Cometh the Man

Guilt, or Lack Thereof

 "Clarice? Clarice!"

Somebody was shaking her – gently at first, but the sensation became more and more urgent.

Clarice sat bolt upright, tossing the bedsheets away and gasping for breath, eyes darting back and forth.

There was no lamb, no Paul Krendler, no Buffalo Bill. Just the darkened room of the apartment and...

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of Everleigh, sitting up in bed beside her, confusion etched across her face.

"Are you okay?" her daughter asked, softly.

"I'm fine," she replied, getting up. "Go back to sleep."

With that, she made for the door, closing it behind her and pausing in the dimly lit hallway for a moment.

It had been years since she'd had such an intense nightmare. Even longer still since she'd last heard the lambs screaming. She wasn't sure she couldn't handle it all over again.

And Everleigh...

Feeling as though she couldn't breathe, Clarice started down the hallway. She didn't know where she was going but she knew she needed to get away from that bedroom.

She stumbled into a side table, knocking a lamp onto its side as she searched the wall for a light switch that wasn't there.

She knew it was irrational, but the minor defeat only served to worsen her breathlessness, and she moved through the archway into the living space. And directly into somebody's chest.

Strong arms steadied her before gathering her closer.

For a moment, Clarice fought against it, still struggling for air.

But as she took in the scent of his cologne, the sensation of his hand carding through her hair and the soft hushing sounds whispered in her ear, she found that the air came.

And then, so did the tears.

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"Thanks," she mumbled, when he handed her the glass of water.

She felt him sit down beside her on the sofa, and then he reached out a hand to brush back her hair and cup her cheek.

"Alright?" he asked, softly.

Clarice nodded. She wasn't, not really, but she did feel better than she had ten minutes earlier.

Having some air back in her lungs had gone some way to help, though her airways still felt constricted and she was more than a little light headed.

She took a sip of water, though her hand was unsteady and the glass felt heavier than it should.

Hannibal took it from her, placing it down on the coffee table.

"A bad dream?"

She nodded again.

"What frightened you so?"

"I... um... I don't... It wasn't... It was like I couldn't breathe," she began, still feeling off balance.

The Doctor nodded. "I believe what you experienced just now, Clarice, was what your run-of-the-mill physician would term a 'panic attack'."

Clarice opened her mouth to object, but he continued.

"Quite common, I assure you. In any case my concern is less with the what and more with the why."

"I just... haven't had one like that in a while," was all she could muster.

"Like what?" he pressed.

She looked him dead in the eye. "Like somethin' opened a box and let out all of my darkest thoughts... fears..."

Something. Or someone.

"The lambs?" Hannibal guessed.

"Not just them," she said, and did not object as his hand began to rub small circles across the base of her back.

"No? Tell me, what else?"

"Krendler," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The circling motion stopped.

"Ah. Why is that, I wonder? Do you feel guilt, Clarice? That you couldn't save him?" he asked.

Had she not felt so disorientated, Clarice might have been irritated by the condescending undertone of his question. But she had no energy for anger, and felt too vulnerable to endure being patronised – intentional or otherwise.

He seemed to sense it from the shake of her head, and his hands found her wrists.

"Come here."

Exhausted, Clarice did little to resist when he brought her closer and shifted her position to face him.

A silence followed, during which Hannibal took her head in his hands and waited.

"I'm not feelin' guilty about what happened to Paul Krendler," she said eventually. "I feel guilty that I don't."

He arched a brow. "If you did feel guilt over Paul's fate, would that make you feel better, do you think? Would he haunt your dreams any less, Clarice? The man was unspeakably disrespectful towards you, both in the way that he treated you and the manner in which he spoke to you. The fact his own sticky end did not touch you is no slight on your character, my love."

She glanced at him, and he knew his words had reached her on some level.

He stroked her cheek with the tip of his thumb. "You see? Perhaps it would be wise for us to delve into the contents of your ephialtes more often."

"Alright. How about my glowin' track record as a mother. Whatchu got for me on that one?" she asked, sardonically.

"Does this thought disturb your sleep?" Hannibal enquired.

Lowering her eyes again, Clarice shrugged her shoulders.

"Sometimes."

"While I admit my time spent with the child has been limited to date, I have found her to be a bright, eloquent and generally well-rounded young lady," he stated. "So perhaps, not as poor-a-job as you might imagine."

She shook her head. "All that might be true, but that's not because of me. That's despite of me, Hannibal. Do you know why she didn't wanna hold my hand on that platform?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because she's never held my hand. I barely ever... I was never any good at the warm and fuzzy stuff, y'know?" she told him softly. "I look at her sometimes and I think... I don't know her. I barely know my own daughter. I have no connection with her."

"Even if that is so, I would hasten to remind you that the child is only eight years old. I don't believe it is too late," he told her, glancing at something behind her momentarily before leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. "It would seem somebody's ears are burning, as the saying goes."

As Everleigh came to stand at the side of her, Clarice wiped at her eyes, hoping to dispel any evidence of her momentary loss of sanity some time earlier.

"It's late," she said.

Everleigh shrugged her shoulders. "What's wrong? Are you having bad dreams again?"

Clarice opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"It would seem we are all having a little trouble sleeping tonight," Hannibal told her, standing up. "In fact, I was just about to make some hot cocoa. Perhaps you would care to join us?"

Giving him a smile, Everleigh nodded.

He moved across to the kitchen, and Everleigh stepped a little closer to Clarice, reaching out a hand to stroke her mother's auburn hair.

Hannibal Lecter allowed himself a small smile.

No connection whatsoever.

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