Author's Note: This is my first crossover fic, so I'm in new territory here. This story will rely heavily on the plotline/dialogue from Silence of the Lambs (especially in the beginning) but the replacement/addition of Mulder and Scully will understandably alter the way things take place. It isn't necessary to be familiar with The Silence of the Lambs to enjoy this fic, and potentially better if you aren't.

Chapter I

She brushed a low-hanging, spindly branch out of her line of vision as she ran through the forest, trying to keep her breath even in the cold October air. The crack of the branch snapping back made her turn her head, eyes wide. Under her feet the ground was hard, but at least now she was running downhill instead of up. Today the same grey sky, like the cheek of a sick old man, a layer of dampness from the rains that would soon turn to snow. Birds cried in outrage and flew, disgruntled, from the trees as she continued down the path, treading carefully on areas covered in dead leaves, smearing her arm over her forehead to wipe sweat from her brow. Now a blue fog as she ran deeper into the forest. Nobody else was on the course this early, but she needed to get her time down by twenty seconds before the next week's assessment. She sniffed, wiping her runny nose as she ran, the peppering of gunshots from the range echoing off the trees.

Two more months to go before graduation. She had a pretty good idea of the marks she was receiving, and knew she was in no danger of failing, but it was still nerve-wracking all the same. At the monthly physical assessments the Academy not only expected consistency, they also anticipated improvement. She was a near-perfect shot at the range, but her size made the course harder to finish, her endurance always wearing thin in the last two miles. She checked her watch, then sped up.

The obstacles were manageable, and she had just grappled up and down the other side of the netting that stood blocking the last clearing that looked down over the Academy, when she heard her name. She was still getting used to hearing it like that, just 'Scully'.

She turned at the voice, finally seeing an instructor walk up into the clearing. It was Beaumont, one of the gunning instructors. He'd known she would be here -she'd been leaving early every morning for two weeks to get one run in before class started, and it was getting easier.

"Scully!" he called again, flagging her down. She stopped, bracing her hands on her thighs and leaning over, breathing.

"Crawford wants to see you in his office." His tone gave nothing away. Was she in trouble? Jack Crawford? She'd never even spoken to the man. He'd given a lecture to her class midway through training, but other than that he pretty much kept to himself, holed up in the Behavioral Science Unit. She raised her eyebrows but nodded, looking at Beaumont.

"Thank you, sir."

She checked her watch before jogging down to the Academy. Almost all the way through, this time seven seconds ahead from yesterday. She was getting stronger. Down the grassy slope from the forest to the flat, clean terrain again. She watched a car chase and arrest take place in front of the post office in Hogan's Alley, the mock-town used in training. Whoever was driving the car and had managed to swerve into place at the last minute deserved extra points.

She crossed the breezeway from the lecture building to the lab and administrative building, steadying her breath and brushing stubborn hair off her forehead, smoothing it back into her ponytail. She'd cut her hair just after she'd been accepted, thinking it would be easier to deal with off her neck, but the way the layered strands managed to slip out when she wore it up was driving her crazy. A lab was just letting out on the ground floor, and she caught the eyes of her roommate.

"Dana!"

She stopped in front of a water fountain and bent down to drink. Marion leaned against the wall. "I thought you were doing the course this morning."

Dana nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I got right to the end and then Beaumont pulled me off. Crawford asked to see me."

Marion frowned in confusion. "Why?"

Dana shrugged, excited but nervous. "No idea. Wish me luck."

Marion patted her arm. "Luck! See you later."

She headed to the elevator, squeezing in right before the doors closed. Around her, a group of six men, all seeming to tower over her, not paying her any attention as they went up four floors, then got out, the silver doors closing behind them. Now she was alone, one floor to go. She squinted at her reflection off the metal doors. Sweat around the neckline of her crew neck sweatshirt, some peeking from under her arms. She managed a split-second ponytail reparation and vowed to keep her arms close to her sides. Oh, God, what if she smelled bad? Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make, and she couldn't let go of the suspicion that she was in trouble for something. But what had she done?

The elevator beeped as it reached the fifth floor and doors opened to reveal an area she'd never set foot in. It was all tightly packed, a confusion of cubicles and larger offices, all vomiting filing cabinets. A quick scan revealed no other women in the vicinity, and most of the men had draped their suit jackets over their chair, or on a counter behind which more files and cabinets were placed. Shirts rolled up and bunched at the elbows, ties loosened, the smell of cigarettes in the air. A few heads looked over at her, and as she passed an office with an open door she hesitated, peeking inside to see if it was Crawford's.

Two men were conversing quietly, both holding files, one man sitting on his own desk. They stopped talking when they saw her. "You looking for Crawford?" he asked, and she nodded, feeling like a little kid getting called to the principal's office.

"Why don't you go and wait for him in his office."

She nodded again. "Where is-"

"Just turn the corner," he said. "Second door on the left."

"Thank you." She followed the man's directions and found herself in a large, sprawling office. Nothing like the meticulous organization of the forensics lab where she was spending increasing amounts of her time, where everything properly catalogued and noted. There, they couldn't afford mistakes. In this unit they could work more organically, she rationalized. The thought process of a profiler was half science and textbooks, forty percent intuition, and ten percent luck. They were constantly reworking ideas, coming up with new ones. Most of the time, in forensic medicine, there was a definitive answer. John Doe died from a gunshot wound to the head. Here's the proof.

Crawford had heavily-handled textbooks and psychology journals on bookshelves behind his desk, which was littered with notes, and pens. Two file cabinets stood like brown pawns, one top drawer open. His diplomas hung on the wall, an impressive array of medals and awards shoved on the lower shelf of one bookcase to make space for more urgent materials. Against one wall was a small sofa, and she bet it pulled out to offer a cramped twin-sized bed from the way the cushions were mushed together and a blue blanket lay folded over an arm. The room smelled vaguely of licorice. She turned around to look at the other side of Crawford's office and stopped short.

On a bulletin board fifty or so polaroids were tacked up, some overlapping, clearly taken at the same crime scene. A headline and accompanying article had been cut from The National Inquisitor and pinned up -Bill Skins Fifth, it proclaimed. Her medical eye was drawn to the post-mortem photographs. She stayed where she was, arms crossed, but raised her eyes, squinting at the slain bodies, how the skin had been removed from the arm of one victim, the thigh of another, but the rest of the body had been left untouched. These photographs, because of their graphic nature, wouldn't be made public, but they showed the true horror of the killer the F.B.I -the very men she'd just seen sitting in their cubicles- was trying desperately to find.

"Scully," came a voice from the door. She jumped. Crawford, who seemed more approachable than he had behind that podium four months ago, was watching her take it in the grisly photographs. She wondered how long he'd been standing there. He circled to his desk. "Dana Katherine."

He looked up to confirm, and she nodded. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Crawford." He didn't hold his hand out to shake, and she didn't offer hers, keeping her arms by her sides to hide the sweat stains as best she could.

"Sorry to pull you off the course at such short notice," he said, shedding his jacket and putting it on the back of his chair. "Your instructors tell me you're doing well. Top quarter of your class."

A surge of pride rose in her. She felt her serious, professional expression break for just a moment into a smile, then back again. "I hope so. We haven't seen our grades yet."

He was past pleasantries. "A job's come up and I thought about you," he said, moving to sit behind his desk, and gesturing for her to take the chair in front. "Not a job, really. More of an interesting errand."

She sat down, her hands crossed over her lap, and watched as he opened a thin manilla folder.

"Let's see, undergrad in physics from the University of Maryland..." He scanned the paper in front of him. "Went to Stanford Medical School. It says here we snatched you right out of med school. How'd that happen?"

"The attending forensic pathologist at the time was doing consults here at the Academy. As an exercise she gave us the case notes an incomplete autopsy report on a victim and we were asked to come up with a probable cause of death. I solved the case. She mentioned my name at the forensics lab here."

Crawford didn't congratulate her, as her father had when she'd called home, jumpy with pride and a feeling of possibility. He just looked at her contemplatively for a moment. "So, why the F.B.I?"

She cleared her throat. "I see it as a place where I can distinguish myself." The corners of Crawford's mouth twitched. She'd recited the same answer to her parents a year ago, when she'd been recruited, before her training had begun, and received a much different reaction. "My parents see it as an act of rebellion."

Crawford chuckled. "We're interviewing all the serial killers now in custody for a psycho-behavioral profile," he said, all business. "It could be a real help in unsolved cases. Most of them have been happy to talk to us." He looked at her for a moment. "Do you spook easily, Scully?"

She considered this. "Not yet, sir."

"See, the one we want most refuses to cooperate. I want you to go after him again today in the asylum." He said it like she'd already said yes.

Why me? she wanted to ask, but kept her mouth shut. Anyone in her class would kill for an opportunity to work in the F.B.I's most recently-formed and mysterious department. "Who's the subject?" she asked instead.

"The psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter."

She uncrossed her hands. "Hannibal the Cannibal." He'd been apprehended only ten years ago on a count of nine murders, but had probably committed more, cooking up his favorite bits and serving them on fancy china. Meals. A shiver ran up her spine. Maybe she did spook easily.

She wondered if he had detected her grain of worry. "I'm going to put another agent with you on this one. He'll brief you about the patient, the stuff that didn't make it into the newspapers, and help you out if Lecter gives you a hard time. He's a solid agent."

"Who is he?" she asked.

Crawford closed her file. "His name is Fox Mulder. He works with us in Behavioral Science."

She recognized the name. "Fox Mulder. He helped catch Monty Props in 1988."

"That's right. And I'd stick with 'Mulder', if I were you. He doesn't answer well to his first name," Crawford advised. "Go get changed, then come back up here. He'll have everything ready for you."

She nodded, and when she stood he did as well. "Good luck, Dana."

She smiled a little nervously, then went back to the elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor. This time she rode the elevator alone, and, once the doors closed, she smiled a wide smile, a little victory jump that made her stomach summersault as gravity worked with her. A real assignment! She didn't know why Crawford had chosen her, he knew she was headed toward the forensics department once she graduated, but she was grateful for the opportunity. She couldn't wait to tell Marion.

She hurried back from her room to the administrative building, again taking the elevator to the fifth floor, and stepped out, smoothing her hair. She'd taken the quickest shower of her life, blow-dried her hair straight, put in the pearl earrings she'd gotten from her father, and applied light makeup. The suit was too big. It had fit when she'd worn it to her interview before attending the Academy, but with training she'd lost weight, and now the jacket hung droopily from her shoulders. Maybe it was the faintest odor of the perfume she'd rubbed on her wrists that did it, but this time more than a few heads looked up when she arrived, some eyes running over her body like she was some fetching thing in her ill-fitting suit and simple makeup.

She stood up straight and headed to Crawford's office again, but stopped at the sound of her own name before she turned the corner.

"Dana's a strong student," Crawford was saying. "She's eager to learn, and this could be an opportunity for you to learn a little about working together with someone."

"She's the youngest one in her class, who had no intention to join the F.B.I before being recruited," another male voice, younger, chimed in, sounding annoyed. "There are dozens of psychology majors who are better qualified for this assignment. This is babysitting!"

"Mulder, Patterson is not happy with your work ethic. You're not a team player, and you act on instinct more than reason. It's one assignment," Crawford said, sounding tired, as if the conversation had been going on for more than a few minutes. "Get the profile from Lecter with her, bring it back, then maybe we'll talk about you choosing your own cases."

The noise of a scoff. "What's taking her so long, anyway? We're going to an insane asylum, not walking a red carpet."

She steeled herself and turned the corner, walking to Crawford's office with determination and more than a little carefully concealed anger. Holding her empty briefcase in her left hand, she offered her right and the tall, lanky man shook it, his grip loose, hers firm.

She looked up at the younger agent. "Nice to meet you, Agent Mulder."

"Dana Scully," he said, his tone significantly more polite than it had been when he'd been talking behind her back, but a smugness was still there. When she looked back at Crawford he seemed amused.

"Should we get going, then?" she asked. Agent Mulder nodded, grabbed his jacket and coat from the back of one of Crawford's chairs.

"Good luck," Crawford said to her for the second time that day, and leaned back in his chair as they turned and left.

The elevator ride down was uncomfortable. She focused on her reflection, looking anywhere but at him. He shifted his weight back and forth a little, breathed out a sigh of annoyance, or maybe he was embarrassed, she couldn't decide. She wondered if he really thought she hadn't heard the things he'd said moments before meeting her.

"Car's around back," he mumbled, his hand in the pocket of his coat jingling a set of keys. She followed him, walking quickly to keep up with his easy, long stride. Don't judge a book by its cover, the saying went. She'd imagined him humble about his success, courteous, wanting to help her learn from this assignment. Instead she'd met the cocky, dissatisfied, spoiled gem of the B.S.U. She'd been told he could write profiles in hours, that he was brilliant, yet the man walking beside her hadn't even introduced himself.

Once she'd buckled herself into the passenger seat he handed her his briefcase. She made a noise of surprise. What, did he expect her to double as a shelf for his belongings? She knew there was a system of ranking, but she wasn't going to be reduced to the role of sherpa.

"Inside there's the dossier on Lecter and a special I.D for you," he said. She opened the briefcase and took out the file, then the F.B.I badge. Before she could moon over it, he started the car and put it in reverse, pulling out of the spot quickly, just like they'd been taught. His briefcase tumbled to the floor, and she spent a moment tidying it up and closing it properly, the file and badge on her lap, snuggling the briefcase by her legs. She looked over at him.

"Agent Mulder, you're not wearing your seatbelt."

He shrugged, flicking the turn signal on to turn out of the Academy.

"Put on your seatbelt, please," she said.

He pulled it over his shoulder and snapped it into place, then looked at her. "Happy?"

She nodded.

"Do I have permission to make a left hand turn, Miss Scully?" he asked.

She bit her tongue. He made the turn. She opened the file and skimmed it quickly, then began to read more closely. They drove in silence, the wavy, tree-lined roads soon giving way to the monotonous interstate. When, after twenty minutes of poring over it, she closed the file and looked at his profile, he seemed concentrated.

"Does this have anything to do with Buffalo Bill?" she asked.

"Why do you ask that?" His tone had calmed significantly and although he didn't look at her, he seemed to genuinely expect a reply.

"Well, interviewing Lecter now, after he's been locked up for so many years seems a little urgent. Does Crawford think these interviews will help us find Bill more quickly?"

Mulder shrugged. "Crawford put me on this about ten minutes before you showed up. We've been interviewing various prisoners for months. If it had something to do with Buffalo Bill, he'd have said something." He looked at her quickly. "I don't think Lecter will even talk today."

"Why?"

"It's like him to not cooperate just for the sake of being uncooperative. That's what gets him off. The last bit of control he has left in this life." He dribbled his thumbs on the wheel.

"So, if we get all the way there and he refuses to talk, we just come straight back?" she asked. It seemed like a waste of time.

Agent Mulder shook his head. "If he refuses to cooperate with you, just do some straight reporting. How's he look, how's his cell look...Is he sketching, or drawing...If he is, what's he sketching? And Dana," he said.

"Yes?"

"Be very careful with Dr. Lecter." His tone was deadly serious. "Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go over all the physical procedures used with him. Don't deviate from them for any reason whatsoever." He checked her face quickly for signs of fear, but she wasn't wearing any. "And don't tell him anything personal. You don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head."

"How do you know all this?" she asked, feeling naïve, but he seemed to have a unique insight into this particular case.

He cleared his throat. "I've, uh, interviewed him before."

She cocked her head. "I'm assuming from your tone that he was uncooperative."

"No, it wasn't that," Agent Mulder clarified. "He was happy to talk, but Lecter's a psychiatrist, and a good one. He can read you like a book. That's why I'm telling you to be careful today. Never forget what he is." He glanced at her. "Can you handle this, Scully?"

She nodded, opening the file on her lap again, re-reading.

As they pulled into the parking lot beside the Baltimore State Asylum her heart skipped a beat and began to race. The asylum itself had begun as a rather gothic building, all height and unwelcoming angles, but had clearly experienced several rounds of additions and renovations, so that now there were separate wings coming off the sides and another low building constructed against the back. When she closed the car door behind her a few crows cawed a greeting from where they perched on the dark stone sign out in front. The gravel hissed under their feet, and again she struggled to keep up with him in her low heels, the black shoes becoming grey around the edges from the tiny stones.

"Special Agent Mulder," the head of the asylum, Dr. Chilton, stood from his desk to shake Agent Mulder's hand when they arrived, but his voice suggested that the two of them weren't particularly welcome. "Back again, are you?"

"Hello, Dr. Chilton," Agent Mulder replied. "Did Crawford call ahead?"

Dr. Chilton nodded, then looked at her, his eyes running up and down like the boys on the fifth floor. She quirked her eyebrow, then felt Agent Mulder's hand, gentle on her back. He wanted her to introduce herself.

"My name is Dana Scully," she said, and the hand immediately left her back. Chilton shook her hand with the same loose grip as Agent Mulder's. "I'll be speaking with Dr. Lecter today."

Chilton looked at her, derisively amused. "And you think he'll talk to you, after he's refused interviews for the last two years?" He didn't give her time to answer. "Crawford's rather clever, sending you along, wouldn't you agree, Mulder?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, following Chilton as he moved past them and indicated they should follow.

"A pretty, young woman to turn him on." She kept her eyes ahead as they walked. "I don't think Lecter's even seen a woman in eight years, and boy, are you ever his taste." She flushed, then looked up at Agent Mulder beside her. He met her eyes, but didn't confirm or deny what Chilton was insinuating. Chilton chuckled. "So to speak."

"I turned down Yale to go to Stanford, Dr. Chilton," she said, "It's not a charm school."

Chilton sped up his pace and led them down a flight of stairs. "Good, then you should be able to remember the rules."

She felt Agent Mulder's hand quickly tap her elbow, and turned to look up at him as they reached a landing on the staircase. He looked pleased with her response. She ducked her head and continued down to the prison ward.

After the stairs came a series of winding hallways with periodic gates, guards standing by. It was cold down here, the pervasive, low-dwelling feeling of lives left stagnant behind bars. "Do not touch the glass," Chilton said, walking briskly in front of them. "Do not approach the glass. You pass him nothing but soft paper. No pencils or pens. No staples or paper clips on his paper. Use the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, keeping her voice steady.

He turned to them before descending yet another flight of stairs leading to a hallway where red light shone through, into the very bowels of the institution. She could hear groans and complaints from patients even from here. "I'm going to show you why we insist on such precautions," Chilton continued. "On the afternoon of July 8th, 1981, he complained of chest pains and was taken to the dispensary. His mouthpiece and restraints were removed for an EKG. When the nurse leaned over him, he did this to her." Chilton handed her a small photograph. She could see thumbprints across its surface -apparently Chilton performed this same intimidating monologue for everyone coming to pay Lecter a visit.

What remained of the human face captured on the photograph was indiscriminate, so torn and mutilated that most features were unrecognizable. The flash of the camera had captured one of the nurse's eyes, wide with fear. A little wind faded out of Chilton's sails when she didn't react in the way the others had, her forensic and medical eye taking the image in before her emotions could.

"The doctors managed to reset her jaw, more or less...save one of her eyes…" Chilton said as the gate behind him slid open with a loud buzz. "His pulse never got above eighty-five. Even when he ate her tongue."

She handed the photograph back to Chilton. He pocketed it. "I keep him in here -"

"Dr. Chilton," Agent Mulder said, and the smaller man looked up. "Maybe it would be better if she just talked to him by herself, considering Lecter isn't exactly on friendly terms with either of us. I can show her the rest of the way."

A sliver of panic cut through her. Crawford hadn't mentioned that she'd be interviewing Lecter alone. In fact, she'd thought perhaps they'd have conducted it in a sort of interrogation room, not down by his cell. What if she said something wrong, or made a mistake during the interview explaining the questionnaire? Wasn't that why Agent Mulder was here? To help her through?

Chilton was clearly annoyed, but, surprisingly, acquiesced. "When she's finished, bring her back up." He turned and left as quickly as he'd come.

"Let's go," Agent Mulder said, pointing right once they entered the white-cement hallway. Two doors down they were met with an orderly sitting down at a desk, the plaque beside the room designating it as the visitor's entrance. He was watching several security cameras, eating a sandwich. Clearly, any other guards stationed to this room had decided to take their break somewhere else. She knew it was lunchtime, but she couldn't imagine eating anything right now.

The orderly, a sturdy-looking man in his late twenties, put down his food, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and stood up. "Agent Mulder," he greeted, then held out his hand to her.

"I'm Barney."

"Dana Scully," she introduced herself. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, Dana. I can hang up your coat for you," he offered.

"Thank you," she said, shrugging out of the heavy wool coat to reveal her unflattering suit. Barney hung it up on the wall behind her and Mulder followed to hang his own up as well. Beside the coats and around the small room she saw restraints, mouthpieces, Mace, tranquilizer guns...

"He told you, don't go near the glass?"

She nodded. "Yes, he went over the safety procedures on the way down."

"Okay. You both going in?" Barney asked as he opened the heavy gate that led to the cells. Agent Mulder handed her his briefcase.

"No, just Agent Scully," he said. She looked at him, feeling a little abandoned as she stepped into the hallway, the gate buzzing closed behind her. When it locked into place the sound ricocheted off the walls, and she jumped.

"Dana," Agent Mulder said, approaching the bars. She clutched the briefcase, feeling small and not at all as confident as she had upstairs. "He's past the others- the last cell. We'll be watching back here. You'll do fine."

She nodded. His voice was calm, and it put her at ease. "Okay."

"If it gets ugly, just get up and leave. There's a red button by his cell. You can ring that, and I'll come get you." His face was neutral, but she detected a hint of protectiveness, like that of an older brother. She took a breath and turned around, starting to walk down the row of patients, her footsteps echoing.

These were the high risk, criminally insane ones, people who had killed. The argument was never definitive -if a genetic abnormality accounted for homicidal tendencies, and we can't stop it from coming to the surface, or if people could be induced to kill. The age old question -nature or nurture?

High to the right were security cameras aimed at each cell. Some were padded, with narrow observation slits, others were normal, barred. Shadowy occupants paced, some muttering, crying. Suddenly, a dark figure in the next-to-last cell hurtled toward her, his face mashing grotesquely against his bars as he hissed, "I c-can s-smell your cunt!" He cackled at the look on her face.

She kept walking, slowing as she reached the last cell. It was like the others in decoration. A small bed, a toilet, a sink mounted on the wall, no window this deep underground. Only instead of bars shutting him in there was a pane of thick glass. No fingerprints or marks on it from the inside or out. And there, standing upright, looking calm and expectant in his blue asylum-issued uniform, was Dr. Hannibal Lecter. His face, so long out of the sun, seemed bleached.

"Good morning," he said, in a voice unlike any she'd heard before. Like a mixture between Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. She stopped in front of the cell. The patient who'd spoken to her from the next cell was prattling on about something. Lecter didn't move an inch. He just looked at her, perfectly polite, his eyes not scanning her like everyone else's had today. To her horror, she felt less uncomfortable, even welcome.

"Dr. Lecter, my name is Dana Scully. May I speak with you?" she asked and, to her surprise, she sounded normal, unafraid. He nodded.

"Doctor, we're doing some research into psychobehavioral profiling. I'd like to ask your help with a questionnaire. It's-"

"You're one of Crawford's, aren't you?" he asked.

She nodded. "I am, yes, sir."

He quirked an eyebrow. "May I see your credentials?"

She didn't see the harm in that, and set down the briefcase on a chair provided for her in front of the cell. She reached into her pocket, fumbling a little, and brought out the badge, holding it up at shoulder-level.

"Closer, please," he asked, and she stretched her arm out straight, her hand now a foot from the glass. He clicked his tongue. "Closer."

The first rule. Do not approach the glass. She did it anyway, taking one step forward. He moved forward, too, so that they were probably two feet apart with only the bulletproof glass separating them. He stared at the badge.

"That expires in one week," he said. "You're not real F.B.I, are you?"

She closed the badge. She hadn't even noticed it expired in one week. "I'm still in training at the Academy."

"Jack Crawford sent a trainee to me?" he asked in quiet disbelief.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm a student. I'm here to learn from you. Maybe -"

"Crawford wouldn't have sent a trainee alone," Lecter said, amusement in his eyes. "Who'd he send along with you to supervise? Or is he here himself at the end of the hallway?"

"I-"

"Don't lie, Agent Scully, it doesn't suit you. So, who is it, then? McGill, with his whole battery of questions I already read in papers in the 1970s? Sanders, who confessed to me that he'd been sleeping with his secretary? You just nod when I say the right name, Agent Scully, because I know them all. The Bureau and I are well acquainted with each other."

She didn't react other than to look at him, patiently waiting to ask her own questions.

"Duff and Doyle, with their silly good-cop, bad-cop routine? Meyers, who barely opened his mouth? Or, don't tell me, it's that new one -Mulder." He smiled in delight even when she didn't nod, knowing he was right.

"Oh, Mulder was one of my personal favorites," he said. "Really knows his stuff, but isn't afraid to deviate if necessary. One of the most creative agents I've ever spoken with, too," Lecter said, almost wistfully. "Such a shame about his sister."

He must have seen something in her eyes. "Oh, didn't he tell you? The poor young man's little sister disappeared when he was only twelve years old. Tragic story. He was the only one at home when it happened, but he couldn't save her."

Something clenched painfully inside of her chest. She was embarrassed to suddenly be privy to his private life after knowing him for approximately two hours. "But I've saved the best for last, Dana Scully. Do you know why Mulder couldn't save his sister?"

"It's really none of my business, Doctor."

Lecter smiled. "Ask him about it, won't you? I'll try to imagine the expression on your face when he finally tells you."

She'd had enough, and he could tell. "Sit, please," he invited, like this was his house and she'd come at his invitation. She moved the briefcase and sat.

"Now, then. Tell me," Lecter said, remaining standing, absolutely upright. "What did Miggs say to you?"

She wrinkled her brow.

"'Multiple Miggs', in the next cell. He hissed at you," Lecter said. "What did he say?"

She didn't flinch. "He said, 'I can smell your cunt'."

"I see," he said, delighted that she was telling the truth, but cleverly trying to hide it. "I myself cannot." He leaned up to where cut-out holes lined the top of the floor to ceiling glass, inhaling. She swallowed, uncomfortable.

"You use lavender shampoo," he observed, "and today you put on Chanel No.5." He looked at her a bit sadly. "But it isn't yours. Chanel isn't your style. Those are pearl earrings, aren't they?"

She nodded once.

"They're much better than your shoes."

She cleared her throat. "Maybe they'll catch up."

"I have no doubt of it."

She crossed her legs and sat up straight, beginning to tire of his game. She looked away from him at the walls of his cell. Several intricate charcoal drawings hung there, stuck on with tack or tape. Architectural drawings. She recognized one.

"Is that the Duomo?"

He looked surprised, then nodded. "Seen from the Belvedere. You know Florence?"

"Drawn from memory?"

He sighed. "Memory, Agent Scully, is what I have instead of a view."

She opened the briefcase and took out the questionnaire. "Well, maybe you'd care to lend us your view on this questionnaire, sir. It's-"

His mouth twitched into a patronizing smile. "Oh, what a ham-handed segue! You were doing fine. You know, I think your Agent Mulder will be disappointed with you, thinking you've blown your chance." She flushed, and wanted to look down the hall to see if Lecter was right, but she stood her ground.

"I'm only asking you to look at it, Doctor. Either you will or you won't."

He nodded. "Jack Crawford must be very busy indeed if he's recruiting help from the student body. Busy hunting that new one, Buffalo Bill -what anaughty boy he is! Did Crawford send you to ask for my advice?" He looked at her.

"No. I came because we need-"

He cut her off. "How many women has he killed now, our Bill?"

"Five...so far," she said.

"All flayed?"

She bit her lip. "Partially, yes. But that's an active case. I'm not involved."

He could tell she was frustrated. "Do you know why he's called 'Buffalo' Bill? Please, tell me. The newspapers won't say."

"I'll tell you if you look at this form," she bargained. He hesitated, then gave her a curt nod.

"Well, it started as a bad joke in Kansas City Homicide. They said, 'This one likes to skin his humps'."

"Why do you think he removes their skins, Agent Scully?" he asked, continuing to toy with her.

Don't tell him anything personal. To tell him what she thought would be her own opinion. She thought back to the file she'd had on her lap an hour ago, and recited the profile notes. "It excites him. Most serial killers keep some sort of trophies from their victims."

Lecter's mouth twitched. "I didn't."

Never forget what he is. "No," she said, "you ate yours."

It had been a risk, and Lecter looked a little sour at the response. She thought perhaps she'd lost him as he turned his head away, but then he said, "You send that through now."

Again, she almost looked down the hall for Agent Mulder, wondering if he was feeling as victorious as she was. Even if Lecter didn't answer the questionnaire, at least she'd spoken with him, gotten this far, filing notes away for later. She stood, put the papers in the sliding food carrier like she'd been told, and sent it through. Lecter sat down on the only chair in his cell, picked the papers up, and began to flip through them, his expression revealing nothing.

She sat quietly, looking at the drawings again during the time he took to read. Finally, he chuckled, and tossed the papers back into the food carrier.

"Oh, Agent Scully, you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool?" he sneered.

This was where her training came in. She had to push without seeming to push, convince without giving her motive away, and remain calm throughout. "No," she said. "I thought that your knowledge would-"

Suddenly, he whipped the tray back at her with a metallic clang that made her start.

"You're so ambitious, aren't you?" he said, sizing her up, looking at her a little sadly. "You think you're going to get me to talk, when I wouldn't talk to any of the others. Now they're getting desperate, aren't they? Sending a schoolgirl to come interview me. " His voice remained a pleasant purr.

"You know what you look like to me in that awful suit and your pearl earrings? You look like a little girl playing dress up in her mother's closet. You're twenty-six years old but don't look a day over nineteen," he drawled. She bit the inside of her cheek. "You've been sticking up for yourself your whole life, haven't you?"

Flashbacks to Bill bullying her, telling her she was a bad shot. Fighting hard not to be overlooked in medical school, where the male to female ratio had been four to one. His every word struck her like a tiny, precise dart. Lecter smiled a little. He'd caught her.

"You're smart, Agent Scully, but naïve, too. I can smell it under that Chanel No. 5. You crave approval and loathe disappointing others. You think you can do anything you set your mind to. Let me tell you something, Dana Scully -life isn't that simple. And if you think you've accomplished something today by getting me to talk, you're mistaken. All I've done is keep you busy for a half hour, another thirty minutes wasted when you could be helping Crawford hunt old Billy. You think Agent Mulder will be impressed with your little performance, acting like you knew what you were doing when all the while you've been nervously tapping your left foot on the ground."

She stared at him, her eyes hard, while his were still merry. She stopped tapping her foot and stood up, smoothing her skirt down. "You see a lot, Doctor," she said. "But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself?" She crossed her arms in front of her. "Why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see?" She bent and slammed the tray back at him. He looked directly into her eyes. "Or maybe you're afraid to."

"You're a tough one, aren't you?" he drawled.

"Reasonably so, yes."

"Please, excuse me," he said. "Have a good day."

Lecter pushed the food carrier and it zoomed back to her side of the glass, making her blink involuntarily. She picked the questionnaire up. When she stood, he was right near the glass, inches from her.

"A census-taker once tried to test me," he said. "I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice Chianti." The words were as cool and clear as water, pronounced with no hint of remorse or even pleasure. Pure fact. Her legs felt weak as she held the sheets to her chest, looking at him. Then he made a noise, like a rattlesnake stalking its prey, hissing at her. She didn't say goodbye, just turned and started walking, her ankles like jelly, sweat on her neck. Every step seemed to take longer than the last, and she didn't know if he was watching her go, she didn't care.

"I b-bit my wrist so I could d-die," Miggs moaned from his cell. She glanced at him, now naked and pressed against the bars. "Look at the blood!" He screamed, and flung his hand at her through a gap. She was splattered on the cheek and neck not with blood, but with the pale slime of his semen. She recoiled, holding a hand up, as mayhem broke loose. Prisoners screamed and laughed along the hall. She heard the gate at the visitor's entrance buzz open.

"Agent Scully! Come back! " Lecter cried, and she hesitated, seeing Agent Mulder and two other guards appear behind the gate. "Agent Scully!" he cried again, and she turned back, rushing to his cell.

"I would not have had that happen to you," he said, rushed. "Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me."

"Then do this test for me!" she pleaded, her voice caught in her throat.

"No," he said, "but I will make you and Agent Mulder happy. I'll give you a chance for what you love most."

She could smell the semen in her hair. "And what is that?"

"Advancement, of course," he said, his face inches away from hers. "Listen carefully -look deep within yourself, Dana Scully. Go seek out Miss Mofet, an old patient of mine. M-O-F-E-T!" he said, his voice racing. Chaos was still breaking out behind her. "I don't think Miggs could manage again, even if he is crazy. Go now!" he cried, and she ran.

She ran down the hall with voices leering at her, and dashed toward Agent Mulder, who stood there, his eyes locked on her. The second she passed the gate it closed behind her and she dropped the briefcase and the questionnaire, her hands shaking. Mulder had one of Barney's paper napkins in his hand and immediately wiped at the semen on her cheekbone and temple while she stared at her hands and willed them to stop trembling like autumn leaves, clinging desperately to the branch.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling like she was blubbering. "I got near the glass, and I let him inside my head, I'm-"

Mulder picked up the briefcase and tossed the questionnaire into a nearby trashcan, draped her coat over the same arm, and took one of her hands, squeezing it. "You did great. I'll go finish up with Chilton, you can go to the car if you want."

She nodded, and walked beside him as they made their way back. This time she wasn't scurrying behind him, he was walking to fit her pace. "I'd like to clean up first," she admitted.

"Of course," he said. "Let's find a bathroom."

In the bathroom, with its out of date wallpaper and chipped tile floor, she braced herself on the edge of the sink and stared at her pale face in the mirror. How, after barely revealing anything about herself, had he managed to see that far inside her head? Her biggest insecurity -disappointing people. Today she had disappointed herself, Agent Mulder, and Crawford, who'd given her only one job to do. She dabbed at her eyes and smoothed her hair back into place, then washed her hands. When she opened the door, she saw her coat draped on a stairway bannister opposite. Agent Mulder was finishing up with Chilton. She put on her coat and took a deep breath, listening to their voices as she went to the front door of the building. She felt like a butterfly under a bell jar, flitting around, desperate for escape, only to encounter glass walls that were indistinguishable from the air she'd known so well.

Agent Mulder came out of Chilton's office and closed the door behind him, then gestured for her to open the front door. They exited together, the bell jar lifted, and she took a second to breathe in the fresh air. It smelled slightly mossy, and filtered through her lungs, cleansing them. Part of her didn't care that she had failed in her assignment, she was just glad to be out of that building, away from the moans and screams. Luckily, her specialty was working with the dead. She followed Agent Mulder to the car.

Inside, he buckled up but didn't turn the key in the ignition. She looked at him, hoping he couldn't see that she'd been crying.

"I'm sorry," she breathed.

"You were good," he said firmly.

"What? But I didn't get him to fill in the questionnaire!"

He shrugged. "I told you, I didn't think he'd even talk to you. You lasted over twenty minutes, Scully." He smiled a little. "You should be proud."

The corners of her mouth twitched, but worry quickly replaced relief. "What do I tell Crawford?"

He started the car, turning on the heat after he saw her shiver. "Tell him what happened. He'll want a report on Wednesday morning. I'll be submitting one, too. If he has any questions, he'll let us know."

She debated asking, then decided it was important for her to know. "Is that why Crawford chose me? Because I'm a woman? They thought Lecter would speak to a woman more easily than a man?"

Agent Mulder dribbled his thumbs on the steering wheel for a moment, then exhaled. He looked at her. "Crawford's a good guy, and he was confident in his decision when he picked you. But I can't say with any certainty that he chose you without taking the fact that you're a woman into account."

On the drive back he gnawed at his bottom lip. She was exhausted, but knew she wouldn't sleep tonight. Whereas before he had seemed calm, now he seemed wired. "Agent Mulder, what is it?"

"When Lecter said 'yourself' the intonation was strange. Your-self. Two words." He didn't look at her, a little lost in the wheels turning inside his head.

She shrugged. "So? Technically, it is two words. What, you think he did it on purpose?" She took his silence as an affirmative answer. "Why does it matter?"

"I think he knows something more, something…"

She looked at him, almost laughing it was so absurd. "You don't think Lecter has any connection to Buffalo Bill? How could he? He's been in prison for years!"

He looked at her and shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

"I highly doubt the slightly different intonation on the word 'yourself ' from the mouth of a serial killer who's been behind bars for almost a decade is going to lead us to Buffalo Bill, Agent Mulder."

His eyes danced.

"What?" she asked, thinking he was making fun of her.

He laughed. "I'm just not used to having someone disagree with me."

He probably had a point. His reputation spoke for itself. If Agent Mulder was as good at writing profiles and solving cases as everyone said, she imagined that he wasn't often met with resistance. He'd been working for Crawford and Patterson for a few years, and he knew his stuff. Crawford had assigned Mulder to help her in the role of a mentor, and she should probably respect that boundary. But his obsession over one word (or two, as he insisted) was laughable as a probable clue.

"I didn't disagree with you, Agent Mulder," she clarified. "I challenged the validity of your theory."

"Ah, is that what they're calling it these days?" he quipped.

A/N: I know this first chapter is long, and will be using a lot of dialogue from the film (as I don't have the book to reference), but the dialogue will become more original as the story continues on. Please let me know what you think if you've got a moment!