In Dr. Lecter's shrewd estimation, there was an unmistakable glint of stubbornness in Clarice's eyes today. She was standing stiffly in the middle of the cage, hands clasped behind her back. Even beneath the banal asylum garb, her musculature screamed tension. As it would be improper to openly stare much longer, he dropped his eyes to the blank notebook pages. As he dated them, he said "Why Clarice, today is February the fourteenth, nineteen ninety one."

"I know, Doctor." she said dryly.

His sharp teeth shone as he grinned. "Are you religious?"

A shadow flickered across her eyes. "Sometimes."

"Ah. Well, I think you will nonetheless appreciate this story. The Roman Catholic church would have us believe that Saint Valentine was a martyr. He was tortured horribly, you see, probably for someone else's sins."

"What kind of sins?"

"The details are disappointingly vague, but from what I can gather he sacrificed himself in order for unmarried lovers to continue sending each other obscene letters and consummating their professed love."

"Actions speak louder than words, I guess." Clarice bit back a smile.

Dr. Lecter's eyes brightened with humour. "Do you fancy yourself a martyr?"

She snorted. "If anyone is a martyr here, it's you, Doctor. It's very kind of you to spend Valentine's Day with me an' all, but haven't you got a wife waiting for you at home?"

He shook his head. He tested her. "No. And you, Clarice? Are there any men waiting outside for you?"

"Naw, just Ardelia." she chuckled. "Anyone that might have had me probably changed their minds after they found out about Paul Krendler."

"You made quite a gruesome example of him. I imagine that was meant to ward off any unwelcome suitors hmm?"

Regrettably, her enchanting demeanour slipped. "You seem to be the only one who's made any progress so far." She did not look at him.

Instead of replying directly, Lecter called to Barney. He lumbered over clutching an object wrapped in glittering red paper and a golden bow. "The Doctor asked me to give you this on his behalf." Barney scratched his head and blushed slightly. "He, uh, he can't exactly give it to ya himself, on account of all them rules, but-"

"Thank you, Barney." Dr. Lecter dismissed him crisply. He looked on in amusement as Clarice fumbled with the wrapping and her own bewilderment to open the gift. Satisfaction soared through him at the sight of her lovely, beaming face.

"This is real swell, Doctor." she stroked the fuzzy white bunny slippers delicately. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she put them on and curled her toes to feel the warmth. "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, Clarice. Barney told me that you say your feet are often cold, and since director Chilton had no intentions of doing so, I took it upon myself to improve your condition. And now," he added almost as an afterthought, "to business."

"Ask away, Doctor."

His penetrating eyes narrowed. "What did you find in Benjamin Raspail's storage unit, Clarice?"

A beat, then she replied quickly, "A head."

"Raspail's head?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"It was disfigured. Although I assumed it was severed from his body, we never actually found his body."

"Mmm. Yes, the pressing matter seems to be what happened to it."

Clarice crossed her legs. The slippers peaked underneath the folds of blue clothing. She appeared to be gathering her thoughts, clearing the cacophony from the chorus. Her head lowered. Dr. Lecter was practically holding his breath, urging her silently to speak. When she did, her voice was carefully controlled. "I filed him as a missing person, but…"

"So you fear the worst, just like Jack Crawford."

Her eyes widened at the mention of his name. "What's he got to do with this now?"

Dr. Lecter matched her strong gaze with the iron clad purpose in his own "He wants your help."

"Why?"

"I suppose, given your accomplishments in the Academy, he has need of your skill."

"But the FBI doesn't want me anymore!"

He could hear the anguish in her voice and he nourished it. "Why are you particular about the wants of the FBI?"

"It's all I know."

She was so soft, so compact in her martyrdom. This cage, this room, this asylum, this world-none could compare to the tortures of her own mind. Were they colourful? Were they loud, brazen and insistent on her continued pain? It could be a fuel, Dr. Lecter considered, something to draw upon for motivation. He chose to inflict longing.

"Then you must know more, Clarice."

"Mr. Crawford wants my help? D'you think…" she trailed off, the leaping skin of her neck shining with sweat. "D'you think the FBI will take me back?"

A beat, then he replied slowly, "Perhaps."

Clarice exhaled. And now, finally, he sensed her innocent greed. "Tell me how, Doctor."

"Jackie boy wants you to help find Raspail's killer."

"How the hell do I do that from in here?"

"Let me help you, Clarice."

Silence shrouded them for a few moments. Clarice walked to him and gripped the bars with desperate strength. "You know something, Doctor." It was neither a statement nor a question. It was a plea.

"I do." he demurred. "But for this to work, Clarice, we will have to take turns. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things, and we kill both of Jack's birds with our one stone."

This startled a laugh from her. Dr. Lecter tightened his lips to restrain himself from a crooked grin. His choice of words was, as always, deliberate yet the room for Clarice to misinterpret his meaning was uncomfortably large. He offered her quick wit a thousand praises.

"So in return for letting you dig around inside my head, Crawford might….unofficially...have me back with the FBI. I'm still waiting to hear the catch."

"No catch, Clarice. I assure you. Working on this case with you will allow me to continue your assessment, and I understand that Miss Mapp will also be indirectly assisting us."

"Crawford got Ardelia mixed up in this too? Sonuvabitch!"

Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow at her. He soaked in her fuming anger, tracing the pattern of her steps as she stalked her cage with elegant, leonine moments quite offset by her footware. Naked force of will rolled away from her in waves that seemed to flood between the bars, spreading and rising to her ankles, then chest, and then closed over her head. She was oblivious to the fact that all of her efforts at self restraint were useless; she was no more bound now than the tempest winds. Wild freedom blazed in her eyes.

"Alright." she replied harshly. "I'll do it. But only if I get a piece of your mind too, Doctor. Quid pro quo."

"As you wish, Clarice."

He declined to tell her that she already occupied a piece of his mind, a piece that would be allowed to substantially flourish under the conditions he would set for them. Whether or not she was able to stomach the more unsavoury pieces of him would be a testament to her courage.