The Doctor was practically beside himself as he strode out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Clarice… well, she was something else entirely. He had not, in many years, been quite so tempted; but the soldier was unique. She was extraordinary. Her form was soft and light, her skin the smoothest thing he had ever laid a finger on. It had been a struggle of epic proportions to maintain a sense of professionalism around her, but he had done it; barely. He had not let his eyes linger upon the more delectable parts of her body, as much as his own head had screamed at him to simply take what he desired.
And he had desired her.
Which was why he had to leave. He would return later when he had gotten himself under control. Hannibal didn't want her to be alone in the bathtub for too long in case something happened and she hurt herself. On the other hand, there indeed were preparations to be made for dinner tonight. He needed to start their meal, as well as a separate meal for Clarice. He would not disrespect her by serving her his latest victim. Crawford on the other hand, was on the menu. He had no love for the man.
He had plans to make a fine scarpariello for himself and the superior Crawford. It was always amusing to twist his enemies around his finger, maneuvering them into situations they'd never find themselves in without his influence. Of course, the meal would be delectable as always. He was a monster, but a cultured monster nonetheless. Hannibal figured that he wouldn't waste his best wines on the man, but for himself and Clarice, perhaps an American Gewürztraminer. Aromatic and inherently sweet… he imagined that the soldier would enjoy it after presumably living off of whatever dirt spirits they had concocted in the trenches.
Hannibal sighed to himself lightly as he swept through the hallways like a ghost, heading towards the kitchen. He had set up the dining table earlier that night with his finest china and silverware - a ploy he employed to show off in front of Clarice, as well as his other, less desirable guest. This was his home, his kingdom. He was in charge here, and he wanted everyone to know; in his own way, of course.
The kitchen was lit by the afternoon light pouring in from the window. A few leaves brushed the panes of glass on their way to nowhere, disappearing into the distance. He approached the icebox where the remains of some poor comatose soldier laid. Removing the plastic container, the Doctor peeled back the lid and gazed at the contents inside.
Human flesh looked like any other animal out of context. He likened it to a young calf - quality veal, although in much greater quantities obviously. His sensitive nose picked up the vague metallic smell that wafted up with his motions; the blood that had been washed away.
Carefully, he lifted up the last of the slices - torso and biceps - and laid them onto the cutting board that was sitting to his left, as well as digging up a small amount of fowl he had squirreled away for Clarice earlier that week. Doctor Lecter removed a knife from the cutlery block, the blade making a sharp sound as he drew it from the wood. It was long, and it glinted in the dying sunlight. With precision he had mastered over many years of carving, he began to slice the flesh into long ribbony strips.
He became immersed in his work, watching with fascination as the blade flowed through the meat as if it wasn't even there. Barely any pressure was required, it as good as fell apart in his expert hands. However, soon he was finished.
Setting down the utensil, he reached under the counter and pulled out a large mixing bowl. The Doctor then located a bag of flour and poured a liberal amount into the bowl, then dropped the strips of muscle in after. A little cloud of grain dust erupted into the air and rained down like mist. Hannibal coated everything with his hands thoroughly.
Doctor Lecter washed quickly in the sink, and then prepared a skillet, coating the bottom with butter and olive oil. The meat covered in flour soon followed. It sizzled against the heated metal, the liquids below hissing in complaint. The room filled with the scent of his cuisine. Hannibal leaned backwards lazily, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He was in his element truly.
The moment was short lived however, as soon he had to remove it from the flame of the stovetop. Doctor Lecter instead shifted the skillet to a lower heat to keep it warm. The Doctor returned to his cutting board, reaching around to pick out the shallots and garlic he had purchased the day before in anticipation of this all-important dinner party. With knife in hand, Hannibal cut the ingredients and added them to his skillet along with the slips of charred meat.
Soon the butter and oil was hissing again. Steam rose from the mixture, following the invisible trails of heat meandering upwards. There was a bottle of white wine sitting next to the stovetop, the top end uncorked. Hannibal grasped the glass neck and tipped it into the skillet. The liquid screamed as it hit the heated surface of the metal pan, partially erupting into an explosion of sweet-smelling smoke. Idly, the Doctor tipped the mixture around, mixing the contents evenly. It hissed lowly like an animal as it hit the unevenly heated surfaces.
The Doctor stepped away, turning down the heat and letting everything simmer. He knew he had to go back to check on Clarice. While he seriously doubted she had managed to get herself into any sort of trouble, it would be irresponsible to leave her to herself for much longer. However, Doctor Lecter was torn. He very much did want to see her, especially in her state, once more. On the other hand, Clarice was proving difficult to keep at arms-length while maintaining a semblance of professionalism. It was bothering him. He'd never had trouble keeping his composure before. This was something that seriously irked him.
Still, he wouldn't allow his emotions to control him. Hannibal closed his eyes casually, his lids flickering. The Doctor's head rolled backwards and he took a deep breath, stilling himself. With one of his senses cut off, it was as if all of the others had been heightened. Doctor Lecter had always prided himself on being a man built of quality materials, and it was evident even now. He could smell the meal he was making. He could hear the quiet crackling of the stovetop. He could even feel the subtle shifts of the heat in the cool air…
But he could also feel the presence of Clarice. Her natural perfume lingered in the air, distilling throughout the house like water flowing beneath a slick of oil. Hannibal's eyes shot open in annoyance. Control, he needed control. There was no way he'd find it like this… being taunted by her at every corner.
Still, there really wasn't much to be done about it apart from simply leaving. That was something he could not do. There was nothing left except to brave her being. Doctor Lecter rolled his neck, listening as his muscles protested and popped. With a small frown, the man washed his hands and began to return to the soldier. Returning to his Achilles heel.
His feet padded mutely against the tiles as he walked down the hallways, weaving through the labyrinth of his home. Hannibal felt tense as he drew nearer and nearer to the bathroom where Clarice surely still laid. He felt his consciousness tug against his mental leash, trying to reflect on how she had looked, how she had felt in his arms. Something akin to a low growl vibrated in his throat as he ripped his mind back into place. Hannibal could imagine the feel of her soft skin as he had her in his grasp, even if it only was for a brief moment. Clarice was so light, she seemed frail. He knew better, of course; but that didn't stop him from feeling a particular desire to shield her from all the world's troubles. He wondered how the soldier would feel if she knew of his inclinations. Indignation? Gratefulness? The Doctor wasn't entirely sure.
It was all too soon when Doctor Lecter found himself in front of the bathroom door, the thick oak wood the only tangible thing separating himself from Clarice. He listened closely, allowing a moment of silence to permeate the air in a false sense of calm. The sounds that came from the other side were muffled, but not subtle enough to escape Hannibal's impeccable hearing. The gentle sloshing of water against the porcelain sides of the tub, accompanied by the sweet scent of soap and something more feminine seeped out from under the door. It nearly caused the Doctor to lose his composure yet again.
Doctor Lecter let his knuckles rap against the wood, the sound resonating throughout the hallway. The light splashing paused, and he could almost hear Clarice's breath hitch in response to his presence. "Come in," her voice came a second later.
Hannibal entered the room. The sheer curtain was partially drawn, obscuring the soldier's torso and only leaving her long legs within view. They curled in the water, languidly stretching out to the extent of the length of the tub. He did his best to ignore her form, taking a casual seat on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He folded his hands in his lap and turned to face her. He could see her silhouette through the shower curtain.
"How are you doing, Clarice?"
Her shadow moved, leaning to the side so she could drape an elbow over the porcelain wall. "It's been a while since I've been so relaxed," she admitted. "Last time I had a real bath was when I was in the states." The soldier sighed slightly, quietly.
The Doctor hummed in response. "Your accent… it's from West Virginia."
"Yes, how did you…?" She sounded startled.
He considered going all-in with his explanation. He'd been to America a couple of times for various reasons. Hannibal would be able to pick up on her poorly-hidden cadence even if he was dead. Clearly she was from the rural parts of the state, and by process of elimination a small town. Most likely one borne of coal mining, as that was the only industry worth investing in in the east. City-dwellers and rubes had different vocabularies. Her father likely worked as a miner, although he couldn't be sure. That could tie in somehow with why she was in the army to begin with. Maybe her father was injured or killed in a mining accident. Maybe she couldn't care for herself without a job, and women weren't generally hired for much of anything, especially in America.
Oh how he could imagine her discomfort with the way a lady was treated, especially in coal country. Clarice was one of strong character. She wouldn't stand for ornery interactions. All of those libidinous boys, chasing after her and never taking no for an answer… The soldier somehow finding hands in places they shouldn't be, and her protestations falling on deaf ears. She could only dream of a better life, an escape that might never come. But it did.
A frown crawled onto his lips as he felt his muscles become tense. The Doctor didn't like the idea of anyone harassing her. He very much did not like it.
The soldier was still waiting for an answer, he realized. "You're not the only one who has been to the United States, Miss Starling. Besides, you don't do a very good job covering it up."
Clarice huffed, although it was more out of vague amusement than it was of exasperation. "How is it that you seem to know so much about me?" she asked suddenly, her last words chopped as if she had surprised herself by asking.
Ah, now that was an interesting question. He considered his words for a moment before answering. "You… fascinate me, Miss Starling. I've said as much before. Things seem much more entertaining wherever you are involved I must admit. Besides," he paused, smiling slightly and leaning forward. His tone of voice dropped and became quiet and low. "I do like looking at you. I can't help but wondering though… do you find me as palatable as I find you?" he asked, the smirk climbing up the side of his face.
There was a heavy silence now. Hannibal watched in satisfaction as he noticed her breathing pick up. He could see her silhouette facing him through the curtain, the whites of her eyes visibly wide as they stared at one another from opposite sides of the room. While Hannibal enjoyed her discomfort, he was surprised to find himself anticipating her answer. Doctor Lecter wasn't sure if he disliked his failure to remain aloof, or if it was something that angered him beyond reproach. He was uncomfortable with this silence either way.
"Doctor I…" There was a certain amount of panic in her voice, as well as an emotion broiling just barely below the surface. It was something he wasn't familiar with, like a foreign entity. "I am so thankful to you for what you've done for me, but I'm not sure… If I can…"
Hannibal leaned backwards. She was lying. Clarice wanted him, even if it was by only a slim margin. Doctor Lecter felt comfortable in this knowledge. But there was something else. There was a tight feeling in his stomach. This wasn't good enough for him. And then he realized.
He didn't just desire Clarice. He wanted her.
It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Hannibal didn't want Clarice to leave when she was healed. She was simply too interesting to let fly away in the wind, like a bird leaving for the winter; never to be seen again. She was too clever, too strong, too determined. The soldier was comparable to what he wished every person was like. Less ignorant and more thoughtful.
Still, he knew he wouldn't be able to force her hand. This was something she'd have to come to terms with on her own. Doctor Lecter was a patient man. Surely this was something he would be able to wait for without much trouble, right? Still, something in the back of his mind was letting him know it wasn't going to be that simple.
"Of course, Miss Starling," he said evenly. "I think it's time you get dressed for our guest, don't you think?"
"Uh, yeah," Clarice said, seemingly uncertain at the sudden change in conversational topic.
"You'll have to allow me to help you out of the tub, of course," Hannibal continued in a conversational tone. He watched as she began to shift around, marginally uncomfortable yet resigned.
"Right."
He got to his feet and stretched out his arms, hands still folded together and knuckles popping as he bent his fingers backwards. The Doctor approached the woman in the water, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see. While he may have had that little revelation only moments before, he was still a gentleman.
Doctor Lecter pulled back the curtains separating him from Clarice. The water was a fair bit cloudier than it had been a little under an hour earlier, which obscured most of what laid below the surface. This was convenient for him and, more specifically, his self control.
Hannibal allowed his gaze to meet Clarice's. She seemed to be holding so much back. It was almost as if he could read everything going on in her head from behind her eyes. Still, Hannibal continued to keep his calm facade, merely extending one hand out to the woman below him. A moment later, the soldier clasped his hand, grasping her slick skin tightly. Careful not to let his attention stray from the more decent parts of Clarice's body, he reached down and wrapped his arm around the woman's torso. His fingers curled around her shoulder, and hers around the fabric of his shirt.
She was light as he pulled her upwards, the water raining back down into the pool below them. He felt her warmth against his side, a feeling that he decided was quite pleasant. Doctor Lecter stole a glance at her face. He was surprised to find that she had been watching him with a scrutiny that rivaled his own. Her eyes flickered away once he caught her staring.
They made their way across the tiles towards the toilet, where Hannibal carefully lowered Clarice down until she was sitting easily on the cool porcelain. Once he was sure she wouldn't hurt herself, the Doctor ducked away to retrieve a towel from within a cabinet nearby.
Clarice reached for it, but in a split second Hannibal had wrapped it tightly around her body for her. He noticed in satisfaction as the slightest blush graced her cheeks.
"Thank you," she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. Her eyebrows furrowed. "What am I going to wear for this dinner tonight? Hospital scrubs?" Her face scrunched up further. "I can't do that. Jack will definitely notice something is wrong right when he first saw me."
Hannibal hummed halfheartedly. That was something he had already accounted for. "I took the liberty to put something together for you, if you don't mind. You'll look entirely normal to him."
This time, the soldier allowed herself to make eye contact with him.
"You do trust me, right Miss Starling?" the Doctor asked, his voice slightly quieter than he had anticipated.
"I do," she answered.
That was not a lie.