness and cuteness in them. For people with weak nerves or people who are easily offended, don't even start, this story will contain (as already mentioned in the warnings) violence, gore, bad language and politically incorrect behaviour and comments.

For people who are interested in the so far longest slash story featuring the incredible trio infernal, consisting of Clarice Starling, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, and who are interested in story with actual plot, welcome and enjoy your stay.
Last but not least, feedback is greatly appreciated.

CHAPTER ONE

Clarice Starling was on her third cup of coffee that night. The black sludge tasted worse with every sip she swallowed but she needed the drink's caffeine to stay awake. An undesired side effect of the coffee consumption was the restlessness she felt and the inability to concentrate properly on the pictures and the reports in front of her on her desk.

After the incident with Mason Verger and Hannibal Lecter's second escape she had thought she'd be discharged from the police, but surprisingly Jack Crawford had pulled some strings and enabled her to continue working for the government. It was amazing that even a retired Crawford was still a force to be reckoned with in the FBI. There was the talk that he would come back. How much of these rumours was based on actual facts and how much of it was invented remained to be seen.

There was the feeling of a slight burn just behind her eyeballs and Clarice closed her eyes. Pressing her thumb and her ring finger against the eyelids, she tried to concentrate harder. The photos in front of her were mostly polaroids from that night's crime scene but a neat stack of photos was resting on the side next to the two case files. The older photos showed a crime scene from Baltimore six weeks ago.

After the first victim had been found the police had not been sure what to make of the violent death. The victim had been a middle-aged Caucasian male of the east coast upper class. Dr. Martin Bainbridge had been a renowned psychiatrist and his clientele consisted mostly of notorious high society members. The doctor's assistant had found the body in the morning when preparing the office for the day. The police at first thought it had been one of the doctors patients that had committed the crime but nobody turned up with any real motive. It hadn't really helped that most of the suspects interviewed had had watertight alibis.

After some more investigating the doctor's private life it had turned out that the happily married man had frequented the local gay clubs. The next theory had then of course been that maybe a jealous lover or maybe some hustler had killed the victim. So far no progress had been made.

All these theories had been come to nothing when the second victim had been found. At first these two people didn't have anything in common. Gordon Livingston was an African American in his mid-twenties. He was the owner and chef of one of New York City's most popular restaurants. He had been in his own way a celebrity and his fame was cemented by the various cookbooks and restaurant guides he had written. Although the young man had not been around for a long time many of his guests were stars and celebrities. Unlike Dr. Bainbridge, Livingston had been engaged to be married to a medicine student.

Comparing these two victims, the only similarity was the MOD. Both of the men had been attacked with a knife at first. There was a straight cut from the left hip to the right side of the ribcage. Afterward the victim's head had been smashed to pulp with a blunt object. The murderer had not brought his weapons along; he had made use of the tools he found at the scene.

Dr. Bainbridge had been cut with a sharp letter opener, the edges of the wound had been torn. His head had been smashed with a glass award that had been standing on one of the bookshelves. It had been an award for one of his publications. Mr. Livingston had been attacked with a large kitchen knife, his head caved in with a meat hammer.

The photos from the kitchen where the second victim had been found were scattered all over the desk in front of Clarice and she randomly picked one of them to take a closer look at it. It had been her day off, but when the second body was found it became clear that these two deaths were connected and that a serial killer was out there. Unfortunately of all the people that took care of cases like this she was the only one available and already working in New York. That was the reason why her phone had rung at one in the morning.

The crime scene had been very different from the photos in front of her and she tried to recall details that were not visible on the pictures. She wished she knew more about the first murder. The case file was resting next to the stacked photos from the other crime scene but she had yet to read it. So far she only knew the information from the New York Times and the Sunday Herald. Since it had been said to be a crime of passion or revenge she had not bothered to get more information.

Putting the Styrofoam cup down, she leaned back in her office chair and closed her eyes, going through the crime scene in her head once more. The room had been cleaned after the restaurant had closed one hour before the body had been discovered. In the kitchen was no trace of any break-in which indicated that the murderer had been inside the premises already at the time the victim had been on his own. The second possibility was of course that the murderer was a skilled picklock. She desperately hoped that the latter was not the case. If Livingston's murderer had already been inside the restaurant at the time the last employees left, there was always the possibility that somebody might have seen him.

The body had been lying between a workspace and a row of kitchen cupboards. The angle of the body indicated that the attacker had pressed the other man against the cupboards as he cut the stomach open. The body had been found lying on the side, intestines spilled next to it. Apparently the dying man had been sitting against the cupboards and the murderer had pushed him down on the floor to smash the head with the meat hammer.

Both weapons had been found lying close to the victim and the first dusting at the crime scene had not revealed any finger prints. The murderer did not only know his fair share about lock picking but he was very careful not to leave any trace as well. Forensics had had a field day with the whole kitchen but so far anything worthwhile had still to be found.

Her stomach churned and Clarice noticed that she had had three cups of coffee but no food so far. Tiredly, she stretched her legs out under her desk. She had hoped to have a nice extended weekend since she had taken the Friday off but her plans for relaxing and cleaning her apartment had been put on hold with the phone call she had got tonight.

Clarice rolled back from the desk and got up from the chair. She grabbed her wallet that lay on the manila folder of the first victim and headed out of her small office. Considering the late hour the department was surprisingly populated. Most of the people had been roused from their beds to take a look at what most of them had could have done without.

A thin man in his early twenties sat at an overcrowded desk and read a thick file about the employees of the restaurant. His eyes were bloodshot and he blinked rapidly as if he was going to fall asleep at any time.

"Jones, how about you join me for some better coffee than the sludge around here and a bagel at the deli around the corner. You can tell me what you found so far." Clarice tapped against the desk of the young police officer and watched him nod tiredly.

The sheets of paper where heaped on top of another folder and Jones opened the top drawer of his desk, taking out his wallet and ID badge. Robert Jones was the newest member of the department. He was fresh out of Utica and still eager to prove himself. That was probably the reason why he had stayed after his last 24 hour shift to work on the Livingston case. He slipped his valuables into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and got up from his chair.

Clarice wove her way through maze of the cube farm, her high heels clicking sharp on the floor. She saw Bernice Crowley on the phone and waved at her. The other woman waved back and give her a high five. Clarice decided against waiting for the woman to finish her phone call and headed for the exit. The door opened as two officers entered. Jones reached out from behind her to hold the door open. The polite gesture surprised her from somebody of his generation.

The corridor was empty but the noises from the office behind the doors could be heard out here. She tugged at her blazer and buttoned it closed. Clarice glanced at the young man walking next to her and wondered if she had ever looked so young and ambitious. She knew that she had been ambitious when she was called in early from Quantico to help Crawford with the Buffalo Bill case. She had been convinced that she was cut out to make a career. Things had turned out differently though.

"How long have you been on the shift now, Robert?" her question sounded strangely loud in the corridor after all the noise in the office.

"29 hours more or less. The chief said that whoever was not too tired should stay and help." A hand rubbed overexerted eyes.

"You should try to get some sleep soon. If you fall asleep at your desk you are no help to anyone. We won't catch him tonight or the next 24 hours. He's too clever for that."

Jones reached out for the entrance door and opened it for her. "Why do you think it was a man? From all we know so far it could be a woman as well."

"No, this one is no woman. Something about the way he kills them ... it would have to be a very strong woman to pin the man against the cupboards with one arm while gutting him like that. The way the victims head had been worked at, that was no woman, believe me."

The tempertature outside was falling as the Indian summer drew to an end. Soon the rare drizzle would be replaced by the pre-snow rainshowers of the late autumn. More rain, more dirt, more possibilities to leave a trace. Clarice had realized that she had become rather pessimistic. But even in the deepest shit there was always something good. She was convinced that there would be another killing before they would be able to get more on the murderer of Livingston and Bainbridge.

The walk to the deli was brief and the light in the small shop was in stark contrast with the inky night outside. The shop was empty except for the waitress who sat on small barstool at the counter. Her back was to the entrance door and she flipped through the personal columns. She never turned around as Clarice and Jones entered and sat down at a table in the back corner.

The radio was switched on and when Britney Spears started to sing about her loneliness and her need to be spanked, Clarice rested her head against the back of the chair.

"You should try to get more sleep as well, Agent Starling." Jones blinked owlishly at her before he realised what he had just said. "Please excuse my forwardness."

"It's okay, Robert. I know that I am too tired to be of much use, but I will have to stay for some more time. This is something new for the team but not for me. I can help." Clarice tapped the menu card against the table. The paper had long ago lost its firmness; its edges were torn and grey from age.

"What was it like the last time?" Jones' question seemed to blurt out of him before he was able to stop.

The admiration and worship in the young man's voice made her feel queasy. She didn't like to talk about what had happened with Buffalo Bill. She still felt in some way responsible for Lecter's escape.

Clarice response to the question was delivered in a toneless voice: "Last time was different."

"Crawford got you on board to work with him, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did." Clarice saw a movement in the corner of her eyes and looked up to see the waitress stroll to their table. The bright yellow shirt she wore was emblazoned with the name of the deli. Clarice didn't like to talk about Crawford either. There were not many things that she liked to talk about and none of them were work related.

She placed her order and waited for Jones to place his. The young man was very thin and with the wire glasses he wore he looked like some computer geek. She wondered if young men like Jones all looked like this. Geeky, too thin, ambitious and too green to understand the world they were living in. She hated it that she had become so world wary. She was not old but she felt like there was a whole world between her and Jones.

"So, what did you find out about the employees so far? Anything useful?" Clarice asked, more to change the topic of the converstation. She was not particularly fond of Crawford or her past with him.

"Not really. Some of the casuals are illicit workers, but then again most restaurants are rather lenient about things like working permits and contracts. I checked the backgrounds of the people who had been in the restaurant today and I also looked for connections to Baltimore. There are none. The doctor never ate in Livingstone's restaurant and Livingstone never visited Baltimore. There might be upper class friends of the first victim that know of Livingston, maybe some ate in his restaurant, but no real connection between those two so far. I tried to find out from the files if any of the working staff had been working in Baltimore in the past. Again negative. The victim employed mostly Latinos and Asians and he employed locals, no people moving from Baltimore to the Big Apple to work for him."

The lack of a connection came as no surprise. It would have been strange to find the link between these two murders that easily. Their serial killer was too clever for that. But some connection had to exist otherwise the murderer would not have picked these two in particular.

"What is your opinion about the two killings, ma'am," Jones curiously inquired. For a green rookie like Jones, Clarice was an idol. She had been on the force for years and beside her trouble some time back she was a very good police officer. One of the best.

"I think that the two victims knew the murderer. There were not enough signs of a struggle. There was no sign of a break in, so I am hoping that the murderer was already in the restaurant at the time the kitchen was cleaned and closed down. Maybe somebody remembers something or some person. Besides that, I can only make assumptions. From the precision of the cuts and the strength the person displayed, I assume that the murderer is muscular and has some kind of medical training."

"Or martial arts."

"Excuse me?" The sudden input had surprised her. Clarice looked at Jones and saw the excitement in his eyes. No, she had never been this young and ambitious.

"He doesn't necessarily have to be trained in medical science. The way he cut the stomach open reminds me of the seppuku ritual. In medieval Japan the knights were called samurai and the usual way of faring a war was that the two rivalling samurai clans met each other on a battle field. Once the battle was over the surviving samurai of the defeated clan committed seppuku. It was said to be the honourable way of dying after having been denied death in battle. Later on this sanctioned suicide method was also a way of regaining one's honour. The thing about the seppuku is that the warrior used a short sword or a special dagger for it. He cut himself open from the hip to the ribcage and, if he was still able to, from the ribcage to the hip from the other side. The whole ritual ended with the samurai cutting his throat. In most cases they were not able to do that anymore and therefore they had seconds that cut off their head."

"You know quite a lot about that. Did you read it all up?"

"No, I am learning Kendo. I started in high school but during my time in Utica I didn't have time or the possibility to continue. I restarted only recently." He looked to the side as if his hobby or his knowing things was embarrassing.

Clarice stretched her legs out and relaxed slightly. This concept was not really what she thought to be likely but she ought to take a look at everything they found. One could never know what would lead to the conclusion of the case.

"I never heard of this before. Sounds horrible. Do people still commit suicide like that?"

"No, it's actually forbidden by law in Japan. There have been cases of seppuku though in recent years but not many. It is actually a very painful way of ending ones life. It's not recommendable. There is a description of the ritual and an explanation about it in a classical piece of Japanese literature, the Hagakure, which describes the way of life, the duties, and the virtues of a samurai."

Jones's impromptu history lesson was interrupted by two persons. The waitress brought their coffee at the same time as Bernice entered the deli. Her pewter grey curls were in even more disarray than usual. She was one of the people who had been called out of bed in the middle of the night.

The waitress watched dispassionately how the newcomer joined the occupied table, then took her order.

Bernice Crowley was one of the rocks that kept the office upright. She had transferred from L.A. to New York in Crawford's last year. She was one of the few persons that didn't take any shit, not even from Crawford himself. Clarice had been very quiet at the beginning of their acquaintance, but the older woman was nothing but persistent. She hadn't allowed her colleague to hide and had made it to some kind of mission of hers to break through Clarice's walls.

Sometimes Clarice missed her friend Ardelia Mapp when talking with Bernice. Both of her friends were very strong women that were able to ground her should she get lost somewhere up there in her head. But Mapp had married and was now a mother of baby twins. From time to time they called each other just to say hello and how are you, but they rarely met each other.

"Crawford called," was Bernice short and to the point welcome to her colleagues

"How did he find out about it so fast? Even the media hasn't featured anything about it yet."

"Beats me how the old bugger found out. He should stay in retirement and keep from meddlin'," she said. Bernice sometimes seemed gruff to people who didn't know her. The truth was that she never said things different from how she saw them. She was just honest. Sometimes brutally so.

"I think Brigham called him once we got the call. I think he wants Crawford to come back or at least take a look at things." Clarice replied.

Jones had been listening in on the conversation with interest. He tried to hide it by sipping his coffee and glancing at the waitress sitting at the counter from time to time. Clarice hoped that Jones would never have to do undercover work. He was a bad actor. He should stick to history; he made a far better lecturer.

Another coffee mug was put on the table and the silence at the table stretched. Clarice wondered what Crawford intended to do. His retirement had come as a surprise to a lot of people and even more believed he would pick up any day where he had left off. In her own opinion, the force was a better place without her former superior. His record of solved murder cases was impressive if nothing else but it came at a high price. Crawford had a high wear and tear of manpower. His favourites never lasted long. When thinking about her predecessor in Crawford's high esteem, Clarice was actually proud about how she had handled everything.

Should Brigham have called Crawford he had definitely hoped to lure the retired chief back to work. Though, the big question was if the other could be tempted that easily.

"If we don't find anything on this one soon, Crawford will not only think about coming back, he'll definitely kick our asses. The lack of progress will make him very unhappy." Bernice's voice was tight as she spoke of what the two of them hoped would not come to pass.

Clarice sipped some more of her café latte. She dreaded the panic that was going to start once the media started to feature tonight's murder. She didn't like the press and their greed for sensation.

"If you are asking me, Brigham is just too big a coward to do this on his own. He thinks that somebody who can't lose no matter what happens is far better suited for the case. The chief is just anxious that he can't solve this fast enough. More deaths would look bad on his resume. He's aiming for a political career, did you know?"

"No, I didn't know." Clarice doubted though that there was anything that she actually wanted to know about her chief.

"They say that should this freak kill more and should the evidence be as sparse as with this crime scene, they'll bring back all they have. They're just crazy. I'm telling you." Clarice noticed the way her friend folded the empty sugar bag next to her cup. She had to agree with her, this was not only crazy, it was frightening.

"What does that mean 'They'll bring back all they have'?" Jones' curiosity had gotten the better of him. "Who do they want to bring back?"

"Bloom for one. He's in Québec now. Teaches there at some university. Crawford they want to have back the most. Clarice they already have. I don't know, I think that's the best there is."

"We'll see what happens." She didn't like the direction this conversation was going.

"Well, with Crawford back, they have the most experienced and skilled officer back on board, don't they?"

"Crawford is not the best." Why was it that it always came to this one name? "Lecter is, was the best."

The silence that followed her statement was heavy and oppressive. Nobody liked to be reminded that whenever there had been trouble, the last resort had been to ask the doctor for help. It was just too disturbing that the police needed to employ the help of a madman to deal with other murdering lunatics.

"Lecter, Hannibal Lecter?" Jones was the first to brave the uncomfortable silence. His youth would not allow him to not ask questions. Even if the topic was usually avoided and by some considered a taboo.

"Yeah, he was ...," Clarice started to say.

"A freak, that's what he was." Bernice flicked the neatly folded sugar bag into the ash tray and impatiently tapped her nails on the table top. For some it was easy to give the right answer this fast and precise. Clarice was not one of them. She did not think that she would be able to describe Dr. Hannibal Lecter in one word only. She was not sure if she could describe him at all.

"He helped with Buffalo Bill, right?"

"Yeah, and with Dolarhyde and Hobbs before that." Clarice wanted to talk about something else. She really didn't like talking about Lecter. It made her feel guilty.

Bernice had noticed her mood change but couldn't help but add: "Yeah, before he helped Special Investigator Graham to his new career as an alcoholic and himself to freedom. Fucking prick."

The silence after this comment had more to do with the lack of a response than with the topic. Clarice tore her croissant into tiny pieces without eating any of it. She was not hungry anymore. Eating and Lecter at the same time were two things that just weren't compatible. At least not for her.

"So they won't be calling Graham back in either?"

"Naw, not if they want this case solved. Nobody really knows if he's still alive or if he's just lying in his house in Florida, passed out from all the drinking. I don't know if anybody is actually still in contact with him."

Clarice knew that Bernice was right but she still did not like the sound of it. Sometimes she pictured her self in Graham's shoes. It was easy enough and most of all it was something she could sympathise with. Just drinking until there was nothing else but the alcohol. No guilt, no fear, no doubts. It sounded quite liberating

The coffee in her cup was cold already. The croissant was unrecognisable as such. She pushed the serviette and the cup to the side and picked the discarded menu up again. She returned to playing with it.

There was the sound of the entrance opening and then foot steps accompanied by voices. Clarice didn't need to check who had entered to recognise the newcomers. Apparently their trio had not been the only ones in need of fortifying. The second group of FBI agents picked their table at the other end of the deli. The waitress was once more forced to stop reading her newspaper and serve the new guests. Judging from her grimace, she was not very happy about her nightly business.

Jones set his empty mug aside and dug into his pocket. He leaved through his wallet and produced the amount of money needed to pay for the coffee. "I'll go back to the office. The sooner I finish reading these files the sooner I can go home and get some sleep," he offered as his parting words.

"These files are still going to be on your desk after you had some sleep. Don't overdo it." The only answer to this was a weak nod. He would not go home. He would stay to read the files first. Clarice found it harder still to believe that she was this dedicated and enthusiastic once herself.

"Crawford asked about you." Clarice never took her eyes off the retreating form of Jones but she listened closely. "He talked to me on the phone, said that he was disinclined to converse with an idiot like Brigham at this time of the night - well morning would be more appropriate. He's talking some artsy fartsy English, all big words and the like. He knows how I hate that, stupid idiot. But he sounded concerned. Not only about the killing but about you. He asked a lot of questions." The underlying question in the last sentence was not to be overheard.

"I'm alright, Bernice. I just have a lot on my mind."

"A lot with the name of Dr. Hannibal Lecter? Don't think I didn't notice how you react when somebody mentions something even remotely connected with this lunatic. What is it with him and you?"

What indeed was there? This one question had tormented her for so long a time. She honestly didn't want to know the answer to it. She would not like it. People like Crawford, Mapp or Bernice did not have the same problems she had. They didn't have Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD somewhere inside their head, whispering maddening thoughts and suggestions to them. Some people suffered from migraines the way she suffered from the doctor. But there was no pill to help her cope with that problem and take the agonizing pain away.

"It's just difficult to forget. That's all."

"Clarice, don't be offended, but I think that this is bullshit. You say that it's, what ever it is, difficult to forget but honestly I don't believe that you even try to begin with. You love to wallow too much in the past and in some perverse kind of way you love the guilt you are feeling."

Clarice glared hard at the entrance door of the deli. Her jaw was starting to hurt from all the tension in the muscles. How could Bernice say something like that? It was not true. She did not wallow and she did not love to feel guilty. She hated it. She really wished that she would be able to forget about it or at least that she would be able to forgive herself. Bernice was wrong about her.

"Now, don't start with this petulant look of yours. I had a dog once. He was a nice and well-behaved beast but from time to time he got that look that clearly said that he was very much against doing what he was told. I am sure nothing but beating him to death would have made him follow any orders. You get that look as well sometimes. It's not very becoming, I can assure you." The cup that was set aside was still half full. "I like you, as a colleague, as well as a friend. I think you are a good person but what you are doing is not healthy. Stop it, Clarice."

But how did one stop things that were out of control, always had been? Being honest with herself, she had to admit that Bernice's description of her was not as far off as she wanted it to be. Yes, she lived in the past sometimes. It was like taking out your childhood photos. The ones that were already fuzzy around the edges and that had a light yellow tint to them because they had been taken so long ago. You sat down with the box, filled to the brim with yourself, your family and friends from back then. At times like these you were allowed to get nostalgic and reminiscence about a birthday party you didn't even remember yourself.

Getting in this mood always led to the picture of her mother though. The memory of her and the kitchen. The way she had been standing at the sink and washing the blood of her father's hat. The simple action of cleaning the hat had become so ominous Clarice feared the very thought of it.

And thinking about this one night made her remember all the happenings that had come to pass as a result of her father's death. It made her remember Lecter and their talks about her past, her motivation to join the FBI. It made her remember the lambs and their screams. They hadn't stopped screaming yet.

Sometimes Clarice wondered if the memory of the lambs would already have faded if Lecter hadn't made her talk about it. A lot of her life might have been different if it hadn't been for Lecter. And that was what was at the core of it. Lecter had become so essential to her definition of herself that she couldn't just cast him aside like her friend did. Saying of Lecter that he was a freak or a lunatic might be a description of one part of him but it sure as hell did not describe his part in Clarice's life.

Looking back at the time she started at Quantico, she was ashamed of many things. For once she was ashamed of how naive she had been back then. At the age of twenty-four she had believed that she could change the world. She had been convinced that nothing would ever be able to stop her from fulfilling her dream and in that dream she escaped with her little lamb. She was getting on Crawford's team and would be essential to capturing criminals. She would be making her parents proud of her achievements. And most important of all she would be strong enough to face everything.

Once she had been investigating for Crawford, once she had already made Lecter's acquaintance, she had been foolish enough to believe that she would be clever enough to outwit the doctor or at least be intelligent enough to prove herself on a par with Lecter.

After Dr. Lecter's escape she had been devastated. She had got to Jame Gumb before he had been able to kill the senator's daughter but the price was the escape of the country's most dangerous serial killer. Nobody had blamed her. It had not been her who had been responsible for this debacle. At least the official version was that she was not to be held responsible but inside she felt like she had killed the guards, the medics and the tourist herself. She should have seen it coming.

For a long time after these incidents Clarice had not been able to confront herself with what had happened. The career she had before been convinced to make was nowhere in sight. No dreams, no career but a lot of guilt and doubts.

At the lowest point of her career she had met him again. The person that always brought a turning point to her life. Lecter's confrontation with Verger and Clarice's interference in this private battle of power had revived her. Once more she had felt the thrill of the hunt, the challenge of trying to catch up with your prey. Clarice was not sure what exactly she had hoped or imagined would happen once she found Lecter. But to meet him again, to hear his metallic voice and to be able to talk with him again...

But Lecter had fled once more. 'Would you say stop, if you love me you will stop?' No, she would not have him become someone else. What would happen to the person she knew; would he disappear? Very unlikely but it was something she was not willing to risk. She needed this one constant in her life.

"Are you still here with me?" Bernice was slouching in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs stretched out. Just looking at her friend, Clarice wished she could relax like that. "Jesus, you are frightening me, Clarice. Say something at least." The relaxed pose was abandoned. The first signs of tension were becoming visible in her posture.

"I am sorry, Bernice, I was thinking about what you said. I am afraid I didn't get much sleep before they called me. I am very tired."

"Uh huh. You got me scared, zoning out like that. Don't do any of this shit."

"I won't." Nothing more to say here. Both of them knew that it was a lie. It wasn't something that she did on purpose, it just happened. "Maybe we should go back. I want to read some of the Baltimore file and compare the photos. And I need to get some sleep as well."

Clarice opened her wallet and searched for the right amount of money. Too many old receipts and small papers with last minute notes were stuffed in together with the money bills. Note to self to sort the stuff out and keep order in the wallet. She hunted for a dollar bill but only found another old shopping list, listing bread and butter at the very top. It was like some friggin' mystery that a wallet always contained everything but the money it was made for.

Leaving their payment on the table next to their coffee cups, they left the deli and headed back to headquarters. Clarice felt her mind go numb as sleep crept closer still. Fuck, her stomach was close to rioting because of all the coffee but still her mind was unable to stay awake. "I think I'll stop drinking coffee. It doesn't help at all."

"Nonsense, what would you drink instead then, these artificial energizing drinks that are so popular with the kids?"

"No, probably tea."

"Heavens, why would you drink something like that? That stuff was never meant to be drunk. It's nasty." Bernice reached out for the entrance door and held it open for Clarice. She had a hard time not to think of the gesture as gentlemanly. "The next time they drag us out of our beds at such an ungodly hour, you drink this weird stuff instead a cup of coffee? I'll believe it when I see it."

"Well, over in Europe, the Brits have even dedicated a time of day to this drink."

"Yeah, well they are Europeans after all. They're supposed to do weird stuff. What do you think the reason for the Revolutionary War was about, huh? The settlers were really pissed off about the Brits shipping the nasty stuff to the colonies after they had run away from Britain to get away from it. Boston tea party, they did the only sensible things that can be done with that stuff, throw it away."

Clarice smiled softly at that. Leave it to Bernice to have her own take on history. She wished her own history teacher in High school hadn't been of the frigid type. Conservative and narrow-minded, not one funny bone in his body. She had never paid attention in class of course. It had never proved to be necessary though. What she was interested in she had read up on her own and the other stuff was just logics and trial and error. It had been enough to get a good grade.

The corridor back to the office was empty except for a small group of four officers standing next to the door. Curious and slightly confused glances were cast at the door. Apparently something unexpected had happened during her absence. She nodded to her colleagues in passing. Many had been more than unfriendly to her since her return to the FBI but she liked to believe herself above petty revenge or hurt pride. She didn't really care about most of them anyway.

This time it was her holding the door open for Bernice. She took an amused glance at Clarice and preceded her into the large overpopulated room. There was the typical tension and energy that always went together with an ongoing investigation.

"I'll get the most important things done and then I'll head back to bed. Get some rest as well, Clarice."

She nodded and strode through the narrow corridors between the separate cubicles of the open space office. She was glad to have her own office, small as it was. In all this noise she would never be able to properly concentrate. With the more difficult problems she tended to take her dirty clothes into the office and if thinking got too hard, she would grab the bag and head to the laundry two streets down. She wouldn't be able to sit on the washing machine but the sight of the clothes being whirled around in the tumbler calmed her.

She was just about to pass the chief's office to her own as the door was pulled open and Brigham jerked his head to the side, indicating for her to come in. Clarice couldn't imagine what made him want to talk with her. He had never taken well to her staying on the force. He would have liked for her to be gone for good.

Entering the office of her superior she realized what the reason had been for her summon. In the back, just behind the huge office desk in the middle of "the aquarium", stood Crawford. The Former FBI Agent had his back to her as he studied the polaroids pinned to a large, white pin board. It was amazing and also disturbing how he could look so well-groomed at this time of day. Everybody else looked like they were the last survivors of some party but here he stood, Mr. Immaculate.

His back was slightly more bent than the last time Clarice had seen him. It had been his farewell party. The whole office as well as the headquarters from Washington and the Baltimore office had come together to give their great hero and leader the proper parting. On Clarice's part it had been more something along the lines of "good riddance."

Crawford's dark hair had lost none of its colour but it had gotten less. Seemed like he would be bald in the future.

"Hello, Clarice." The bastard wasn't even turning around; he continued perusing the crime scene photos like he was picking out the fabric for new curtains. Clarice stood facing his back, her hands crossed over her chest, her chin held high.

"Good Morning, Jack."

"Agent Starling, as you might probably have already heard we contacted Agent Crawford and he agreed to consult us and work with us on the case." Brigham was clearly uncomfortable with the situation here. His least favourite subordinate and the person responsible for her still working for him in one room with him.

"There have been rumours about Agent Crawford's possible return to the Force," was Clarice sole comment to this.

"Have there been?" This time Crawford turned to face Clarice as well. It was somewhat a relief to see the redness in Crawford's eyes, to see that for his attempt at perfection he was only human after all. "Well, we live to amuse our fellow men. It would have been a shame to disappoint all the people so concerned about my retirement."

Clarice tilted her head to the side and took a good look at the man in front of her. It was strange how her opinion about him had changed over the years. From the great hero to the great tormentor. How the mighty had fallen.

Crawford did not return her scrutiny. He stepped away from the pin board and sat down on the couch next to the desk. His eyes flicked from Brigham to Clarice and then he closed them. The chief took this as the sign to take his usual place behind the desk. Somewhat more content and mollified, Brigham sat down in his monstrosity of an office chair. The piece of furniture would never have fit into one of the cubicles of the cube farm.

She decided not to look at either of the two men and fixed her eyes on the left back corner of the office. There was a reason why this was called 'the aquarium' by everyone. All the walls were made of glass and if there weren't any blinds, Brigham would sit in here like a fish in a bowl. He'd most probably look like one of those bulge-eyed goldfish, gaping out and doing nothing. A goldfish that is in charge of hunting sharks. It was rather ironic.

Clarice felt her eyes start to burn again and hoped that this briefing of theirs would come to a closure soon. There were a couple of things she had to take care off still and stuff she had to take a look at before she could leave to get some shut eye.

When there was nothing forthcoming from either man she lost her patience. She really didn't feel like playing stupid power games with them. "Is there anything of importance you need of me, chief? If not, I would prefer to return to work."

"No, that would be all, Agent Starling." Oh, the venom in her title. It sounded like a wound that had started to fester and was causing pain whenever touched. She wondered, if this wound was visible would it have the slightly greenish yellow colour around the edges from the puss and the dead tissue or would it be bright red and enflamed? Should it start to heal, it would leave an ugly scar.

"Thank you, sir." As she reached for the knob of the door Crawford's voice made her halt her move.

"I would like to have a word with you later, Agent Starling."

She could actually feel Brigham's angered eyes on her back. The man was infuriated for being left out. Well, sharks liked to stay among themselves. What would a goldfish understand about their business? She understood full well why Crawford wanted to talk with her but to address her this bluntly in front of Brigham? The man would hate her even more now, most probably would hate her much more as the investigation progressed. Clarice suspected that the motivation behind Crawford's blunt move was to alienate her further from her superior. He needed her to be dependent on him. He liked to have his dogs on a short leash.

Clarice nodded shortly and hastened to get away to her own office. She wanted to finish as much of her work as possible before Crawford would leach himself to her side. Just some more time without the constant observation and manipulation of that man.