A/N Hello, sweet friends. I hope you're all safe and sound. I'm guessing that like many of you, I am stuck inside and practicing 'social distancing', although I did that pretty well, before. As a result, I'm sure at least some of you are rather bored. Guess what? Me too! For the first time in a long time, I actually have the time and energy to continue our journey into hell. Before we continue our descent, I will say (with complete sincerity and genuine empathy) that I am sorry for this most recent delay. It was a long one, I realize that. Fortunately, it was spent finishing my manuscript, so it was time not wasted (at least, for me). Hopefully, knowing that the delay was not due to me farting into a sofa (mostly) every night helps you to accept my apology.

Enough prattling. I'm not a blogger. Without further ado. I hope you enjoy. -J.B.


Joseph Strobl fidgeted where he stood, the sound of his wife's prattling like the distant whining of a nearby insect. Her voice was muted like all of the other voices around him, during the intermission. He was gazing across the room with his eyes narrowed, gazing at the impeccably dressed man whose back was to him, at the moment. The Doctor's face was turned enough to show his profile though; he was talking to a woman that Strobl did not immediately recognize. Not until she'd turned.

He didn't speak aloud, but sub-vocalized her name, Etienne, and his cheek flinched. A server passed him, and the lights from the magnificent chandelier overhead caught the champagne she carried and he licked his lips. When he looked across the room, the Doctor was gone. He turned to his wife and she eyed him, as though to say, I'm in the middle of a conversation. If you interrupt me, you'd better be tactful.

As huge of a gulf had come between them over the years, it did not seem to detract at all from the irrevocable familiarity of knowing and living with someone for over a decade. She could still communicate paragraphs to him with the corner of her eye. He turned fully to the chatting group, smiling at the woman who was currently talking, as he touched his wife's elbow. The woman smiled back and gave a nod of acknowledgement.

"Yes, Dear?" she asked.

"I'm going to use the facilities. I'll be back shortly."

"Of course."

He kissed her cheek very tenderly, as he knew it was disgust and anger her. He could feel her seethe at his touch, but unable to recoil from it in public. His heart swelled with a glee that stayed with him, all the way to the restroom.

When he had the privacy afforded to him by the Opera House's immaculate men's room stall, Stroble sat on the closed toilet lid and took out a half-empty bottle of codeine. He popped one into his mouth and chewed it, slowly. It was an awful taste, but that was part of it, for him.

He'd been mostly sober for over two years. Most of the time, the desire to drink was a dull sort of ache that he'd grown accustomed to; it was not so very difficult to ignore it. But on occasion, he could hardly bare it. A dull ache turned into a stabbing pain, and he had to do something. He wasn't sure why the chalky, chemical taste helped to relieve some of the compulsion. He knew it was also the effect of the codeine itself, or at least it had been when he'd first started using it. Now, he didn't know and he didn't care.

The bastard was up to something. Strobl had no idea why he thought it, but every time he was around Doctor Boucher something in him twitched with animosity. The man's air, which had once seemed exceedingly noble and charming, now seemed menacing. The Doctor's expressions and mannerisms, which had once seemed impeccably charismatic and self-assured, now seemed otherworldly in its arrogance and conceit. He'd realized the building of this resentment in his own mind a week before, when they'd briefly talked at a charity event. It all came together suddenly, and he could've sworn the man had turned to look at him, turned his head independently of his body the way a predatory bird does, at the exact moment Joseph Strobl realized he hated him.

And the hate was visceral. He hated him as though he was responsible for all of his recent troubles, and perhaps, absurdly, every hardship he'd ever had. Boucher had become, without his realizing it, his personal demon. How had it happened? He'd wondered. Ordinarily, he would've been inclined to talk to his wife about it, to get her reaction to both the speculation of the Doctor's malevolence, and his personal hatred toward him. But he could not, would not do that. They were not on speaking terms.

However, it didn't occur to Joseph Strobl to do anything about it until this night, sitting pathetically on a toilet seat with the dry, bitter taste of dissolving codeine coating his mouth and tongue. It was when he heard the bathroom door open, heard a man's humming, resonant within the bathroom's walls. He didn't immediately recognize it as Doctor Boucher's voice, he'd never heard the man hum. He could not have imagined such a thing, had someone prompted him to do so.

After a few moments someone else left, and he knew it was only the two of them in the restroom. He leaned over and saw the Doctor's shoes; those fine, depraved shoes. And he was humming, the bastard! He was pleased, he was happy, he was jaunty! Why was he happy? How dare he?

He heard the sink turn on after a few moments, and the humming resumed. What was he humming? What was that tune? He knew he knew it, and he racked his brain, his lips forming the words to it before he'd noticed.

There are moments, his lips and tongue formed the words, you remember all your life. There are moments you wait for and dream of all your life, he began nodding to himself. This is one of those moments…

Streisand. The man was humming a fucking Barbara Streisand song. Strobl's face, unbeknownst to him, was red with anger, and he gripped the bottle of codeine in one hand and his fingernails dug into his own palm with the other. He sat alone in the toilet listening to the enigmatic, impossibly elegant Doctor humming a Streisand song in the bathroom, and he tasted blood. He tasted his own blood as he heard him hum, happy and maybe in love, and he wanted to kill him, and he decided to kill him, in that moment of insanity.


Many people may feel a stab of loneliness when returning to a dark, empty home, all alone. For Dr. Lecter, this wasn't so; he loved the experience of returning home, in and of itself. His pleasure was doubled finding it both empty and dark. He ushered himself in with a spring to his step. He folded himself inward as he closed and locked the door behind him, enveloped himself within himself, as a bat swaddles itself with its taut, black skin and long spindly fingers. Contrary to some wild notions, he did not share anything else with a bat, or its symbolic relationship to a vampire. Though he does enjoy coming home to a dark and empty place. Empty, for the most part. There was now a chipper, waddling dog, but he found he didn't mind him.

As he turned on a single lamp and sat down with a drink, he folded one leg over the other and imagined if coming home to Clarice Starling would be unfavorable. He decided it wouldn't be; she occupied the palace of his mind with alacrity, and he found he welcomed her there more and more. An invasion of his physical home would be no more intrusive. And she already invaded him, incessantly. He did not seem to have much control over it. He'd run a few tests to check.

He'd tried playing the piano and shopping. He'd tried going out and staying in. He'd tried writing music and studying the stars. He found that she always returned, sometimes whispering interjections, opinions, thoughts, often without him noticing immediately. Her voice was like a ghost that would not be persuaded. He would sometimes think, Ah! I've done it! It's been minutes that I've not thought of her. Then he would realize he'd thought about not thinking about her for much of those minutes, and had to begin again.

In time, he discovered the more he tried to curb it, the worse it became. Her presence in his thoughts was like quicksand, that way. The more he struggled, the further he seemed to sink. So he had stopped trying. At a certain point, one must come to terms with one's cohort. She had him by the short hairs, and he was quite sure that on some level, she knew it. What she would do with it, he was not entirely sure.

He could dominate her, he could influence her, he could even possess little scraps of her. But it did nothing to change the true dynamic which was developing. He began to realize, not without alarm, that there was not much he was unwilling to do for her. Granted, being a man of little self-denial or allegiance to social norms, this meant less, perhaps, than it might for an ordinary man. Yet, the sentiment remained; he would kill for her, he would not kill for her, he would hurt her just enough to make her squirm and moan in half-pleasure, but he knew that he would never, never harm her. Perhaps, not even for the sake of his own life or freedom. That, if nothing else, did frightened him.

There was one limit, he'd found. Should she betray him, he was quite certain that he could harm her in exchange for his freedom. And, at the end of their covenant, he would still be what he was. If she asked him to stop after all of this was done, he believed he could say, 'No' with finality, perhaps even with an unkind smile. Perhaps he could muster one of those, in the end. Even if it was on his knees.

He didn't wait to write her as long as he did, after their first night together. A good deal of the 'bullshit', she would say, had come crumbling down during their last visit. Honesty had ruled the weekend, and had even taken precedence over manners. Those were the lengths he'd had to go to, though he hadn't regretted it. Their most recent meeting had been a monumental revelation. Their merciless epiphany had made a pantheon out of that sorry little cabin. He wondered, to amuse himself, if places could become haunted by the living, or if the participants must necessarily become ornery phantoms.

It was less than a month later that he first put pen to paper. He included a drawing, with it. He knew she would burn it, but that was irrelevant.

He thought of mandala-destroying monks. All that effort, all that sentiment, gone for the sake of embracing impermanence. Dr. Lecter's ego is notoriously monstrous, but he didn't draw Clarice Starling's face on a winged-lioness for glory, or for any eyes but hers, and certainly not for her praise. He drew it because he was inclined to, because he wanted her to see who she was. She didn't need to hang it on her refrigerator to accomplish that. She only needed to see it once. The burning of his letter and drawing was appropriate. While the monster does not tend to dwell or glower, he had both the reason to accept that their little game would eventually come to an end, and that when it did, she would drift beyond his reach. All the effort, all the sentiment, destroyed. He would touch her and taste her and pretend he owned her for a little while, and he would look upon his work with bitter triumph, and then watch it burn.

In the days which followed Wagner's funeral, Dr. Lecter became aware that Joseph Strobl had picked up an annoying habit of following him. He was amazed that the man could possibly think he was unaware, as clumsy and careless as he was about it. It was annoying, but not concerning. It did not become concerning until early June, when he met Mitzy one late afternoon for cocktails. It was under the pretense of good, scholarly squalling, some of which Dr. Lecter occasionally enjoyed. She was very bright and frank without being rude, and knew a good deal about subjects which interested him. However, he had come to rely on her for social news; the old woman did love to gossip.

"Obviously", Mitzy was saying, "she sleeps a good distance down the hall, these days. I'm not sure which one of them is in the proverbial dog house, but I think the whole estate is infused with foul augery. So I imagine it doesn't matter. Those two live in a hell of their own making, but at least the drapes compliment the furniture."

"It's important to furnish one's pit of despair," Dr. Lecter pointed out. "Otherwise, one may choose to climb out of it."

She cackled briefly, and nodded. "Anyway, Léonie has taken to wild theories, in her infinite boredom and paranoia."

"Oh? Like what?"

"That Joseph wants to kill you."

"Is that so? Why me and not Adrian?"

She shrugged. "Apparently, he's decided you're an evil genius who simply must be stopped."

"I'm flattered."

"I thought you might be."

Dr. Lecter appeared, for a moment, to consider something. "But surprised that he confides in her, at all," he mused, at length.

"Pfft," Mitzy dashed her head to the side and took a sip of her drink. "Oh, I don't think it's like that. I think he confides to the mirror or a diary or some such poignant patheticity, and she's gleamed the obvious."

"I see." Dr. Lecter noted that Mitzy had made up a word, patheticity. He had no doubt she was aware, and it didn't bother him. In fact, he pocketed it away, not for his own use, but for his own amusement.

"So I suppose you'd better get your passports and IDs in order."

"What for?"

"To flee the country, of course," Mitzy said, with the accentuated flat tone of sardonicism. "Now that the incredible Detective Strobl is on the case, you'll have to fade into the sunset, naturally."

"Naturally. You have my gratitude for the warning, Madame."

Of course, Dr. Lecter mused while sitting on his terrace the following evening, there was no immediate cause for concern. Strobl was an emotional buffoon. However, he didn't favor anyone sniffing around so closely or so often. Even a broken clock is right twice a day; it was conceivable that if he became unreasonable enough, he could accidentally stumble upon something he shouldn't be stumbling upon.

He dipped his nose into the wine glass and took a hardy sniff. He'd only just opened it, and he had not taken a sip, yet. He glanced at the bottle, still sitting on the small table to his side. It's flaxen color was illuminated in the sun, and it appeared as crisp as its smell. He gave it another twirl and sniffed once more as he considered his covenant with Clarice Starling, and how much further he could walk the line. Perhaps the next time they met, she would be entitled to be all the more cross with him. He did not entirely shy from the thought, and he smiled to himself.

"Prast," he said, raising his glass to the setting sun. He thought of her hair of course, and he thought of her skin in the firelight. He thought of her aromatic scent, pungent and sweet as the wine he was about to savor. He thought of what Herr Stroble might taste like with a little rosemary and coriander, and how well he might wash down with a good, hardy wine. An off-white Riesling or perhaps a Viognier, then. Those went well with swine, he reflected.

He took a sip and closed his eyes. He could nearly taste him, now. He smiled to himself again, and looked at the wine as one looks at an impossible lover. He looked at the wine as he would look at Clarice Starling, had he the motivation to be so garishly transparent.

"La douleur exquise, as our Etienne would say," he murmured. "No, ma cheri, I won't break the rules."

But I may have to bend them, he thought, with the trace of a smile.


Dr. Lecter and Etienne had limited their association, and she had most certainly cooled toward him. He didn't mind that; even should she become suspicious of him, it wouldn't be for being who he was; it would be for what they'd accomplished together, and she was obviously hopelessly entangled herself. She would say nothing. And anyway, he was quite certain she was afraid of him, just a little. Still, they occasionally met and caught one another up on the trifles of every day life. She'd enrolled in school and had acquired a new flat and roommate, along with a new job working at the university.

"My brothers are coming for a visit, next week," she said one day, as they were walking down Graben. They weaved through the crowd closely, so as to not become separated. They were approaching the Plague Column, and Etienne eyed it, passively. "You don't need to meet them," she added. She felt funny about adding it for a moment, but shrugged.

"I appreciate both the warning and the clemency," said Dr. Lecter. He gave her a wink when she looked at him, and she smiled and looked away. "Though, as I recall, your brothers were not altogether kind to you. Does my memory serve?"

"Yes," she said, dubiously. "Why? Are you going to ruin their lives for fun, too?"

"Would that offend your delicate sensibilities, mademoiselle?"

"Don't get me wrong, John," she said, suddenly locking elbows with him. He found he didn't mind. The gesture felt guiless and almost sisterly. "I can appreciate cruelty, as you know. But if I'm honest, you take things a bit far."

"Fair enough," he said, giving her hand a pat. "If you ask me to, I'll leave their lives in tact."

"I'm flattered, strangely. But yes, consider this the word."

"Fine. Etienne, I wonder if you would be willing to do me one last favor."

"Hmm. Your favors cost a lot."

"What did the last one cost you?"

Etienne hesitated. "My sense of right and wrong. Rather costly. And I don't fancy being your pawn."

"Oh, Etienne. You're more than a pawn. You're a dear, favored pawn."

"At least he's honest," she sighed. "What's the damn favor?"

"Only a meeting with Frau Strobl."

"Alone?"

"Very."

"Oh, God. You're not going to…you're not going to comfort her, are you?"

Dr. Lecter laughed heartily, and Etienne raised her eyebrows. "No, my dear. I only want an audience."

"And what on Earth makes you think that I, of all people, could grant you one? She despises me, you know."

"Yes. One's captive often does. That's precisely why you can grant me what I want. You own her, Etienne. You own them both."

"Yes, and I'm not entirely comfortable with it."

They stopped in front of the Plague Column, and a few birds nearby took flight. Etienne watched after them, as though they were a bad omen.

"It's a waste of time to be uncomfortable with what is. You own them, and that's that. It's also a waste to not use them."

"I'm not your disciple," Etienne said, crossing her arms and pursing her lips for a moment. She looked him up and down and then smiled. "Why don't you just skip the philosophical persuasion and tell me what I get out of doing you this favor."

"Very good, Etienne. I knew you had promise. What would you like?" he asked, his palms open.

"An I.O.U."

"Hmm. Could you be persuaded to be more specific?"

"It's not a matter of persuasion. But if I do you a favor, I want to know you're ready to do me one, if the time comes that I need one."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "Done."


One morning, Dr. Lecter was on his way home from the market. When he only had a few items he sometimes walked, if the weather was agreeable. Today, his load is not light and the drizzle which had gone on all night was building to a storm.

The parcels in one hand and his umbrella in the other, he made his way to his car. A little piece of his heart thumped in disappointment that it had not been possible to take his own vehicle to Norway. As he loaded the groceries into the trunk and settled into the driver's seat, he sat in silence for a bit. The rain was coming down harder and the windows began to fog. He glanced at the passenger's seat. Not a single thread of her hair was left behind here, because she had never been here. He started the car and inclined his head, listening to a very crisp recording of Schubert's Gretchen am Spinnrade.

He could almost hear the spinning of the loom in the quick, nervous chirping of the piano, an anxious Gretchen thinking of her lover. He could not be the Faust to Starling's Gretchen, because she was no Gretchen. If anything, it was Gretchen now, to whom he related.

Yes, he agreed with the longing soprano, no amount of loom-spinning ever alleviates this longing. So what was one to do with such exquisite pain? There was only one thing to do; embrace it. To shy away from an adversary that will inevitably win is to fundamentally destroy oneself. If it is to be death, welcome it without prejudice or reserve. If it is to be a kind of death, then embrace it. To do so is to embrace life, as the two are irrevocably espoused.

Dr. Lecter looked up. There was a woman outside of his car moving her arms. He turned on his windshield wipers and leaned over his steering wheel. It was Valarie Martin. She wore a big overcoat and a scarf pulled up over her head. She was squinting and gave another wave when they made eye contact. Dr. Lecter opened his door.

"Frau Martin," he said, and she gave her head a little bow.

"Good morning," she said, taking a step closer. Dr. Lecter quickly drew out his umbrella and went to her. She ducked her head underneath, and each took a very quick moment to process their sudden proximity beneath it.

"Good morning," Dr. Lecter said, giving her a smile. "You put me in the favorable position of white knight. What can I do for you?"

"Well, lucky I saw you, I'd hate to ask a stranger. My car won't start. Could you give me a jump?"

"Do you know why it may have died?"

"It's been on its way out for awhile, now."

"Ah. Then I can do better than a jump. Come, I'll call a tow and give you a ride. The weather will only can sort this out tomorrow."

She hesitated. "Well…I can't go home right now."

Dr. Lecter cocked his head, nodded once and smiled. "I see. Then you can come home with me and wait it out, there. Would that be acceptable?"

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking around for a moment. "I truly hate imposing."

"Certainly. Come along," he said, leading her to the passenger's seat.

Valarie Martin eyed the man in the driver's seat once they were on the road, and wrung her hands. She pulled her wet hair over her shoulder, so as not to dampen the seat back any further.

She wasn't sure why she'd agreed to get into this man's car. She'd gotten into many stranger's cars; it wasn't the act, in and of itself. It was specifically because of her unique experiences that Frau Martin had developed a keen sense for predators. She had not a single doubt in her mind since having met Herr Doctor that he was an apex predator. Yet, she had not once felt threatened by him. She was unsure of how to reconcile those two things.

Yet, here she was. Alone with him in his car, driving to his big, dark house. She'd been in big houses before, too. Valarie Martin had been to many places and known many people. She had not been struck by its size or his explicitly elegant taste. She'd seen those things before, and had ceased to find them impressive or interesting. What had been interesting had only ever been the Doctor, himself. It had been a very long time since she'd truly wanted to fuck someone, like this. She nearly scoffed to herself. Why was she in this man's car? There was her damn answer. The body's animal appetite rules. Faster than the mind could dance across the polished floor of analysis, faster than the ego could shit into the porcelain seat of justification. Here she was. The real question was, Did he know?

"Aside from your recent dilemma, how have you been, Frau Martin?" Dr. Lecter asked.

Martin glanced at his hands on the steering wheel. She had believed hands were a telling feature since early in childhood. Since the day she'd compared her mother's hands to the hands of another woman's. They'd been at the market, a market not unlike the one they'd just come from. Martin had been about eight, and going through a phase of being attached to her mother's hand. But at the market, there was another woman there, a woman Martin didn't know. Her mother seemed to know her though, and she stood and talked to her for what seemed like hours, to a little girl. But it had probably been no more than ten minutes. What Martin had noticed, with her girlhood ability to ignore the irrelevant conversations of adults up in their above-table towers, was that her mother had hid her hands. Not from her, but from the other woman. The other woman's hands, Martin noticed, were utterly pristine and so very delicate. They were like little white lilies. Not at all like her mother's hands, which were long and hard. They were hands that had fought and worked and stroked a fevered head, those hands. And she had hid them. She had held tight to her mother's hand all the way home.

The hands were not quite as telling as the eyes, of course. But a feature not to be dismissed. These hands, the Doctor's hands…the firmness of their grip so delicate, so…surgical; they were beautiful. Beautiful in a way a man's hands were often not. They matched the rest of him, to be certain. He had very fine features, overall, which matched his mannerisms and voice. Everything about him was so perfectly congruent, so meticulously consistent that it was unsettling. No one was so perfectly consistent-they were crooked, asymmetrical, full of inner strife and mental and emotional conflict. Herr Doctor was not. That wasn't right.

His hands reflected that imperfect perfection—all but a small scar he'd done his best to hide. Martin looked at that tiny blemish and wanted to kiss it.

"It would give me pleasure if you called me Valarie."

"It would be my pleasure to call you so, Valarie. And please call me John."

"I've been well. You keep in touch with Etienne…does she ever talk about me?" Valarie turned to look out of the fogged window. The calm thumping of windshield wipers always put her at ease; like the heartbeat of someone asleep, someone having pleasant dreams, even.

"No. She's very discreet, your cousin."

"Is that a quality you admire?" Valarie wondered.

"Quite a bit. And you?"

Valarie glanced at him. "Of course."

His hands were so perfectly still. Never a tick, never an unnecessary movement. There was something so very odd about this man, and it was something she couldn't quite put her finger on. He was alien, the epitome of Other, to the extent that watching him do things that anyone did; driving a car, getting groceries, wearing a damn tie; was a phenomenal tableau.

It reminded her of dogs dressed up in tutus, dancing on their hind legs, but it was the inverse of that. More like Zeus blasting down from Olympus and funneling his immensity, his might, all down into the body of a sun-kissed fisherman. Zeus, Valarie reflected, was notorious for clothing himself in the flesh of a man in order to feast on the flesh of a woman.

She glanced at him, again. In his Otherness, she wondered if he was even a sexual being. On the whole, he seemed almost asexual, so apparent was his disinterest in the interest of others. But there had been moments. Moments when she saw something in his eyes that made her wonder…

"Etienne is discreet," Valarie murmured, and Dr. Lecter glanced at her. She was looking out the window, sitting a bit low in her seat. Her knees leaned into one another and she made a smiley face in the window's condensation. She sighed. "On occasion, a tad too discreet. If you have a bout of nosiness, that is," she went on. Her volume and tone made it more clear that she was speaking to him, and not herself.

"What do you want to know, Valarie?" he asked her. When she looked at him, he smiled. Valarie swallowed.

"I…wondered how close the two of you are. How…intimate."

"That's a very inappropriate question, Valarie."

Something about his cross tone and the illicit smile she saw in his eyes suddenly made Valarie inconveniently dewy.

"I know," she said softly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Her hand drifted to her mouth, and she ran her pinky across her lower lip once, twice, back and forth. It was a nervous habit.

The silence which followed led her from feeling a chest full of butterflies to a stomach full of toads. The rain seemed louder by the time they reached his house. She wasn't sure if it was the uneasy silence or the worsening of the weather. But when he pulled into the garage, he quickly came around to open the door for her, and his eyes and hand were soft and warm.

Inside it was very dark and Martin stood still for a moment, listening to the sound of the Doctor's footfalls. He had only gone a short distance before a light came on, and she could see again. She looked down and realized she was clutching her scarf to her chest. When she looked back up, he was looking at her, and she let her hands fall.

"Please," he said, ushering with an outstretched arm," I'll light a fire. Take my chair. It's wool, so it retains a bit of warmth."

Martin went through the open French doors into the drawing room and felt the skin on the back of her neck pucker when she heard him follow her. While she watched him kneel to start the fire, Martin settled into his chair and hugged her coat close; it was not warm in the house.

"Have you stopped having parties, or am I just not invited?" Martin asked, with a smirk. He glanced at her from where he knelt. There was a tray with newspapers folded carefully nearby, and he was shoving some of them beneath the logs.

"Contrary to what some may assume, I don't hold many parties. I only hold the best ones."

Martin chuckled, and Dr. Lecter lit the crumpled newspaper with a long butane lighter. They watched it curl and darken, and stayed relatively quiet until the logs began to catch.

"Please, make yourself at home," he said at length, and stood." I'll call a tow. The wet bar is behind you, if you're inclined to make yourself a drink."

"It's a little early."

"I agree, but I didn't want to be rude. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll be back, shortly."

While he was gone, Martin watched the fire and eventually slid her scarf away from her neck, letting it pile into her lap. She looked down at her hands, at her knees. It had been a long time since she' d felt so small. She heard a noise after a few minutes, coming from a room across from the foyer. Martin leaned forward to watch for his return. She heard him coming before she saw him and leaned back again, briskly folding her hands in her lap. He'd removed his overcoat and suit jacket, but still wore a vest and tie. His watch caught the light as he set down a cup and saucer next to her elbow. She nodded and smiled up at him.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome. Were you going to say something else?" He took a seat across from her and crossed his legs.

"I…no. Why?"

"It sounded like you were going to."

"Oh."

Martin looked down at her hands again, and began pinching off her glove. She did so slowly and methodically, suddenly feeling nervous. How easily could she play with people? It wasn't just men, she could seduce a woman just as easily. She didn't want to seduce this man. She wanted him to seduce her. But she sensed he knew that, and she felt sheepish.

"Valarie?"

"Yes?" she looked up at him, with one gloved hand and one bare.

"Do you feel strangely about calling me John?"

Martin smiled and tilted her head. "I might."

"Hmm. Perhaps we can change that, today," he said, leaning forward on his elbows. His smile made her knees weak.

"Perhaps," she said.

When he suddenly stood, Martin tensed. But then he paused a moment, looking at her, before turning on his heels and walking to the other end of the room.

"Do you like Brahms, Valarie?"

"Very much."

"I remember your fondness of Charpentier, it was so fortunate that I happened to own one. So fortune seems to follow us, Valarie. I have a sufficient collection of Brahms."

He was busy with his back to her for a moment, before music came on. He didn't immediately turn around, but inclined his head, one hand bent at the elbow, the other at his side.

"Considering both Charpentier and Brahms were of the Romantic period, I thought it might appeal to you. Would it be a safe assumption, Valarie, that you enjoy Romanticism?"

He finally turned around. His eyes were focused on nothing but her, and she sighed.

"Safe…yes. John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you enjoy Romanticism?"

"Yes," he said, his voice suddenly lighter, oddly chipper, and he came forward. Instead of reclaiming his seat, he approached her. She remained very still, watching him kneel in front of her.

"Romanticism is not defined, as some might assume, by what is traditionally termed romantic," he said. In his position, he was nearly eye level with her. He nodded to her hands, and she offered her gloved one. He took it gingerly in his hand, as though it was a priceless figurine. He held it with one hand, and carefully covered it with the other. He continued:

"But it can occasionally be its subject. Romanticism, to me, more closely symbolizes upheaval. We abandon old paradigms in search of more, in search of ourselves. And in the marriage of reason and feeling, we find a lens through which to see the world and reconcile its paradox."

He removed her glove carefully and slowly. He bent his head and gave her a chaste kiss on her knuckles. Then, he looked up with only his eyes, and turned her hand to display her ivory wrist. He kept his eyes on her as he kissed her there, just above her thumb.

Valarie came forward and he caught her as though he knew she would, and she kissed his mouth with her arms around his neck. They stood together, still kissing, and it was she who broke it, her breath still heavy. She took her clothes off slowly, and kept her eyes on him. He was quiet and expressionless. When she was nude, she stood watching him. For a moment, she worried he would change his mind, throw her out and call her something she'd been called before. But in time, he came forward and ran both hands through her hair.

When he spoke, it was a whisper, and his gaze was decidedly on her forehead. "In the firelight, your hair is like cinnamon."

And when he kissed her again, she reflected that she had not been kissed like that in a very, very long time.

The second time Dr. Lecter made love to Valarie Martin, the third movement of Brahm's Third Symphony was playing. They were upstairs by then, but it drifted through the halls and reverberated off of the walls and high ceilings. One of the things he enjoyed about the house was its acoustics. You could hear music playing from any room in the house.

With Valarie turned around, her hair the color of hickory gliding over her back with their movements, he thought about Brahms. The Wagnerian faction was as vicious as the Brahmians those days, and even well-intentioned music lovers found his elusive, complex work to be too dry and demanding, too deliberate and free of spontaneity. Dr. Lecter liked what critics said of Brahms; anything too complex to be grasped by common dolts, too delicate to be cherished by careless dullards was something to be praised.

Valarie moaned beneath him and he sucked his thumb into his mouth. A few moments later, Valarie turned to look at him from over her shoulder and said, "Oh!" before looking away again with a smile. When he came forward and she felt his fingers slide into her mouth, she moaned again, and his movements became harder, deeper, but not faster.

Dr. Lecter considered Bach's Chaconne, composed after returning from a trip and finding his wife and mother of his children had died. While historians would've liked to speculate that the Romantic era piece had been written as an emotional fountainhead, it was more likely that such notions would have been lost on Bach. Having been a court composer trained as a Lutheran organist, composing music or creating art had little to do with personal catharsis and expression, but offered as a religious and civic duty. But, one can take refuge in Brahm's opinion on the Chaconne.

Dr. Lecter could recite the particular quote by heart, as he could many, and he did so while occupying all of Valarie Martin's orifices:

If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind.

With that, Dr. Lecter released Martin's mouth and anus and drove her upwards so that she was balanced on her knees. She grabbed hold of his thigh to keep herself steady, arched her back exquisitely, and made just the right amount of noise while Dr. Lecter drove into her and buried his face in her hair.

It was the following week that Dr. Lecter's meeting with Frau Strobl finally took place, in the form of a lunch date. Frau Strobl herself answered the door, when he arrived. He offered her wine and she offered her hand, and Dr. Lecter took note that any staff had certainly been dismissed.

"How is the little tripe?" she asked after formal pleasantries. Her tone had not lost its formality, nor the mock cheer which went with it.

"Who, Madame?"

They were in the drawing room now, and Frau Strobl took the Chardonnay to the wet bar. "I love Chardonnay, by the way. Excellent choice, as usual," she said over her shoulder.

"I thought you would."

"Why?" she asked, taking out a cork screw.

"Allow me," said Dr. Lecter coming from behind her. She let him take it and looked him over. His attire was relatively casual, and he wore glasses. His collar was crisp and as dark as his slick hair. The fact that she was still attracted to him didn't bother her. Her animosity towards him had nothing much to do with him; she only felt hostile towards him because he continued to associate with the harlot and her…actual harlot cousin. She knew that he knew, and it troubled her. Yet, he'd said nothing of it. She knew he hadn't, because if he had, the whispers would have made the rounds ten times by now.

"I have my ways," he answered, giving her a wink. The cork released, and she watched him pour the glasses. Had the whole nasty business never happened, she would have been pleased to be informed he wanted a private audience with her. Hearing it from the harlot poisoned it.

"You never answered my question," she remarked, taking the glass from him. They sat down across from one another. The furnishings were very light, but the window's curtains were drawn. The Strobl's home was all beiges, marbles and glass. Very fragile, very easily stained.

"You never answered mine," answered Dr. Lecter. He sat the wine down beside him without sniffing or touching it.

Frau Strobl had to think a moment. "Ah," she nodded, in recognition. "'Who, Madame'," she quoted him, lowering her voice an octive. "Etienne, of course."

"She's very well. I'll inform her of your concern for her well-being."

She sighed, and took a sip of the wine. "I hope you like cod."

"That will be fine. Thank you again, for having me, Frau Strobl."

"You're welcome," she said, draping an arm along the loveseat's back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of your company in a while, and I wanted to see how you are. I know things have been less than ideal, and I want you to know, Frau Strobl," he looked away for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together,"That I think you're utterly blameless in all of this."

Her eyebrows raised. "Do you? Well…of course you do. I am!"

"Yes," he said, his expression grave. "You are. And I thought, considering the circumstances, you might not have the opportunity to speak frankly with anyone about the…injustices you've endured. I want you to know, nothing would bring me to speak of any of it. If you don't wish to confide in me, I would understand perfectly, and if you tell me to speak no more, I will oblige without question. However, it's weighed on my mind, as of late. Your predicament. And I could no longer separate myself from it," he chuckled softly to himself. "Perhaps I sniff out tragedy's victims like a bloodhound. Perhaps that's my sin. But I had to offer my services in any way you see fit."

"I see," Frau Strobl spoke slowly. She set down her wine glass after a moment, and clasped her hands, her eyes focused on the floor between them. Her mouth, a thin line, twitched. "Well…I will admit to having felt rather…estranged, these days."

"There's nothing wrong with saying lonely, Madame," Dr. Lecter said, quietly. When she looked up, his head was to the side. He still wore a grave expression, but his eyes had softened. "The irony about loneliness is that it's the one thing which unites us all."

She was quiet for a moment, her hand finding the necklace across her throat. She moved the pendant back and forth along the thin chain, and then looked at him, again. "I suppose you're right. I'll admit, I've wondered…do you ever feel lonely? In that big house, by yourself?"

Dr. Lecter briefly bowed his head and then offered his palms. "Loneliness occupies every home, at one time or another. Mine is no different."

"You know…after that scoundrel seduced and humiliated me, I wondered if I could ever feel close to a human being again. Our alliance is fledgling, but it gives me hope. But the time has come to ask, Herr Doctor. Why do you continue to associate with my blackmailer?"

Dr. Lecter sighed, and looked away, thoughtfully. "Truth be told, Madame, I've been attempting to convince her to rectify all this. Of course, nothing can ever make it right, what she did. But she could return the money, apologize and leave town. Alas, it is a work in progress. I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Perhaps she will choose to bypass the opportunity for betterment. If so, I will have done all I can."

"Well, you're a better man than my husband."

"You flatter me, Madame."

"Please," she said, smiling. Her pendant still pinched between thumb and forefinger, she pulled it back and forth, zip, zip, zip. "Call me Léonie."

Translations:

La douleur exquise: the exquisite pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have, and knowing that you will still try to be with them.