The nightly sounds of the sanitarium echo down the brick and tile hall. It doesn't matter what time of the night it is, there is always something to listen to. Always something to keep the edge of sleep back for just a few seconds more, no matter how many times she covers her ears with her hands. She misses the absolute silence of her tiny home. Misses the way she used to be able to control just how much light she allowed into her room. Misses her bed.
A loud sigh leaves her from beneath the pillow as she finally reaches the conclusion that she's not going to sleep tonight. Arm snaking out from beneath the blanket, she wraps her fingers around the edge of her bed and pulls herself upwards. Both blanket and pillow fall from her as she sits up. Her hair, a mess from the restless turning she'd been doing most of the night, falls into her face and she grumpily pushes it away. It's too long for her liking, they never cut it quite short enough for her.
Her gaze lands on the television set just outside of her cell. The bright light drowns everything around in her harsh silver, making her eyes narrow in protest. Barney had been kind enough to turn down the volume and put on the subtitles when he noticed her starting to doze off at bedtime, and hadn't bothered to turn it back on when some noise had woken her up almost immediately after. She makes a small mental note to thank him for the kindness.
Sometimes it's the simplest things done by the orderlies that make life still seem appealing. That and the amusement of watching the dwindling parade of psychiatrists come through trying to pick her brain.
Humming softly, Clarice pulls herself from the bed and stumbles over to the sink attached to the far wall. Bending over to rest her hands against the rounded edges, she lets out a soft sigh. The smooth, white porcelain is cool beneath her warm palms and soothes a small part of her. It takes a long moment of staring at the short metal, faucet for her brain to remember how to turn it on. Her thoughts are dragging, taking their time forming and when they finally form something coherent she barely has the energy to acknowledge it.
Fingers curling around the tap, she turns on the cold water. As the water gushes out in an unsteady stream, she sticks both hands under the water and cups them. A moment later her face is soaked in ice cold water, and little rivers fall down her cheeks and chin. It cools her skin to the point that she shivers. Straightening, she reaches for one of the towels placed next to the sink on a slight stone shelf built into her cell wall. Pressing the rough material to her face, she lets out another sigh.
Her mind is slowly starting to take in the shock of the cold water. Thoughts begin to speed up again as she takes deep breaths with the towel to her face. Within moments she feels comfortable enough to pull the towel from her face and set it on the edge of the sink. Turning slightly, she stares at her bed for a moment, considering if she wants to spend the rest of her night laying down like she should be doing, or pacing.
In the end it's easier to pace. To burn off some of the energy she can feel starting to build in her limbs. Even after six years of being locked in her tiny cell, she still has yet to find a way to burn off the extra energy. She misses her daily runs, the chance to be by herself for a short period of time and work her muscles until they burn. A small part of her believes that it was easier to control her urges to be violent that way.
Legs sliding smoothly into motion, she begins pacing along her usual route, alongside the glass that lines her cell. If she so wished she could curl up in the furthest corner with her head pressed against the glass and keep watch down the hallway. Instead she restricts herself to the occasional glance down the hallway as she paces in front of the glass. After all, it's not as if there are people lining up to see a disgraced FBI agent. That part of her life in the sanitarium is long over.
Letting her mind drift as she paces, Clarice can almost remember what it feels like to walk somewhere free. Usually as she paces she recalls the woods that she used to play in as a child. The backyard of the house that she had grown up in had trees lining the far south side of the property, the beginnings of one of numerous forests around town. It had always been a place of freedom and happiness for Clarice while growing up. She and her sisters had spent several long summers exploring every inch of it they could until eventually they had felt more at home among the trees than they did in the family house.
If she concentrates she can almost remember what the woods smelled like after it had rained. The rich soil and moss mingling together. Bird song didn't always happen as often as she remembered it, but it makes her memories slightly more pleasant. So it stays. And every so often she catches herself tilting her head and concentrating on the soft, unreal sound as if it were her whole world.
It is at night that her memories most often threaten to overwhelm her. All come from a time that she has come to call "the before times". Before a short man with shit coloured hair allowed anyone he pleased to parade before her. Before her world had been restricted to her tiny seventy-five square feet. Before her rage had finally become too much to control. Before too many things.
Some nights she remembers the before times with a hint of longing. There had been so much she had wanted to do as a child and younger woman. So much she had planned on being for her family. But those ideas had disappeared the moment her father had been shot and killed. Or maybe she had been destined to snap either way. People had snapped for far less in the past and with far less rage than the woman possessed. Maybe it had just been what she was meant for.
But that thought stings.
To have gotten so far, and so close to everything she had wanted to be only for her to be broken - that had been their word, never hers. Before being able to truly work for her beloved Bureau… Yes it had happened to others, would continue to happen to others. But it had never been meant to happen to her.
No, she decides with a shake of her head as she continues to pace. There was no such thing as destiny, and even if there was she had been meant for more than disgrace. She had made it all the way to the FBI, that meant she had been better than others before her. Or maybe it just meant the FBI were all broken like she was.
Her thoughts continue to chase each other for the rest of the night. A never ending circle that dies down some moments, only to be picked up again by a lingering thought. When Barney appears at the end of his shift to turn the volume on the television set back up, Clarice barely notices. She simply tucks away the information for use later before returning to her thoughts. Barney will understand. He always does. It's one of the reasons she hasn't fully pushed him away yet.
Her internal clock, although slightly off thanks to the lack of windows in her cell or the hallway, lets her know when it's nearing time for breakfast. Not wanting the orderly that hands out breakfast to find her pacing only to report it to Chilton, she climbs back into her bed, legs folding smoothly underneath her. It's far too easy to slip the usual mask of passiveness over her face, the slightly frayed edges managing to stay together for one more day. Soon she knows she'll have to either fix them as best as she can or let herself dive into madness.
Perhaps madness would be the kinder option of the two to herself.
Or perhaps she is already mad. Her gaze flicks around her cell and prompts her to smile slightly to herself, lips curling just enough to hint at her amusement if anyone were to look too closely. It would make a certain kind of sense if her mind had snapped. Her only question was when.
Eyes narrowing slightly in thought, her mind instantly gives her two plausible instances when her mind might have snapped. The first is the night she made her first kill. If you can truly call what she did killing. In her mind she still sees what she did as nothing more than keeping the population in check. The second possibility is the night Chilton first managed to get his grubby little hands on her.
Dragged from her thoughts by the sounds of an approaching orderly, Clarice raises her gaze just in time to watch the morning orderly pushing the meal cart. The cart is ancient and covered in rust. And yet even it looks better than the man pushing it. Old before most of the sanitarium's inmates were even stirrings in their parents' loins, the man creaks more than the cart he pushes does. His face is covered in wrinkles and white whiskers, something that makes him look grandfatherly and warm. But she knows he was anything but.
The man has a hatred for most things that move, and absolutely loathes Clarice. For reasons she has never stopped to ask about. Sometimes a reason for hatred is not needed. Whatever reason that has made the man hate her is his own business. If he wants to find a way to get over it or beat the crap out of her he will. Or will at least try to if it came to a beating. Of that much she's sure of.
Gaze locked with the orderly's, she slowly rises from her bed and crosses to the center of her cell. They watch each other as they begin their usual morning ritual. Clarice never turns her back to the man, more than certain he will take it as a sign of disrespect and aggression; both are things he will twist to suit his own needs and desires. He in return never moves too quickly for her. He might be able to make life a living hell for her in many different ways, but he respects the fact that she would kick and scream the entire time.
It doesn't take long for her breakfast to get shoved through to her. The woman remains standing where she was in the middle of her cell, toes curled against the cold stone, until the man starts trudging down the corridor again. As always, she waits until the creaking of the cart disappears into the usual noises of the sanitarium before moving. Bare feet silent against the floor, she makes her way over to the tray in the wall waiting for her.
She's only three steps away from the tray when she realizes that it's empty. Lips baring themselves in frustration, she lifts the empty tray from the hole and stares at it in disgust. What a fucking asshole, she thinks to herself sullenly. It isn't the first time the man has done such a thing, and Clarice doubts it will be the last. More often than not the orderlies take out their anger and frustrations on the inmates.
It's just the way things work in hell.
A wave of anger rushes through her, snapping her limbs into action. Before she has time to rein herself in, she has thrown the tray at the plexiglass separating her from the world. The metal hits the glass with a reassuring clatter, and Clarice almost expects the world to shatter around her. For a moment she freezes. Blood pounding in her ears, she struggles to listen for the sound of approaching feet. She waits several seconds.
Hearing nothing she allows herself to exhale roughly. As fast as the anger had arrived it leaves her. The slight hollowness beneath her breastbone has her scowling at the faint reflection of herself in the plexiglass. So what if she had lost control of herself for a moment? It had felt good. And it isn't like it was something she did often.
Disappointed with herself, she turns away from her view of the hallway outside of her cell and stares moodily at her tiny world. She's still standing in the same spot, staring at the far wall, feet pressed firmly to the cold stone floor of her cell, several hours later when Hannibal Lecter once more walks down the hallway.
She's alerted to the man's reappearance with the slight muffled steps of his leather loafers. A soft sigh leaves the man, the sigh drags at his teeth and creates a slight whistle in the air. Lips curling slightly, her spirits lift ever so slightly now that she has the chance to speak with the man once more. She'll be able to apologize for her rude behaviour and potentially have a proper conversation with the man.
Turning, she lets her gaze skim over the man, quickly taking in what she could. Today the man wears the same shoes that he had the last they had spoken, though they have been freshly polished, judging from the faint whiff of polish she gets. His pants have been carefully pressed and ironed, along with his nice shirt. His hair is neatly trimmed, and his jaw smooth shaven. Nothing is out of place on the man. Obvious time and care have gone into his appearance, and that's something she easily finds herself respecting about the man.
"Doctor Lecter," she greets him before he has the chance to draw breath. Hands resting at her sides, she runs her fingers along the outside seams of her pants. A habit she had picked up during her first few years in the sanitarium. "I didn't think we'd be meeting again."
The man offers her a small smile and lifts his chin a little as she greets him. Today he does not have his briefcase, and the hand that had previously been carrying it seems slightly nervous without something to do. Or maybe she's simply reading too much into the fact that he's stuffed it into his pocket.
"Agent Starling, a pleasure again." His voice rasps ever so slightly, and Clarice is surprised to find a pleasing note to it that she hadn't heard previously.
Gesturing towards the folded chair sitting against the wall behind the man, she smiles. "Please, pull up the chair." Her head tilts to the side, her gaze watching the man pull his hand from his pocket and reach for the back of the chair. She resumes speaking as the man's beginning to sit.
"I would like to apologize for my behaviour the last we spoke. It was rude of me to dismiss you so." Doctor Lecter doesn't need to know that she truly doesn't feel overly remorseful, but if it means a decent conversation for a few minutes she'll pretend briefly. Lips curling in a slight, what she hopes looks apologetic smile, she adds on one last bit to see if he'll take the bite. "I'm afraid my mood has been rather unstable recently."
One of the man's eyebrows rises slightly, and for a moment she expects him to take the bait she had thrown him. But he passes over it without so much as a blink. "Please, Agent Starling, your apology is accepted, but really it was quite understandable. Think nothing of it."
Having expected a slightly different answer, Clarice pauses for a moment. Eventually she nods her head slightly accepting his words. As the man makes himself comfortable on the chair, the woman watches him glance around her cell. Trying to pull pieces of information about her from the cell. He'll have a hard time finding more than a few things out. She keeps her cell tidy and organized, everything has its place. Anything that could eventually betray a stray thought to the world safely tucked away.
Their gazes meet again, and the ex-agent finds herself sucking in air suddenly. For a moment she feels as if the man can see right through her, her thoughts laid out before him, exposed and revealing every little secret she has to him. It's a strange feeling, makes her feel like she's staring into the eyes of a snarling cougar armed with only a stick to turn it aside.
She does not like feeling like prey.
Inhaling roughly, she squares her shoulders and hardens her gaze. It was simply the way the light caught his eyes, she tells herself silently. For a moment the man's maroon eyes had appeared to be a brighter shade. One achingly close to the colour of freshly spilt blood. In the back of her mind she can recall the familiar metallic taste, the liquid warmth against her skin, the taste hot and heavy on her tongue-
"Agent Starling, I was curious if you would share with me what book you were reading as I left the other evening."
Humming softly, the woman glances at her pile of books considering the pros and cons of showing off her delicate treasures. After a quick glance back at the man, she comes to the conclusion that while there may be harm in letting him know about her books, there is nothing wrong with speaking with him about them.
"I was reading the first part of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy."
"Are you a fan of fantasy novels, Agent Starling?"
Head slowly moving from side to side, she moves to sit in front of the man. She's not entirely fond of the position, as she has to tilt her head upwards to look at him properly. Over the years, Clarice has found that it's often better to have the higher ground in everything, though for her short frame that was often difficult.
"Not entirely. But they're some of the few books Doctor Chilton will allow me to have." Resting her hands in her lap, she lets her smile grow ever so slightly. "I prefer horror novels more often than not."
"I must admit, I often don't find the purpose to a horror novel." He says it matter of factly, knowing that it clashes with something that she enjoys and appreciates. Either she will accept it or not. The woman finds herself pleasantly surprised by it. "I find the tension cheap and more often than not forced."
A soft snort leaves Clarice, making her shoulders rise slightly and her head turn to the side. "Isn't that the point of a horror novel? The fabricated suspense and poor storylines?"
"Perhaps, but I do enjoy my stories with a bit more depth to them."
"Would you prefer Shakespeare than, Doctor?"
She's speaking to him more than she previously had been. The man considers that a large step forward in learning more about her. Getting into his car this morning he had never expected the woman to be this talkative with him. True, the topic is only about books. But the kind of books a person is interested in reveals significant character traits.
Take his taste in books for example. Hannibal is more than aware that his love for the classics, poetry, and histories have many people insulting him behind his back. But the man finds caring is too far beneath him. Let the world say what it will, he is content and that is what matters.
Crossing one leg over the other, revealing a bit more of his black sock to her, he leans back in his chair. There are several answers he could give to that, but in the end he settles simply for the truth. "Dante, actually. I prefer his writing style to Shakespeare's."
He can tell that his answer has taken the woman by mild surprise. Her eyes blink once as she processes this information. The doctor finds himself smiling, amused that he has managed to catch her off guard. It's something that often happens with people, but the woman had seemed so confident in herself that it feels satisfying to defy her expectations.
If only she knew how similar they really were.
"And why do you prefer Dante over Shakespeare?" The question is being used to give herself time to recover. Hannibal can still see the slight tenseness around the corner of her eyes and mouth. Nonetheless he has to answer. Not doing so would be rude, though perhaps the woman deserves it for all the slights she has committed.
"I prefer the history to many of Dante's works, especially the art that goes with it that illustrates the wonderful story. After Dante's work was distributed the Church experienced an influx in their numbers due to the sudden fear in the masses." Clarice's eyes remained fixed on him as he speaks, listening intently to what he's saying. "Many of his ideas were adopted by the Church and his version of Hell remains one of the most widely believed in to this day."
He watches the woman shake her head. Red hair moving along her shoulders, he wonders for a moment how she kept it during her nights out among the worst humanity had to offer. Did she wear her hair up, to reveal her wonderfully curved white neck? Did she leave her hair down, using it to flirt with her next kill? Or did she have it pulled back as she did now, with only her bangs pulled away from her face?
The question wanders through his mind for a moment. It must be incredibly different when they each take care of their prizes. Would she be methodical about the way she took someone down, or would she give in to her passion? Chin tilting downwards ever so slightly, he studies the ex-agent for a moment. No. She had given into her passion, that's why she had been caught.
Oh, if only she hadn't. She's full of promise, this ex-FBI agent. A shame she's been locked away in this place. Very few deserved such a thing, least of all someone who at one point believed she was good. He wonders for a moment, about the possibility of her regretting what she did or regretting that she felt she needed to take such actions. Perhaps she merely felt she was keeping her promise to protect people.
Only time will tell. But it's currently time he has.
"I must confess I've never read it." There's a slight catch in Clarice's voice, that has the man pausing. Is it longing or is it apologetic? It's gone too quickly to truly tell. Judging from the pile of well worn books it must be longing.
"It's worth the read, even for someone next quite as interested in history as myself."
"In Italian or English?"
"Everything is best read in the language that it was written. So much of a poem is lost when you try to translate it. The words, although still pleasing, lose the beauty and flow that made it worth reading in the first place."
Hannibal pauses for a moment, looking the woman over. "I'm guessing you ask because you're unfamiliar with the Italian language."
"Sadly I am," the woman replies, though to Hannibal she doesn't sound all that sorry. "I only speak small amounts of Spanish and French."
That has his curiosity rising. He remembered reading very little about her history in her file, just enough to know that she was raised by nuns during her preteen and teenage years. Still he hadn't expected her to speak anything more than English, it's a pleasant surprise. He hopes it to be one of many.
Brushing a piece of dust from his pant leg, he tilts his head to the side to study the woman for a moment. She doesn't look all that dangerous to him, though he knows better than to assume such things. After all, his own looks reveal nothing of the monster buried deep within him. But he has had considerably more practice than she has at such things. Perhaps the best monsters were those that hid in the least likely of places.
"May I ask why French and Spanish?"
"Spanish was the only language taught at my high school, and upon entering university I decided to take conversational French." Her blue eyes blink slowly, and for a moment he wonders what she's thinking. "I studied both into my second year of university and became proficient enough to not get lost should I travel."
"And where is it you would like to travel to Agent Starling?"
A roll of her shoulders beneath the hideous grey of her prison uniform. Hannibal is more than aware that prisoners should have no real comforts, the punishment for being caught as he sees it. But the material of her clothing looks like it scratches at her skin and makes things unnecessarily uncomfortable. Perhaps a simple comment to one of the orderlies or even a member of the board of directors would enable it to be changed. Perhaps having that small favour hanging over her while making her more open to speaking with him.
"Might I tell you about Florence?" His voice is quiet as he asks, hoping that she'll open up more at the chance to have more than the cell crushing in around her if only for a brief moment.
Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, weary of his offer. The gesture amuses him, and he does not take any offense. At least not for the moment. She is right to be cautious, caution is what keeps the individual alive. Pity it took her this long to learn the lesson.
Without waiting for her to answer him, he continues. Let her figure out how she feels about it as he's speaking. "In the morning, the sun washes over the roofs, turning them a bright red. Everything gleams white and cream in the sunshine. Down by the water, it's peaceful, though one must search hard to find a place to themselves. The soft lapping of the water paired with the early smells of the bakery and fresh tea is like heaven."
Her eyes have closed as she listens to him, her lips parted ever so slightly. From where he sits Hannibal can't hear her heartbeat, but he's certain it's hammering against her ribcage. Smiling slightly, he runs a thumb along his pant leg taking care of a piece of dust. So Agent Starling is starved for a view. The doctor is more than able to use that to his advantage, the only question will be in what ways.
As the woman's eyes slowly slide open again, Hannibal comes to the conclusion that he'll figure it out eventually. He has all the time in the world that he needs. Leaning back in his chair, he watches the woman's face struggle to remain smooth and frustration free.
It's far too easy to catch the brief flashes of emotion once you know what to look for. One of the few ways having a degree in psychology has helped him over the years. Perhaps there truly was a reason for leaving his career as a general surgeon.
"I've always wanted to visit Europe," Clarice's voice comes out as a quiet rasp. Blinking in surprise, Hannibal watches the woman pull her knees up to her chest and wrap her arms around herself. It's a defensive position, and she's in it because she's revealing a part of herself. The doctor leans forward a little, not having entirely expected such a breakthrough so early on.
"The history, it's breathtaking. So much happened to propel the human race forward, and yet it's all barely a ripple in time."
"Does that bother you, Agent Starling?"
Her head slowly moves from side to side. It has a curious effect on the colouring of her hair beneath the lights. Makes it appear more copper. He finds himself wondering if it might be as soft as he imagines it to be.
"No. I don't believe that it does." Her voice gains a slight note of strength as she answers him, and he smiles slowly. "I've always known that I would have little impact on history, I was always more concerned about the people of the present and making their lives easier."
So she believes herself to be a white knight. Perhaps more prying would lead to the discovery of the true reason for her breakdown. It would have to come slowly though if he wants her to answer him without completely shutting down. A few weeks, if he's lucky. Never, if he's not.
"And history?"
"What about it?" She raises an eyebrow as she answers his question with one of her own.
"What are your thoughts?"
"History is nothing more than stories that we're supposed to teach ourselves on the bases that they hold some sort of important lesson." Her chin rests on one of her knees, and she fixes her gaze on his. "History is a story of fabrications that have been written by those who had power and influence, nothing more."
Hannibal hums softly and uncrosses his legs only to cross them again, this time his left resting over his right. "So you believe there is nothing to be learned from history?"
"I didn't say that, Doctor Lecter." Clarice smiles slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. "There's always a lesson to be learned. The only question is which lesson will you take away from it."
"And what lessons has history taught you, Agent Starling?"
"I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours."
Her words surprise him enough that he chuckles. Not something just anyone can drag from him. If he's not careful he might actually come to want more than their current conversations.
"I have learned, Agent Starling, that mankind is often tricked into following through on the most sinister of actions by being told they are working for the greater good."
His answer has caught her off guard. He can tell from the way her chest expands as she inhales suddenly. The sound of air rushing into her lungs doesn't quite reach him, but he can imagine it. It's a sound the doctor has become well acquainted with over the years.
"And yourself?"
She's taking the time to consider her answer now. Gaze sliding to the left, he wishes not for the first time, and he doubts it'll be the last, to know what exactly is going through her mind. Several moments of silence slip by them, during which the sounds of the sanitarium try to force their way back into their worlds. Thankfully neither of them let them.
"I have learned, Doctor, something quite similar." Clarice's gaze finally comes to land back on him, and he watches her nostrils flare slightly as she inhales through her nose. "Sometimes those who wish to do good do the most harm."
There is a slight hint of her own past, and the lessons that the ex-agent has learned clouding her answer. Not that Hannibal minds. She has every right to lament the actions she took that lead her to where she is now. But he wonders exactly what it is she regrets most. If he's lucky maybe he'll be able to get the answer to that question during their time together. It would certainly be a good piece of information to give Crawford.
"If you had the chance, where in Europe would you visit first?"
"Somewhere with trees. And snow," she's quick to add. Her face lights up as she talks about it. Grip on her knees loosening, she feels herself release a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The previous conversation had skirted too close to her own past for her to feel comfortable. This small talk is thankfully something she can handle.
"And maybe mountains."
"If that's the case I would recommend the Scandinavian mountain range."
If she were to close her eyes again, Clarice is certain she could see the mountains stretching before her. Once her daddy had brought her to see mountains. A camping trip in the middle of West Virginia that had ended with their tent being flooded in the middle of the night, but she had loved every moment of it. The memory, although it hurts, is one of few moments that she had with her father and she continues to treasure it to this day.
"And the snow?"
"Crisp and clean. And so white. You've never seen so much white in all your life."
Nodding slowly, Clarice allows her eyes to momentarily begin drifting shut. It sounds like the kind of place her father would have loved to see. If only they had had the chance to see it together. There is no doubt in her mind that things would have been completely different if they had.
But no, that's too painful a thought process for her current company. She must be strong.
"Your favourite place to visit, Doctor?"
"Italy." His answer comes easily, and with a smile that reveals his tiny, perfectly white teeth. "It has a little bit of everything for everyone. History. Architecture. People. Food. Wine. There is much to love about the country."
A soft chuckle has her shoulders moving slightly. She should have expected such an answer after his slight lecture on the importance of Dante, and how he spoke about Florence. More than a small part of her is jealous of the man for having the freedom to travel as freely as he does, and so extensively. The furthest she'd ever been from Virginia was Denver, and that hadn't been for lack of trying.
"What if I was to ask you for an answer other than Italy?"
"Then I'm afraid you'd have to settle for being disappointed."
She raises an eyebrow at him, mostly in curiosity. "Not even France?"
"Don't get me wrong, Agent Starling, I do love France. It's history and wine are almost as marvelous as Italy's, not to mention the wonderful artwork."
"But there's something you're not saying."
Hannibal inclines his head ever so slightly at her comment. She finds herself actually curious as to what the man would say next, something she hasn't experienced in far too long.
"You're correct of course. Unfortunately for me, the people of France have turned me away from visiting more often than not."
"Might I inquire as to why that's so?"
The psychiatrist raises a shoulder in a slight shrug at her question. It's fascinating for her to watch the carefully ironed suit jacket and dark red button down shirt move over his body. Each has obviously been carefully tailored for him, they fit too well for it to be otherwise. She can't help but wonder if her family would have managed to stay together if they had had such luck when it came to money.
"The people can be rude. I've never been a fan of being slighted, the French have made it an artform over the years."
"Understandable."
His eyes flash for a moment, and Clarice wonders what he's thinking. Perhaps he's remembering the incident from before when she herself was rude to him. Despite her earlier false apology she is beginning to feel a slight amount of remorse. An unfamiliar emotion. One that reminds her that at one point she may have been closer to human than she truly realized.
"Doctor Lecter?" She waits for the soft hum of acknowledgement before continuing, "May I ask why you accepted this job from Crawford? Surely a man of your expertise has better things to be doing than attempting to create profiles on disgraced FBI agents."
"I came because of my curiosity."
"Curiosity killed the cat, Doctor Lecter. Poke too closely and you might find something dangerous."
"It's a price I am currently willing to take."
Clarice finds herself shaking her head ever so slightly at the man. Mostly bemused at why he would so willingly give up his time to speak with her. He must be more than aware that she doesn't mean to give him anything willingly. So why bother?
"And if you don't find what you're looking for?"
"Then I'll have at least gained some decent conversations during our time together."
More silence. However, this time it's not Clarice that breaks it, but the man. He says her name. Once. Softly. Knowing full well that he will get her attention with it.
"Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back." His smile widens once more, and for a moment Clarice is convinced that she's staring down into the maw of a hungry wolf. "And I, dear Agent Starling, am more than willing to have my theories proven or disproven. All that matters is how open you're willing to be with me."
"And if I don't want to be open with you?"
"Then we shall simply have our conversations."
Her eyes narrow as she considers this. She doubts the man is being entirely honest. He's likely going to use every trick he has to get inside of her mind. Instead of being weary like she had thought she would be after hearing him answer her question, Clarice finds herself intrigued.
"Might I make a request?" Hannibal's head nods once, and for a moment she lets herself hope."Next time you visit, would you please bring me a new book?"
"It would be my pleasure."