Summary: As another night of loneliness absorbs Starlings thoughts, she reflects upon her life of three months with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, sharing a few *tasteful* memories, and making an important decision of truth, love, and a bit obsession, along the way.

Timeline: Set three months after Hannibal, the novel.

Genre: Vignette, pending, romance

Rating: PG-13 (implication of sexuality)

Part 1 of 1 (completed)

By: Starlit Skye (ff.net ID Aine Deande)

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Dancer in the Clouds

or: The reverse of exchange

by Starlit Skye

The night is *so* divine.

In its darkness I cloak myself and look beyond my being, see beyond my meaning, and realize my truth with him I stand. With him I fall. With him I *am*.

The night allows me to think. And to feel completely, and utterly, how much and how deep and how *thoroughly* he possesses me.

He calls me his Love, he calls me his Queen, he calls me his Butterfly to Blossom right in front of him, his maroon eyes that reveal nothing, and his ever-perpetrating mind. He says I am his Dear, that I am dear to him. I believe him when he whispers into my hair that I am exquisite, that he enjoys watching me grow, seeing me evolve, and ripen to become magnificence itself, as he knew I could be, should be, and will be.

But what is he to me?

This, the night tells me. For he never lies next to me.

Never, not once, in all the time to have passed us now, has he entitled himself certain privileges. He has been my mentor, my psychiatrist, my ally indeed, even my friend. For as much as he allows himself, his eyes sometimes devour me, when I am dressed in carmine colored silk clothing.

When he hangs around my exposed neck a ruby necklace he never does anything more than whisper. His lips whisper against my skin, my flesh burning, yet he never moves closer his lips always only moving *over* me, never quite in contact with my flesh. As though asking permission to touch me.

Though he must know, he must know he is allowed. But I do not believe he will permit himself such sinful pleasure until the request my heart has formed already, my voice speaks in a hushed whisper.

Until then, he will wait. Until then, my night will be lonely, and will the air be filled with empty desires and unspoken wishes.

Just the merest of touches will have to satisfy my desire until then. For I am not quite ready to say aloud what my heart knows as its truth, its only verity. That I love him, with every fiber of my being.

Hannibal. My Hannibal. But until he asks me, until I tell him yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he will be Doctor Lecter. Dr Hannibal Lecter, demanding in his demeanour, enchanting in his attention to refinement. Aggravating in his poise. Devilishly charming in a tuxedo with matching tie.

On some nights, I just wish he'd *take* me. Be brutal like the beast I know roars in there somewhere, behind his composed bearing and unrevealing countenance. He just has to feel at least *some* of the feelings I am experiencing, he just has to. It seems impossible to encounter such fulfillment, and let such incredulous emotion be unrequited.

On some days, at the tedious high society parties we attend together, his offered arm invitingly close to my body, I only long for him to put those massive arms, wary of strength, around me, draw me in and ravish me where I stand, the public of ongoing attendees be damned for all I care.

On other days, his mask seems to waver, and I get to see a glimpse inside his soul. And then I smile, and he will be composed again, unsure of how much I have seen. I do not think he is aware I'm starting to know him, beginning to *read* him, as he has always done with me.

I relish our dancing. Up on the balcony, when the stars seem closer, more in our reach than ever before — Some of our stars are the same, Clarice — or, closer to earth, on the terrace. His hand will hold mine and his body will press against mine as we become one with the night — he knows like no other man how to dance, and how to dance with a woman.

I cherish those nights, when time moves past us and there simply *is* no mask. When Dr. Lecter is just taking pleasure from — me. Those nights I find the most divine of all, the least concealing and most enchanting especially during lonely nights like these, when I lie alone in my great, two-person, four-poster bed and long tirelessly for the completion of that one night.

That fatal night, when Hannibal Lecter came up from his chair to me in my cream lace gown and emeralds flashing at my throat. That one moment imprinted into time, when I lost my soul to him.

Hannibal. My nights are so divine, because they entitle me to certain *privileges* and dream of you endlessly, until the sun rises, the dawn breaks, and a new day begins.

I know one thing of him, though. He dreams too.

My Hannibal. He is weakening through his need, his need for something. I don't know what it is anymore that he wants from me. Ever since that fateful night, when I offered him my breast and gave him access to my soul, my thoughts are faceless, my mind blank. He brainwashed me when he gave into my need for him. For that was what happened, of course; that was the exchanged. My offered breast for my satisfaction.

That night, an exchange was made, one as unexpected to him I think as it was to me. Windows aligned that night, and souls conceded. Connected in a foreordained night of utter passion, utter desire disguised as famine, satiated in a night that lasted forever and still, not by far long enough.

That night, we made the most passionate of love, and as my lips shivered under his and his release came in waves of pleasure, his eyes on my face, he breathed my name and my first truth came to me.

I belong to this man.

That night, I felt completeness, in its true and utter permeating form. Hannibal — that night, and only that night, he was Hannibal to me, as I was permitted to call him by his given name — collapsed onto me and my arms opened to him without conscious thought.

I did not think of him as a monster, as a murderer of well over 20, but as a man, a man I devoured. He was only just a man and what a comfort that thought brought me. I'd always seen him as somewhat of a God, and therefor out of my reach — or so I reckoned.

But then that time, that night he was in my arms, and whispered my name over and over, as my hands went through his hair absent-mindedly and all that mattered was the burst of emotion inside me.

I thought, back then, I knew what he wanted. If anything, more nights like this one. How could he not?

But after that night, he never came again. We never spoke of it; I tried to bring the subject up several times but he'd simply hold up his open hand and stop me in my desperation, begging me with a single look not to talk of it and so I didn't.

No matter how bad I felt the need to talk about that night, I wasn't about to jeopardize my staying with him, my living with this man, by angering him, or — worse — forcing him into a conversation he wasn't about to have.

My needs were secondary to his, and that night was the first of many when I realized what he had made me — through just one night of endless passion he had bound me to him, using no chains, no cuffs, no visible signs of imprisonment.

But by heart I was bound to him completely, and forever, from the moment he fell into my arms with a sigh of exhaustion, and kissed my forehead with a tenderness I would have never believed him to be capable of showing to anyone.

The night passed, the morning came, and I awoke by his kiss on my palm. He was next to the bed, on his knees in front of me, and as I opened my eyes, I knew he had been sitting there a long time. His eyes were deep of intrusion as he spoke, softly, tenderly.

"Good morning Clarice."

I knew that already a smile conjoined the corners of my mouth as I faced him, leaning on my right elbow, and I knew the smile was genuine, and that he would see this. He seemed pleased, and continued to hold my palm in his hand.

"Clarice, you must be hungry," he said matter-of-factly.

"Let me make you some delicious breakfast. No, no, don't get up," he spoke hurriedly, as I attempted to lift myself up from the bed. He pushed me back down, the mere touch of his arms brushing across my skin enough to put all my senses on alert.

"That won't be necessary. You just — stay right here, and *I'll* go and prepare us breakfast." His tone tolerated no contradiction.

He left the room then, his hand no longer holding mine, and suddenly I felt just how empty the room was without him. My face still wore the soft smile; I noticed when I felt the muscles in my cheeks struggling to ease again. It must have been a foolish sight, I mused, stretching my fingertips to the ceiling and feeling blissfully happy.

He came back after a little while, in which I'd gotten up, brushed my teeth and explored my appearance in the mirror glass endlessly, finding the happiness in my eyes a fair delight.

And the fact it was his doing to make me giggle at myself in the mirror, like a school girl after kissing her first crush, seemed only to increase the feeling inside my chest — as though my heart was about to burst from pure joy. I was home again.

Hannibal came in and found me in bed again, waiting for my breakfast. I remember the smell of the food he was bringing in as well as his presence bring shine and warmth to the room anew. In his hands he was holding a tray of indeed, only exquisite breakfast food.

It remains a mystery to this day, several months later, how he always manages to bring out the very best flavor in whatever food he decides I should have a taste of. I decided, after a month of living with him under the same roof, that it didn't matter. Some mysteries are better left unknown; I'd rather not know what else he has got in the fridge, if you know what I'm getting at.

Hannibal raised a spoon with a content that looked like cream-colored yogurt to my willing mouth.

"Would you like to have a little taste of this crème d'avoine, my Love?"

His pet name for me did not escape me, and I felt the heat return to my face, as well as between my legs. It meant far less than I made of it, of course, but as I said I was like an overexcited teenage girl, the morning after. I nodded and opened my mouth to the palatable looking essence, my eyelids closed.

But my tongue did not taste anything but his mouth, closing over mine hungrily as his tongue entered my mouth with a deep groan emerging from his throat. I responded gladly to his unexpected burst of famish, of course — me being as eager to his touch as I had been the night before.

But he seemed satisfied with the single kiss, and withdrew before I had a chance to even grasp with my mind comprehension to what just happened. It was a luscious appetizer, I had to admit — and told him so.

"Mmm," I mumbled into his mouth, for he still hadn't withdrawn completely. "Could I have some more of *that* Doctor?"

My remark seemed to please him, for he moved just the merest of inches closer to my hungry lips, and whispered: "All in good time, my eager Clarice." At that, he did withdraw, and I was left with a need greater than my hunger, or rather, my hunger for *food*.

Hannibal presented me with the other food on the breakfast tray, naming everything an exotic, outlandish delicacy. But all I could think about was the sensation of his lips on mine and his tongue against my palate, tracing my lips, exploring my mouth with a fervent eagerness and yet an stalwart calmness that I found *so* enticing.

Every time he told me the name of another treat on the plate, and I knew at least half of what he named the dishes were simply translations into foreign languages of food I was familiar with, he offered me a warm, disarming smile. He knew I wasn't craving for food — he probably could smell it on me. But he wanted to see me suffer, and maybe he wanted to see me beg.

Maybe, he wanted to see me at his mercy. I don't know. I'm not yet that good at reading him.

He fed me breakfast that morning, sometimes stealing a kiss from me, and we never spoke a word. Not that I could speak, since my mouth was either filled with food or occupied in a deep, smoldering lip-lock.

But sometimes I wonder, like I do right now, wrapped in my lonely, nightly embrace of silence and mystery, if he did all that to simply prevent me from talking to him. To make the dream of last night look real. That he did not believe, or didn't want to believe, or comprehend, what had happened between us.

I think that night, Mischa came too close. I think that night, I came too close to home.

And had I pushed on, though it perhaps would have infuriated him, if I'd collected the courage, the sheer nerve inside me to speak to him, to break this damn rule of polite converse and total reluctance to depth existing between us - if I'd had the damn guts to speak my mind to him, for it had never been more important than right there and then I wouldn't have to lie here alone tonight.

The night is so divine because I fill my head with dreams.

But were you here, my Love, I wouldn't feel the need to dream at all. Hannibal.

Then my dream would be here, next to me, on top of me — inside of me, caressing my breast and looking deep into me, and breathing me and *being* me, with me, and in me.

I remember, a month ago Me sitting on the terrace watching the sun as it descended under the great ocean. The tint of dark purple mingling with cerulean blue was a stupendous display. I suddenly realized what it had to have been like to have to miss the world for eight long years.

My long, chestnut brown hair was tangled up in a knot, loose hairs falling from the creation to the sides of my face. The dress I wore was a deep shade of scarlet, the ruby necklace Hannibal had put on me just moments before fitting the full picture excellently.

I knew I looked beautiful. Life with Hannibal soon reminds a person of the utter uselessness of modesty. He finds no use for it in the world, and he is absolutely right. I'd dressed my body in humble, moderate, derived clothing for as long as I could remember ever since my father died, and I'd never even owned my own looking glass.

Here, in Hannibal's palace, it became unacceptable not to dress properly, and had I wished to avoid mirrors I wouldn't have been able to walk the stairs, the hallway, the bathroom

Everywhere was a constant reminder of my appearance, and I became attentive to assemble first-rate, and after two months I did not need the full-length mirrors in the hallway any longer to see myself, and know I looked fine.

Also, my sixth sense was developing. Had I always admired Dr Lecter for his extraordinary intuition, he was teaching me how to see at a greater range, to listen better and, yes, how to improve on my taste and smell as well. Having all my senses on guard, I noticed my perceptivity was evolving also.

I sensed him behind me long before he laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Clarice." His tone was soft and pleasant, and as I turned and kissed the palm resting on my shoulder lightly, I noticed — with the observing gaze so like his — his eyelids lowered a fraction as I did so.

I smiled at him then and as always, he retracted his hand and became remote again. "Dr Lecter," I said, the tone I laid in my voice calculatingly controlled. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

He smiled broadly. "My, Clarice. Do you admit to being" He paused, then his smile grew even wider. "*fond* of my company?"

In response, I did nothing but rise from my chair and wrap my arms around his neck, inhaling his rich scent and drawing him closer — closer please, closer.

Oh yes, he'd let *me* make my moves on him. He just never advanced on them, and so our — what shall I call us — *affinity* never moved past that stage.

He held me close for awhile, then released me from the embrace, still smiling. Then, he turned me into him, so I stood with my back to him and my front to the starlit sky. His voice was near my ear, my eyes stayed on the darkening heavens, and completeness was within my reach again.

"Look, Clarice."

Now, when Hannibal Lecter says, "Look", this doesn't mean just raising your eyes to the sky and securing your gaze towards it for a minute or two. That is not his way of sharing his view.

He wants you in contact with your view, every detail must be burned onto your field of vision, and if he thinks it necessary you can stand there for ten, fifteen minutes just staring up at the enormous vault of heaven.

He spoke softly still. "Do you see, Clarice?" I nodded. "Yes."

Not good enough. His hand slipped around my waist and his tone grew menacing. "Do you *see* Clarice? Look closer."

I tried, I did; but imagine my distraction with his body so daringly close to mine, his arms round my waist and his lips near my earlobe, while I could feel his excitement against my thigh, and you try concentrating on some billion-plus stars in the endless night-sky.

And suddenly, I saw what he meant: Orion. It was high above the horizon, in the watching eye of neighbor Jupiter in the clear night, brighter than ever. I remembered. And I realized then he wanted me to remember.

I was overwhelmed, and the words fell from my mouth so hushed and quick I hardly realized I had spoken until I heard his chuckle. "Some of our stars are the same." I smiled then.

"These are your windows." His chuckle was rich and warm.

"Yes indeed," his voice said, and I felt him moving from me, getting something from the side table next to my armchair. I turned round, and saw him holding two glasses of excellent Batard-Montrachet in his hands, handing one to me while he raised the other to his smiling face.

I raised the glass to just below my level gaze, memories flooding back like fireflies to a source of light in the dark expanse of night. "You know," I revealed to him, quite certain I hadn't shared this information with him before, "I still have that letter."

He raised his eyebrow to me. "Yes?"

"Yes." I lowered my glass a little, as to have it right underneath my reddened lips. "In the old beauty-case I used to have." It had belonged to my mother a lifetime ago. You'll need this one day when you're older and more aware of your appearance. And hell would I need it. "I know every word."

I smiled winningly at him then, and in his eyes I saw a sudden darkening, as though he was a creature of the night shying away from the light.

"I see." He took my glass then, adding to his move the words, "the wine can wait till later," and adding to these words a charming wink. "*Much* later." He then extended his hand to me, and his back lowered a mere inch or two, a courteous bow from a true gentleman.

"May I ask you to dance with me this lovely night, Clarice?"

I rose my eyes to his. Starlight reflected into the heavens of obscure blackness in them, and his eyes read nothing. I smiled. "With you, always." My hand I laid in his, and he brought it to his lips a second, his lips never quite touching as the etiquette prescribed, but lingering maybe a fraction of a second longer than customary.

Then he rose, perfect gentleman again, and music started playing from the room as on command. I knew he must have asked the servant to do so after a couple minutes, his timing never off, and still it surprised me, how he always seemed to think of everything.

It was a slow waltz, and it allowed me to come into contact with his body as fully as is permitted in dancing. He swept me, even dipped me once or twice — I remember everything from that night.

Hannibal.

Every day has been the same since then. An endless parade of never-ending parties, of dances on the terrace and watching falling stars. Watching the stars as they fell right into your eyes, Hannibal, and endless night behind them as ever before.

But that night was different from all others. That night was ours. That night was *divine*.

After a mere half an hour of dancing, Hannibal stopped and relaxed his grip on me. My hair had come down slightly from twirling so much and so fast, my lips parted somewhat — and the look in his black eyes told me of his kiss before I felt his lips claim mine.

His kiss was hot and full of wanting, and I could do nothing but let it come over me, my tongue powerless over his, my own desire paling to his.

And one moment I thought, one red-hot moment I thought, this is how he kills — with this passion had he taken the life of so many. And with this passion he was taking mine.

But as sudden as his kiss had come, he retracted again. And as I was about to speak, he laid his index finger on my lips, his gaze cold iron. "Don't speak." Stars collided into the night behind his gaze. To the midpoint of his eyes fell Orion, and his stars were mine that infinite instant.

"Your stars are mine." Had I spoken? My mind was empty.

He looked at me then, and said what I don't understand to this day. He took my hand and held them with both his own.

"Clarice, you are aware of a love between two people being perilous to some extent. I will tell you now, our path has to be clear if you choose to have me. I shan't dance in the clouds with you any longer. You need to know the path you will walk, and I will wait with taking you as I wish to until I am certain of your avowal." He was silent, but not yet finished.

"I" He was hesitant, a gesture I had never seen in him before. His voice carried a quiver, and his next words startled me more than I can say in words.

"You take my ground from me, little Starling. For your exquisiteness is so blinding in its purity, it clouds my vision some times. I found your incorruptibility quite entrancing a long time but to a man like me, you are *dangerous* Clarice. Would you turn from me now, I"

He was silent again, but this time, the silence carried a heavy meaning, and there seemed not enough air to keep us both breathing. I held onto him for mere strength, I was hungry for his touch, I do not even think back then I heard anything he said. I knew only I loved him.

He held my gaze with his own, and . . .

How to describe what came next — there are no words. His eyes opened to me. Suddenly, I had my windows. Orion never looked brighter — and in the tenderness in which he took my hand and kissed my palm, his lips this time truly on my skin, I found freedom so wondrous.

He showed me freedom through his eyes, into his soul I could have left right there and then and I would never have left his side for real at all. Had he asked me anything, I would have conceded — had he asked me to marry him, had he put a blade to my throat to kill me, I would obey — for he had shown me freedom of heart.

I was wrong in my conviction of being his prisoner of heart I was as free as I wished to be.

But my immurement to him was not, and had never been — I now realized — a punishment.

It meant only my complete freedom and peace and self-sufficiency, his lips on my palm and his open eyes looking into my soul, and vice versa. Home was with him. And that night under Orion I fell in love with him. Had I not been before but had my heart admitted until now.

The second truth. I love this man. And now my eyes were clear of the mist, and my heart empty of doubts. I loved this man. I love him. I *love* Hannibal Lecter, murderer of twenty. I love him.

Hannibal Lecter possesses me now. When he opened the windows of his soul to me, I found no reason to be afraid, no motive for fear. His eyes were a pit I fell into, for all borders had been wiped out, all layers been pulled back, and I fell hard for him, that second, that endless moment.

I was home then. Again.

And then, again, he vanished.

When he blinked and I saw not only his eyes but also his face, I *did* see fear — not in me, but in him. His countenance was a mask of fright, utter perplexity in his every feature. I had frightened him. I did not know how but I had and in that moment, I felt triumph.

But not when I saw my triumphant gaze in his eyes, and he turned — and left.

And my world was cold again.

I went to bed that night, another lonely night, and when the morning sunshine shone through the open window I barely even noticed. Had I died that very night, I wonder, would I have felt?

Hannibal — Dr. Lecter, I must correct myself again — didn't come to breakfast, nor did he show up at lunch. The evening came, and passed, and I'd preoccupied myself with the fine things in life such as cooking, riding — Hannibal had provided a horse for me, a horse he'd appropriately adopted as Hannah' — reading Marcus Aurelius and trying to understand the man I was living with.

What had he meant with those last words to me? It was obvious I wanted to be with him, so much had to be clear to him.

Hadn't I taken his path already, hadn't I stayed with him, eaten with him, went with him to wherever we wanted hadn't I danced with him, held him, wasn't it goddamn *OBVIOUS* I loved the man? And what did he mean, "I shan't dance in the clouds with you any longer"?

Eventually, he came again. I only knew because I saw his coat hung up on the coat-hook in the hallway. And when I came down to the living room for breakfast that next day, he was his usual polite, composed, remote self. Never did he implicate the previous night had even happened.

"Tea, my Dear?" He held up a teapot, his gaze set on playful, his voice teasing — his words holding no real meaning, nothing at all.

I sat down, had breakfast, spoke in soft tone with him in pleasant conversation and once again, Dr. Lecter had managed to stay out of my reach. And he was as much a stranger to me as before.

Sometimes he'd watch me out of the corners of his eyes, I could sense it. I'd turn around then and the look in those dark brown eyes would be haunting. Behind his composure laid endless calm, normally; he seemed prepared for a long wait. But those times I turned around I'd catch the look of passion in his eyes, so fast gone I was never entirely sure if I hadn't wished it there instead.

Four weeks passed, in which we have danced, laughed, even shed a few tears. I'd cry in his chest over my father and he held me with his strong arms, letting me find my solace.

But he never kissed me again. And that feeling of utter completeness I haven't felt since we danced underneath Orion. We have talked of so many things, we have told each other *so* many secrets, so many matters of importance to us Of our childhood, of my father, of Mischa.

Yet still I am alone. So alone, and longing for him all the more.

We have been intimate in ways most ten-plus married couples haven't and still my nights are cold.

Hannibal.

Hannibal, come to me. My nights are lonely without you. My heart is empty when you're not here.

Come to me.

And here, in the quietness of my empty room, the answer comes to me. The third truth. The final truth. The only truth.

He shan't ever come to me. I have to come to him.

The reverse of exchange. His acceptance for his pleasure. And mine.

I realize, and I rise from my bed. On I have a negligee, black, deep décolleté, and now I know why I have it on. Why I have had it on for the past three months.

I have been waiting for him, yet he has been waiting for me. What foolish, stubborn, incredulously *stupid*, obsessed, obsessing fools we really are.

You stubborn little Hannibal, you won't have to give up this one, this Love, I told you so. I am not Mischa. I will stay. And you will stay with me, I will you to. Then, and only then, we will be.

The reverse of exchange. What fools we have *both* been. Both dancing with our heads in the clouds, you and I. We will have a conversation tonight, whether you want to listen to me or not, stubborn, stubborn Hannibal. Questions will I ask, answers shall be given, and I will *know* you.

This night, your lips shall no longer only whisper.

This night, I shall not be alone.

This night, we shall find solace together.

* * *