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It was a long day of adventure and sightseeing in Buenos Aires and Clarice and Hannibal were happy to be home. After an incredible dinner and dessert, they enjoyed light conversation and each other's presence before the fire. Clarice lay with her head in Hannibal’s lap and closed her eyes as he ran his fingers through her hair. The firelight fluttered across Clarice’s face, illuminating the high points of her features in flashes of amber.
After a lengthy pause in the conversation, Hannibal looked at the clock. He took a deep breath and spoke softly.
“I regret to disturb you but it is time we must go up to bed.”
Clarice did not respond. Hannibal realized with the steady rhythm of her breathing she was asleep. He tucked her hair behind her ear to better see her face and watched her for a moment. He had the distinct feeling that what he held was holy. Her presence was always striking, but there was something different about Clarice asleep— she exhibited a certain grace that the waking fail to achieve.
Her mouth was only open slightly, but a small bead of saliva had gathered on her lower lip. Hannibal admired the sight of her wet lip but he could not leave the drop there. He ran his finger lightly along her lip, then he held it up and watched as the shiny surface caught the flickering light. Hannibal closed his eyes and brought his finger to his mouth. He closed his lips around it and tasted the faint remnant of their dessert and their wine, but it mostly contained the distinct flavor he had come to know as Clarice. He made a soft noise that Clarice did not hear. He lingered in that moment, her taste on his tongue and her weight and warmth on his lap before he slid his finger out from his lips. Eventually, he gently lifted her head from his lap and stood, he was again struck by the powerful sight of her at ease. He was glad for her peacefulness and honored at the silent gesture of trust that was falling asleep before him.
He moved gently and did not wake her as he slid his arms under her shoulders and knees. He lifted her with little effort. She made a small murmur and awoke just enough to shift her weight toward him and adjust her head. To not only watch her sleep but to hold her as she slept was an honor. He was glad to have the opportunity to know her like this, to be the person she falls asleep with, to be the person to carry her to bed.
Hannibal climbed the stairs carefully. Clarice was still asleep by the time he was laying her gently in bed. Rather than risk waking her by pulling anything over her head he decided to dress her in one of his nightshirts. He returned to the bed from their closet with two sets of his nightclothes. He sat softly beside her and gently rolled her toward him as he unzipped her dress and unclasped her bra. He slipped one of her arms into the nightshirt, then the other, and laid her down again before buttoning the shirt. He managed to resist the overwhelming urge to kiss the milky skin beneath the silk in his hands. He finished undressing her, slipping the rest of her clothes off of her legs and replacing them with drawstring pants. He sinched the waist, but only a little, and tied the string in a bow. With Clarice dressed appropriately, he changed himself, then returned their day clothes to the closet.
Clarice’s body shifted toward him slightly as he sat softly on the bed. He pulled himself onto the bed and lay next to her, as close as he could without touching her. Still, he wanted to caress her cheek, touch her warm skin, feel her heartbeat beneath his fingers as he had done many times before. Instead, he only watched her, he knew he would have every night after this to feel her. He tucked her under the duvet, then covered himself and reached for the light. He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, taking in the last sight of her for the day.
Clarice woke to the sound of birds and the feeling of the sun on her face. Although she vaguely remembered dozing off on the couch, she found herself in bed. Waking fully, she realized Hannibal must have carried her to bed and changed her clothes, she smiled at the realization. She looked over to see Hannibal still sleeping beside her, the morning sun playing in his hair and warming his skin. Seeing him at rest was a calming and refreshing sight— she knew how little he had ever been able to truly relax before her. She was glad to have him. As she got out of bed she found her slippers were ready for her where her feet landed.
She saw herself in the bathroom mirror dressed in Hannibal’s shirt and she felt a surge of pride; it was her, and only her, who shared his clothes, his bed, his body. She brought the lapel of the shirt to her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like mild laundry soap and the bag of herbs they kept in their closet to deter moths. Mostly, it smelled like Hannibal, a scent she could not describe or name, but it was her favorite.
The loose shirt let air pass over her skin, raising goose flesh and arousing her nipples. She took a moment to study her reflection, she thought her messy hair was charming and she liked how her breasts looked under the shirt. She appreciated the fact that she could genuinely and fully admire her appearance. Looking herself in the eye and perceiving herself was no longer a chore but instead became something she enjoyed. She did not enjoy it out of vanity, but rather a solid, smooth undercurrent of confidence she had built with the help of Hannibal’s influence and instruction.
When she came out of the ensuite bathroom she was greeted by Hannibal waiting for her, standing by the bed with his hands clasped behind him. She smiled and came quickly to him. She held his face and he brought his hands to the small of her back.
“Thank you, Hannibal,” she spoke softly.
“There is nothing to thank me for,” he responded.
She pulled his face to hers and pressed her lips to his, the feeling was bright and electric so early in the day.
When they pulled away, which neither wanted to, Clarice wrapped her arms around Hannibal in a tight hug. He reciprocated as she rested her head in the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” she spoke into his skin.
“Oh Clarice,” he stroked the back of her head as he whispered, “You are more loved than you can ever know.”