Work Text:
Many things had changed since Clarice Starling’s graduation. Some were more noticeable than others, and some were more positive than others.
She understood that she was stronger and faster. She felt more intelligent and serious, and because of this, she felt less sexualized by her peers. (Or, she had simply gotten used to their behaviour)
She still had Ardelia as one of her closest friends, although the two of them had found other people within the FBI and outside of it. Oftentimes, outside of work, she was laughing and reading and having the most fun that she could. There was a comforting silence that she carried with her.
Clarice’s life had improved. And she knew it.
But something toyed with her after her interactions with Buffalo Bill, and more than that, her interactions with Dr. Lecter.
There was a strange and terrifying moment where Clarice had gotten a paper cut–a small slit on her thumb–and she instinctively pressed her mouth to it to relieve the pain and to get rid of the blood.
All she could focus on, though, was tasting it.
It was copper and clinical, and she didn’t understand why she couldn’t pull her mouth away. It tasted awful, and she continued sucking.
The sound of a car honking at a distance caused her to jump, and her thumb naturally drifted away from her mouth.
She did her best not to think of it
Still, she dreamed.
Perhaps she could appreciate that there was normally silence in her waking life, but when she dreamt, all she could see was skin, moths, and she could feel the dirt under her nails as Catherine Martin screamed at her. The blood dried quickly in her dreams, and it was always on her hands. The investigations of bodies revisited her night after night.
But the worst dreams were of Dr. Lecter.
He would call her, in these dreams. She wouldn’t see him, but she could hear him on the other end of the phone. The dreams felt strangely purposeful, almost as though Dr. Lecter was truly attempting to communicate.
It only made sense that she dreamed of him; she often pushed him out of her mind during the days.
They would talk for as long as they could over the phone, until Clarice woke up with fright and something else much more warm. Her thoughts would run rampant in those moments after waking.
One question always returned, however:
Do you dream of me too?