Clarice Starling unfurled her newspaper and placed it down on the scarred table, sighing. Nothing new there. Not even a murder or a drug raid for her to join or report. Nothing.
She picked up her coffee and swirled it around, trying to rake up the last dregs of flavour. Noticing the white layer on top of the cold brown liquid and wrinkling her nose slightly, she gave it up as finished and stood, intending to clean the mug while she was here. She had nothing better to do, after all. No places to be, people to see or lambs to save.
The truth was that Clarice Starling-recently qualified FBI agent, passed with flying colours and in the top quarter of her class-was bored. Seriously bored. No assignments had come out for her yet, and she was spending her days doing-of all things-paperwork. She shuddered at the memory of the three thousand page report she had filed only yesterday, after having spell checked it, grammar checked it, and ensured all the information was accurate. Twice, for good measure. She remembered her father when she was younger repeating constantly-it had been his favourite saying-"If you do something, do it right. Don't matter what it is, give it your best." And she had tried, really, she had, but...paperwork. Really?
Evidently there was a God, and he hated her.
Ardelia, damn her, had already taken part in two drug busts and a car chase. Although the car chase had been more accidental than anything-Ardelia still swore to Clarice, a week later, that she had only been chasing him because she thought it was a way of flirting and she'd had no idea he was running away after a jewellery heist. Clarice doubted that, but it was comforting that her friend wanted to protect her feelings and she allowed her to continue the deception. It didn't fully help her bitterness though when she remembered that the most paper Ardelia had had to file this week was a birthday card. Clarice's birthday card.
Snapping herself out of her rut, Clarice shrugged on her FBI jersey waiting on the radiator and slipped her house keys into her pocket. It was her birthday, and she was going to go for a long, 10 mile run to forget all about it. Another birthday gone, another day passed by. There would be no celebrations, no candles, no presents except the necessary few. She had ensured it; she had endured enough awful birthdays at the Lutheran orphanage when she was younger to never want to celebrate the day again. The memories it stirred up were painful enough, she didn't want to add singing and sickly sweet frosting to the day as well.
But as she opened the door, stepped outside, felt her lungs contract at the first hit of cold air and watched her breath cloud around her head, finally feeling calm, she heard the phone ring.
In later years, Clarice Starling would look back on this moment and wonder. What would have happened if she had closed the door and let the machine take it? What would have happened if she had run away? Would any of it have happened if she had done that, if she had fled, turned tail and pelted away as far from that phone as she could?
She wondered.
But in this present moment, with her breath unfurling like the streamers she was so desperately avoiding, and the soles of her feet itching for a good pounding, Clarice Starling nevertheless turned on her heel and ran to the phone in three straight leaps. She did pause before she picked it up though, hesitating, just for a second. Who would it be? Who could it be? Who did she want it to be?
But then, with the single mindedness that had served her so well for so many years, Clarice Starling set aside those emotions and focused on the task at hand. She picked up the phone, held it to her ear and barked "Starling" into the receiver.
"Starling, it's Crawford. We've got him."
Her world spun. Her heart stopped for one moment and she saw his face. For which other his could it be? She snapped back.
"Very good Sir. Very good."
And indeed, it was. Very good.