It is all too easy to tell he is being watched. The pale blue eyes almost hidden in darkness are not very subtle as they rake over him, drinking in every piece of information they can. But there is promise, he tells himself silently, the knowledge being carefully placed away for use on another day. For now, it is all too easy to present to her the same careful mask he presents to the rest of the world.
Calm and grace have not always come easily to him. It has taken years of careful work and self-taught restraint to present himself as he does. He wears it well, this carefully shaped mask, though if one had the chance they might see that it's a tad too thin in some areas. The beast hidden beneath is starting to make more appearances as of late. The doctor blames it on the rudeness of those he encounters. Never himself.
He has his own faults. Rudeness is thankfully not one of them.
Stepping up to the glass, he raises his chin. Quiet and collected, he lets his own deep maroon eyes meet the blue ones staring up at him. She is sitting on the floor, where the shadows are most prominent. An easy place to hide, and likely the only one in the too small cell. There is a cold intelligence in the gaze meeting his, a small pleasure he had not meant to find on this trip. Perhaps Crawford has not been wasting his time as much as he has assumed.
He can see the barest hint of straight white teeth in the darkness, and for a moment he wonders if she's snarling at him. But no. It's a smile. A cold smile, filled with a quiet malice that sends a small shiver of pleasure down his spine. He watches the smile grow as the watchful eyes take in the slight movement, though it widens for the wrong reason.
The doctor leans over slightly, placing his briefcase down carefully next to the chair that has been left out for him. His gaze leaves hers, those pale blue eyes that take in far much more than he would wish them to, to trace over what little of her form he can see in the shadows. One foot and part of a calf are slightly illuminated by the light coming into her cell from the hallway, and he can see the shape of muscles just outlined by shadows.
"Good afternoon," his voice is smooth and open. A carefully constructed illusion to make patients feel like trusting him more. "My name is Hannibal Lecter. I am here because Jack Crawford from Behavioural Sci-"
"I am aware," her voice is cool and crisp. There is a slight hint of a Virginian accent, though the man can tell she tries hard to hide it. "Of who Jack Crawford is, Doctor Lecter."
He watches with mild curiosity as the foot disappears into the shadows, though the sensation is almost washed away by a slight feeling of distaste. It is rude to interrupt someone when speaking, something the woman was obviously aware of when she spoke over him. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, he begins to move to take a seat but stops when he hears the faint rustling of clothing.
Hannibal looks up in time to see the woman emerge from the shadows, her footsteps silent and confident. She knows every inch of her cell, is Queen of everything in it, and Empress of every soul hidden away in this lonely basement. Her back is straight, her chin lifted, and there is a certain level of calculation in her gaze he had not expected to find. It sends a quiet thrill of excitement through him. A pity she had gotten caught, she would have been truly formidable if she had the chance to grow into herself.
Now that she has emerged the doctor can take the time to study her. He can remember the pictures the newspapers had shown, though they paled in comparison to the woman standing before him now. A common thing in newspapers he found. Taking in her pulled back hair, he allows himself a small smile. Red. Strange, he remembered it being dark in the photos. Perhaps it had been dyed previously and now the true colour was appearing after so many years in captivity. And it had been cut recently, if the straight edged ends were anything to go by.
Her face is clean, unsurprising considering she is a prisoner, but the skin is smooth excluding a single spot just below her right eye on the curve of her upper cheek. The dark mark from gunpowder, something that should have disappeared years ago but had likely stayed due to her constant picking of it and driving it deeper into her skin.
Beneath loose fitting clothing, he can make out the slight hint of curves paired with well toned muscles. She is not particularly tall, he had expected her to come up to the level of his cheek, but she only just passes the top of his shoulder, and yet she seems tall. The way she carries herself demands respect, and the way she stares him down makes her larger than her barely five feet.
"Hello, Agent Starling." He notices with some satisfaction that she twitches when she hears the title attached to her name. It is an obvious stab at her failed career, a career that should have begun with her solving the Buffalo Bill case. The doctor wonders if she ever fantasizes about what she might have been. A promising student at the Academy, she had graduated almost immediately after the Buffalo Bill case had finally been solved. The world should have been hers.
And then she had gone and murdered more people. The thought makes him want to smile and chuckle gleefully. Whatever had happened down in Jame Gumb's basement had broken the thin layer of protection that kept the true Clarice hidden from the world. If only he could have witnessed it. Such beginnings are always promising starts to the careers of serial killers. If she had had the chance he has no doubt Clarice Starling would have been America's true Angel of Death.
Lips curling in a slow smile revealing tiny teeth, he finally takes the seat left out for him. It creaks as he sits, the old metal joints worn down after years of use. The noise does not bother either of them, but it does set off a wave of screaming from two cells over. A cacophony he wishes he did not have to listen to, but will do so if only to have a brief look into the woman standing before him.
The lights in her cell finally flicker on, illuminating her tiny kingdom in fluorescent white light. It takes him a moment to shift his gaze away from her to take it all in and then focus back on her. There is not much in her cell outside of the basic necessities. Her mattress has been folded in half to make a makeshift desk at the foot. Beneath the metal frame on the floor lays a pile of neatly stacked paper with crayons. There is nothing hung upon her walls, so he makes the assumption that it is for writing, not sketching.
She does not shift from foot to foot, her stance well balanced and poised for action. Hannibal is not surprised. From the way her body looks, she has obviously been keeping up with the training regimen she started in the Academy, or staying as close to it as possible. There is little else to do with her long days he expects.
He must admit, she is not exactly what he had expected to find. When he had first spoken with Crawford about the nature of the assignment, the other man had warned him that the woman was impossible to talk to. And yet the woman standing before him is currently anything but. Cold and distant? Yes, that he can accept. But the stark raving lunatic Crawford had warned him about is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she shall arrive later.
"Hello, Doctor Lecter." The reply is slightly delayed for the man's liking, but he has received one at the very least.
"Are you aware of why I am here, Agent Starling?"
He watches her head tilt to the side, sending a stray piece of hair falling into her face. Blue eyes narrowing slightly, she hesitates for a moment before straightening. It is more than obvious why he's here, the only reason she ever gets visitors these days is for profiling reasons. Mostly students at the academy hoping to make a breakthrough of some kind. His lips twitch in amusement at the thought. He doubts many of them are able to get much out of her.
"You're here because Crawford asked you to do a profile on me. My guess would be that he believes you will be able to draw out a piece of information no one else has so far been able to."
Hannibal can't help but admire the way she speaks, careful and steady, as if she's considering her words before she says them. It's intriguing listening to the faintest traces of her Virginian accent struggle to come free of the constraints she's placed on it. For a moment he cannot help but wonder if there are moments it ever manages to appear. It would suit her, he thinks, this girl from the country. His eyes run over her form again, and he has to amend that statement. Maybe not a girl.
A small smile crosses his lips and he leans back in his chair. Crossing one leg over the other, he folds his hands and places them in his lap. "You are correct. Crawford has requested that I ask a few questions, nothing out of the ordinary I'm afraid."
The woman says nothing in response, her eyes searching his before she inclines her head ever so slightly. He cannot tell if that means she will actually speak with him and answer his questions the way Crawford wants her to, but at least it is better than outright refusal. He watches as she slowly sinks to the floor again, legs crossing over each other, her movements smooth and graceful. When she sits, her back is straight and her arms rest on the tops of her thighs. She doesn't speak, letting silence fill the space between them.
The doctor is only too happy to let the silence continue. He's grown comfortable with silence throughout the years. It's amusing, a game, waiting to see who will break the silence and speak first. It takes a few minutes, during which the two of them continue to listen to the screaming from a few cells over. He lets the yelling wash over him, imagining the man's mouth being permanently sewn shut before other things are opened. He wonders what part of the man would taste best, perhaps his lungs carefully prepared in a warm sauce and served on a small bed of jasmine rice with a few in season vegetables served on the side, dessert he believes would be a simple sorbet.
Sometimes it helps imagining the rude being taken care of.
"I attended a lecture of yours once, at JHU." He smiles when she breaks. Yes, he had known it would come, but it is still nice to know he had been right in waiting for her. "You spoke about sociopaths and how best to begin identifying them. I believe you also mentioned possible forms of treatments that could be started in early childhood."
Warm pleasure rushes through him at her words, settling in his chest. It is a great stroke to his ego to know another of his kind, or someone similar enough to his kind, knows something of his work. Perhaps it will be something to potentially bond over, if only so he can manipulate the answers Crawford so desperately wants out of her.
"I was not aware my studies on the treatment of sociopaths were followed so closely by FBI students."
Her lips twitch in what he assumes in amusement. "I was interested in a position in Behavioural Sciences, under Crawford. He always spoke highly of you and your studies, so it seemed like a smart idea to follow your research when I had the chance."
It had said she was interested in a position beneath Crawford in her file, so far no new information. Not that he expected any this early into their session, if one could call this a real session.
"What exactly do you remember of my research?" Perhaps the information Crawford wants to have will be hiding in the answers she gives him to the more general questions he asks.
"I remember your suggestions about starting treatment in children as early as five, because I disagreed with how early you believed it would be beneficial. I read your paper on behavioural treatments and the building of positive connections through the use of a reward based program and also disagreed with it."
"You seem to disagree with a lot of my research," Hannibal points out with a small smile, his tiny teeth showing themselves to the woman.
Clarice finally pushes the stray lock of hair from her face, her mouth a small thoughtful line as she moves. He can tell that she's thinking, trying to prepare her reply in a way that will be constructive and intelligent.
"No, I would not say a lot of your research. Only some portions of it, and only when it comes to your ideas and belief on sociopaths. I believe your methods of diagnosing and treating don't leave enough room for growth in young children."
"You think I give out the diagnosis far too easily."
Her gaze is direct and open when she answers with a steady, "In children? Yes."
"Why do you believe that?" He asks her steadily, intrigued by what her answer might be. This isn't the first time someone has disagreed with his research and his papers, but it's the first time someone has talked rationally and reasonably, offering the chance to discuss why they do not agree with it.
"I believe that diagnosing any mental illness in anyone under the age of approximately twelve doesn't leave room for the natural growth of the brain and personality."
"You believe that treatment for such things as sociopathy and psychopathy change a child?"
"That's what behavioural therapy is meant for, Doctor Lecter."
"So what would you suggest then, Agent Starling? No diagnosis in children under a certain age? You do realize that by diagnosing children and starting such things as behavioural therapy may be the only way to change future behaviours."
"Change but not always eradicate." He watches the woman shake her head ever so slightly, her expression is focused and thoughtful, something that makes his small smile grow. "Behavioural therapy cannot be used alone, Doctor Lecter. It has to be used alongside medication and other programs of therapy. By starting such therapies in young children you have the chance to severely damage their growth, not only in the brain, but with their personalities as well. For all you know the child could have grown out of the symptoms as they aged."
He nods slowly, understanding her point of view. Of course diagnosing anything came with the chance of a misdiagnosis, and therapy wasn't always the best solution for everyone. The chances of it hurting someone were always present. After all everyone responds to treatments differently, it was why he was able to pick a few off here and there.
Leaning back in his seat a little, he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he takes in what she's said. If he was to be honest with her he would admit that he does not believe that there is a cure for sociopathy, or even psychopathy. Much of what he has written in his papers is to keep the masses happy and to provide himself a cover. He has to admit though, there is a curiosity beginning to form about what she believes to be the right way to diagnose and treat either.
"And what would you recommend for a treatment, Agent Starling? Punishment for those who have it?"
"Medication, therapy, and an environment that's better suited to their needs."
"You of all people should know, Agent Starling, that medication and therapy are only constructive when the person is willingly seeking treatment."
He notices her bristling ever so slightly. Blue eyes narrow as she digests what the doctor's said to her. The sound of her mind working is almost palpable. For a moment he wishes he could see inside of her mind to listen in on what she's thinking.
"I of all people, Doctor Lecter?"
Hannibal can hear the growing anger in her voice, the defensiveness that suggests she might begin to close up on him. Sighing silently, he shifts slightly in his seat and wonders how best to climb out of the hole he's accidentally climbed into. Putting on what he hopes is a charming and reassuring smile, he brushes a piece of lint from his pant leg more calmly than he truly feels.
"If you've followed my research on sociopaths so closely, Clarice, you must follow the research of others. So when I say 'you of all people' I am simply making a reference to your rather wide knowledge of the subject."
Her blue eyes narrow, and the corners of her lips tighten minisculely. If one was not paying close attention they could miss the emotions and thoughts running across her face, but they are there if you look close enough. For a moment he wonders how closely anyone has bothered to look, even when she was in court being tried. Obviously not close enough if Crawford's asked him for a profile.
"So then what would you recommend, Doctor Lecter? A simple system of rewards for every good behaviour shown? Even you have to see that system would be easily manipulated even by the stupidest of sociopaths."
Slowly, Hannibal shakes his head. He can more than easily see the flaws in the theories he had put forward, had seen them even as he had written them, but he had done it mostly to hide his own shortcomings he hadn't really stopped to truly care. He still found himself not entirely able to, and dounted be ever would.
"You talk as if I actually believe that there are cures for sociopaths, Agent Starling."
"You've written papers on potential cures, doctor. If you didn't believe there were cures why write a paper about them?" One eyebrow rises. She is hoping to trip him up, to catch him in a moment of stupidity that she will be able to hold over him, to use as an excuse not to speak with him further.
If he were anyone else it might have worked.
"Those papers were written years ago, before several studies came out to prove that such treatments unfortunately do not cure sociopaths. Unfortunately, Agent Starling, in the years since writing those papers I, and much of the community, have come to the conclusion that there is no real cure for it."
Her chin rises a little, and he sees a flash of what he thinks might be desperation or fear in her eyes. But before he can determine if what he saw is right or not, it's gone, replaced by her usual careful cold and distant expression. For a moment he considers why she might have felt such a thing. One of the possibilities that comes to the doctor's mind is that she herself believes that she's a sociopath. Laughable, really. While she shows several possible symptoms of being a sociopath, he knows she doesn't have the more telling ones.
Silence descends upon them again, with Clarice unable to provide him with a response. He doesn't mind. Silence has always fit comfortably over him, and from the way the woman sits relaxed on the floor of her cell before him, he can tell that silence feels the same to her. So they sit together, watching and appraising each other. One separated from the world by plexiglass with holes, the other a part of the world but only by need.
He takes a moment to consider what he's learned of the woman. She is polite, except for the one interruption, but he is willing to rule that out as a rare occurrence; intelligent, as shown by her understanding and interest in his research; level-headed, which he had not expected to find after reading the report Crawford had given him; and most importantly, she is fearful. That he is more than certain no one else has been able to figure out. Clarice Starling hides her fear well behind a mask he believes few can or will ever be able to penetrate. But it is there.
And it is a useful tool for him.
Hannibal does not often have the chance to converse with someone like himself. Well someone partially like himself. He finds the idea more than a little intriguing, and finds himself considering the idea of speaking with her again. It wouldn't be hard to convince Crawford to let him continue speaking with her. A simple request to complete a more in depth profile on the woman over a longer period of time will be more than sufficient for him. He'll have to set aside some time during his week for Clarice.
Looking down at his lap where his hands still rest, he briefly turns his left hand to check the time. The watch's second hand ticks by slowly, and the minute hand shows that the hour Frederick Chilton has ungraciously given him is almost over. Frowning to himself, he silently makes a note to talk to Crawford about Chilton giving him more access to Clarice in the future.
The woman notices the frown and the doctor hears the rustle of clothing as she leans forward ever so slightly. She believes the frown to be a show of emotion that she will be able to use to her advantage; however, she will quickly learn that she is wrong.
"Is there a problem, Doctor Lecter? Somewhere else you have to be?" Is it just his imagination or is there a note of mild disappointment in her voice? She must be hoping to have more fun with him before he leaves.
It takes less than a heartbeat for him to realize that in this moment truthfulness might prove more beneficial to him than a lie. There was a vague mention of her dislike for the man who pretended to be King of her in her file, perhaps it would be wise to use this. "Unfortunately, Doctor Chilton has only given me permission to be here for an hour. An hour that he has sadly used most of on how to instruct me. Sadly, I don't believe his instructions on how best to interact with you have proven very useful."
At the mention of Chilton, Clarice's lips twist in a sneer. It's a beautiful sight to watch. Her lips, what he would assume would normally be a nice soft shade of red but are currently more white than red, stretch over two lines of perfect teeth that speaks of years of meticulous care. The more he explains the situation, the more the sneer turns into a snarl.
She must hate Chilton as much as he does to show such an expression to him. The thought fills him with warm pleasure. Perhaps there will be a certain level of pleasure to be gained from any further talks they have and not just for the answering of several of his louder curiosities.
"Let me guess," Clarice's voice is low with forced humour as she forces her snarl back into it's sneer. It's a fascinating process to watch. Hannibal watches as the woman forces air into her lungs and pauses long enough to push the deeper parts of her rage to the side for later. With more practice she could hide it better than she currently does. She'd be terrifying if she ever did.
"Do not approach the glass. Do not pass her anything with an edge. Do not let her inside your head." He has to blink as she slips into an easy imitation of Chilton. She's obviously spent a decent amount of time working on it. Another way to pass the long hours trapped in her cell.
She slowly uncrosses her legs and pushes herself to her feet. Her gaze does not entirely meet his now, and he can't help but wonder why. Perhaps it is the fact that she has shown him more than she potentially wanted to. Not that she would know about his mental notes on her fear. He doubts she realizes that he managed to catch the brief glimpse of it he had. Or perhaps it is the reminder that she is stuck in a cage and is now unable to control the currents of her life. Whatever it is, he can tell that she has now thrown up a shield so strong he'll be unable to get through.
"It was pleasant speaking with you, Doctor Lecter." Clarice's voice is detached and already sounds as if her mind is far away, focusing on some stray thought that has managed to catch her attention.
She turns away from him and silently pads across her tiny cell to the far side where she has a small stack of books waiting for her. All are either mass market or have had their covers ripped off, a sight that pains the doctor. A book should ever be treated in such a way. For a moment he imagines Chilton ripping the covers of the poor book off and his vision turns momentarily red.
When it clears he can see Clarice curled up in a corner of her cell, knees pulled up to her chest and a well worn book held carefully in her hands. Even from this distance, he can see her eyes moving slowly as she reads, clearly taking it all in with a concentration he knows he will not break, and admires her slightly for it. Maroon gaze still locked on her, he reaches for his bag and gently picks it up. With one smooth motion, he pushes himself to his feet.
He had meant to ask her about how she would potentially feel about more visits in the future, but he's not going to get an answer now. The Empress has dismissed him, and he must accept it. For now at the very least.
The drive back to his home has him turning over what he has learned about Clarice Starling. Fear is an important emotion to have, and one the doctor seldoms feels. It's what keeps what little humanity he has left together, though it's been a lifetime since it's been in anything resembling decent condition. Her fear leaves an unfamiliar taste on his tongue, almost metallic and slightly bitter. It's slightly unpleasant, though it does have the promise of something better hidden away.
It's as the man is pulling into his driveway that he comes to the conclusion that he will visit the woman again. His curiosity in her has risen since he's left the sanitarium, until it has become an itch he cannot scratch. He throws the car into park and sits, staring out the windshield for a moment and allowing himself a moment's more thought about Clarice. Outside the car the wind blows through the empty branches of the trees, rattling them together in the familiar sounds of autumn in the north-east.
Grabbing his bag from the passenger's seat, he exits the car, taking care to lock it behind him. It's a paranoid habit he's picked up over the years. It would be far too easy for some too observant agent or officer to get in as it was if they ever tried to look too closely, might as well try and make it a little bit more difficult for them. He stuffs his keys into the right pocket of his coat, the same pocket as always. Some might call it obsessive, and there are times the doctor would agree with them, but more often than not he simply does it because he believes everything has its place. His keys simply belong in the right pocket of his coat.
It was only a few steps to the front door, but he takes his time, enjoying the last few warm rays of sunshine of the season and the light breeze. Thankfully the door is easy to unlock, a few buttons pressed to put in his combination and he's in. The silence and warmth of the house is inviting. It envelops him and smoothes away some of the stresses of visiting the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane has created.
Toeing his shoes off, he nudges them into their place at the door before setting his bag down to the side of the hallway. He pulls his coat off in two smooth motions and drapes it over the arm of the chair set just to the side of the arch leading into his sitting room. Walking down the hall towards the kitchen, he replays the moment he first caught the scent of her fear over and over in his mind, analyzing everything he can. While fear is a useful tool, it does not take much to push an individual too far and he must be careful when using it. Crawford would not appreciate losing Clarice more than he already has.
Stepping into the kitchen, the doctor makes his way towards the fridge and opens the door. Reaching in, he pulls out a glass container with a red lid off of the middle shelf and places it on the counter. His afternoon on the phone with Crawford, followed by the visit to Clarice Starling has left him less time in his evening than he is used to. Ah well, he has been looking for an excuse to begin starting on the leftovers he has from this past weekend.
Heating his dinner and placing it on a plate takes only a few minutes. The longest part of putting his dinner together is choosing which of his wines would best go with the lamb. Ultimately he settles for a southern Rhône red, one of his more preferred reds. Pouring the wine into the glass, Hannibal admires the deep red of the liquid. He sets the bottle down on the counter and raises the glass, swirling the wine carefully before taking the tiniest sip. Just as perfect as he remembers it being.
Dinner is it's usual quiet and careful affair. The man takes his time enjoying the well cooked lamb and exquisite wine, letting the flavours of both drown his senses. He sits at the table for a few minutes once the food and wine are gone, enjoying the sensation of being satisfied. A feeling he didn't get from his meeting with Clarice, granted he had received less answers than he had gone in hoping for.
Running his fingers along the edge of the dining room table, the doctor considers the positives and negatives of calling Crawford tonight in order to set up more talks with his disgraced student. Perhaps it would be best to do it tonight, while the man still believes he owes the doctor a favour. Sighing quietly to himself, Hannibal presses his palms flat to the surface of the walnut table, and pushes himself to his feet to collect his dishes. Once everything has been carefully placed in the sink, and a mental note made to wash them later, the doctor makes his way to his study to make a few notes and call the head of the Behavioural Sciences Unit.