Let Us Go Then
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table..."
They are standing frozen in the lab when Crawford gets the call. He takes it alone, turning his broad shoulders and cradling the phone to his ear until his mutterings are all but incoherent to the people standing in the room. Without Crawford to study, Beverly turns her attention elsewhere. Her eyes wander over immaculate Alana, twirling her hair, and fidgety Will, tapping his feet. Beverly finds a small stab of sympathy for Will that she sees mirrored in Alana's face.
But Beverly's gaze roves on, until her chocolate-brown eyes lock onto the side profile of Dr. Lecter. He is leaning against the wall in one of the back corners and she has wedged herself in the other. A feeling akin to jealousy washes over as she takes in the rich color-coordination of his suit. Plaid again, with a silky blue tie to match one of the threads of color that runs through his jacket and pants. Beverly glances away from him, into her reflection on the opposite glass wall, and fluffs her hair self-consciously. She knows she can look all right without primping. Beverly Katz is her clothing: gray, worn tactical pants, tough leather jacket, nondescript t-shirt. Her long black hair is her only vanity. She wears sensible shoes. They are not so sensible as to keep Beverly from a second look at the Doctor, to keep her eyes away from taking in his patrician features. He was an interloper, an exotic, a peacock among tired chickens. And she'd kill for his fashion sense.
"Pack it up and move it out," Crawford says angrily, eliciting a flinch from Will and nothing much from Alana Bloom as Crawford snaps his cell phone into its holster.
When Katz turns her eyes back to Dr. Lecter she finds him looking at her, head tilted, gaze passive and calm. Beverly Katz blinks owlishly at him, unwilling to look away first. Hard city girl, arms crossed, more caustic as the years wore on. What're you lookin' at? But his line of sight slides over her, whisper-silent as silk, no offense meant, and he moves toward the exit. Hannibal Lecter, with his extra six inches in height, beats her to the door. When he opens it without exiting the room, it gives her pause.
"After you," Dr. Lecter says politely, and Beverly Katz nods as she brushes past him, knowing it isn't enough.
"Thank you," she adds, the words cumbersome and dormant on her mouth, but after all it is a heavy door.
"You're welcome."
The small courtesy, so easy to him, so natural, stuck out to her in a place where men and women lost themselves in the blunt, cold nature of their work and became immune to everyday warmth. Bev snuck another glance at Dr. Lecter from the corner of her eyes. The finish the walk to their grim procession of SUVs in silence.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are always greatly appreciated. One of the lines in this one-shot (specifically the line "She knew she could look…") was ripped from The Silence of the Lambs and I will be trying to sneak in more direct quotes from Harris as I go along.