Once-again disclaimer: I don't own anybody except Layton. He's mine, so I can do whatever I want with him. *looks at chapter title, pauses, grins evilly, hmm...*
Part III
Food for Thought
Clarice awoke only once during that night, shaking with a nightmare, before Hannibal's comforting presence soothed her back to sleep. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was already high in the sky and streaming into the room in dusty shafts. She tried to yawn, but found that she was not tired. God, what time was it? She began to move the covers aside and stopped when a chill met her bare skin. Clarice shivered as she heard the air conditioner blasting in the room. The power must have returned overnight.
It was then she noticed that the bed was empty. Fear and loneliness swept over her for a brief moment before she stopped and nearly smiled. Faint sounds of a radio traveled into the room from downstairs as well as the comforting smell of eggs and bacon. At least she hoped it was bacon.
Hannibal was humming a classical tune to himself, giving half an ear to the morning breaking news, as he turned the bacon in the pan. Still careful, Clarice thought with a smile. His head came around as Clarice came downstairs in a bathrobe.
"That smells great. Is that Chopin?"
He placed the ready strips of meat in a battered plate, rough and chipped and generally unacceptable. But it would have to do for now. "Scarlatti. So, Sleeping Beauty has finally awakened."
"What time is it?"
"Nearly three in the afternoon."
Clarice sat down at the table and ate ravenously, savoring the feeling of proper hunger again. Each bite of food seemed to lift her spirits a little more. "That's odd. I don't remember ever having bacon in the refrigerator."
"Your kitchen is rather pathetic to say the least. When was the last time you had a proper breakfast?"
"Whenever Ardelia felt up to the task. I can't cook worth a damn...I can't do anything worth a damn."
Hannibal raised one eyebrow in disbelief and held it there just a minute, so Clarice could be sure to see it. Then he fetched his coat and a baseball cap from the counter.
"Where are you going?"
"Shopping. You need some decent supplies and kitchenware. And, thanks to you, I will need a new shirt." Hannibal smiled coyly as Clarice turned her head so he would not see her blush. He draped what seemed to be a trench coat around his shoulders and pulled the cap low over his forehead. He paused. "Take care and don't call the police while I'm away." Without even waiting for her reply, Hannibal stepped out the door and was gone.
What the hell would I call them for? Clarice cleared the table and looked around her kitchen. Hannibal was right, everything was a mess. She picked up a rag and began scrubbing away at a whiskey stain. She spent the afternoon cleaning up her kitchen, not paying attention to much of anything and ignoring the occasional reporter that came knocking at her door. They would not be leaving her alone for quite awhile.
By the time evening rolled around, Hannibal had not yet returned, but the kitchen looked reborn. As Clarice looked around, she realized for the first time just how much better it appeared. The countertops, where previously they were worn and stained, now sparkled white and the whole room seemed to glow with a new sense of care.
Wow, maybe I can accomplish something after all.
There came a knocking at her door. Clarice put down the rag and walked over to the door. Probably another reporter, she thought, as she looked through the spyhole. No, it was a rather casually dressed man. Short-cut brown hair, blue eyes, and he didn't seem to be hiding a camera or microphone anywhere. Intrigued, Clarice opened the door.
The man blinked and looked up at her. "Hello, are you Clarice Starling?"
"Are you a reporter?"
"You are Ms. Starling; I saw your picture. No, I'm not a reporter, let me introduce myself. My name is Michael Layton and I'm with the FBI."
Clarice stiffened at the acronym and she almost considered shutting the door in his face. The door wavered a bit before she smiled. "Agent Layton. I'm not sure I'm familiar with your name."
"Oh, you don't know me, I just graduated from Academy last year. I, um, need your help on something."
"The FBI wants the help of an ex-Special Agent? They must really be desperate." She paused for a moment while Layton waited hopefully. "Come in."
Clarice led him into the living room to a chair. Layton coughed. "Um, Ms. Starling, first of all, I'd like to apologize for what they did over the Sherman incident. It wasn't your fault and..."
"That's none of your business, Agent Layton. The FBI did what they had to." Cut the crap and get to the point, she thought.
Layton seemed to read her thoughts and shifted uncomfortably before sitting in the chair. Starling was every bit as difficult as his fellow agents had warned him, although he hadn't believed them then. Perhaps this was going to be a little more of a job than he had thought. "Ah, okay. I had some papers, but I thought you had seen enough paperwork to last you a lifetime."
Might as well tell her, he couldn't be here all day. But he really didn't like the way she was looking at him. Tell her. "I've been put on the Lecter case, and I need your help...since you seem to be the expert on him."
The tension was so thick one could have cut it with a knife.
Clarice said very slowly, "You just graduated last year? What are they doing, putting you on that sort of case?"
"I...I don't know. The Section Chief sent me. He told me to try to get several interviews with you, hopefully one today, but I wasn't sure you'd be up to it, or if you'd even agree. Um, you're something of a legend in my department." Oh God, that was stupid. What the hell did he just say that for?
Clarice was thinking the same. Oh yes, the infamous Clarice Starling. Well-known for climbing so high and then falling so far in the mere space of four years. Hoping with all her might that Hannibal was not coming back yet, Clarice said, "No one is an expert on Lecter. No one comes close to understanding him. And if you're trying to catch him..." Layton nodded. She was going to say more and then stopped.
Hannibal had just appeared immediately behind Layton's chair. His eyes went wide before looking at Clarice. When Layton coughed and lowered his eyes for a minute, Clarice silently mouthed "No." Then she continued, "...if you're trying to catch him, I'm not sure how much I could help."
A ray of hope sparked in Layton's heart. Well, at least she wasn't going for his throat. Yet. He tried to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I know. He's creepy, isn't he? I mean, he could be hiding anywhere and we wouldn't even know it."
To this day, Clarice never remembered just how she kept herself from bursting out into laughter at that time.
Layton looked at his hands again and said, "Well, um, I just need you to agree to a couple interviews. Could the first one be tomorrow at this time maybe?"
Clarice bit back half a dozen rude replies that had been running through her head. This man should seem easy to tell off. How could he expect her to help him? She had no obligation to him. Yet something was nagging, nagging, at the back of her brain and she couldn't figure out quite what it was. Then she lifted her head and her eyes met those of Hannibal's. And as she looked into his eyes, memories came back, and she knew.
You're sooo ambitious aren't you...?
In that instant, Clarice saw into Layton's life. Tedious hours of work, study, and field for this dream of the FBI. Sucking up to superiors for the prize jobs. And now he thought he had one, and he was determined not to screw it up. She saw his nervousness and self-disgust at the words he had not meant to say. Hopefulness, all aimed at her, all resting on her. Clarice saw everything. And it scared her out of her mind. Somehow, looking into this person's mind seemed wrong, but it also gave her a sense of power. I know him, I can do whatever I want, because he's depending on me, and I know him.
She did not know how she had done it, how she had thrown open the windows to his soul. But as she continued looking into Hannibal's eyes, she remembered what Hannibal might have felt, their fateful first meeting. I don't know owe this person anything, but what do I risk? She could toy with the case, make him play her game, and it would be enough for the FBI. Maybe Layton would even be promoted for his excellent work. She might give Layton the position that she had been denied. The power was intoxicating, almost overwhelming.
"Tomorrow. Definitely not at this hour, though. Perhaps a few hours earlier."
And Hannibal knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were saying plainly to her, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Maybe not. Perhaps, like Hannibal, she would never know what it would lead to. But she was sure they'd have a lot of fun.
Layton smiled broadly. "Great. Um, four o'clock tomorrow then? Would that be okay with you?"
"Four would be fine, for whatever days you need."
If Layton was puzzled by her sudden friendly attitude, he didn't let it show. He got up to leave, but before he could, Clarice was up and helping him toward the door, making sure he did not turn around. "Let me just show you the door, Agent Layton."
Hannibal didn't like it. While no buffoon, Layton was nevertheless young and inexperienced. He knew that Clarice was more than capable of handling that man. Hannibal would leave on the afternoons and let Clarice spin the man around in circles. But he still couldn't shake away his little tendril of insecurity about the matter. He couldn't explain it, and he eventually forgot about it. There were more pressing events to take care of.
The first event happened that evening. Hannibal unpacked his purchases: porcelain dishes, assorted fine cutlery, and various food items, and explained to Clarice what he wanted her to do. She took it rather well.
"No freaking way."
"I don't take disobedience well, Clarice," he said with a hint of a smile. "I would not ask this of you unless I knew you to be perfectly capable."
"I told you, I can't cook worth a damn. I'd probably end up poisoning both of us."
"Nonsense. Just follow my instructions. And we both know that you are quite skilled at that." Hannibal made sure he had everything he needed on the table. He had not missed the fact that Clarice had scrubbed the table clean, very nice job. That only increased his faith that she would accomplish the next task easily. Extremely sharp cheddar cheese, mushrooms, bell peppers, eggs, everything was there.
Clarice edged a bit closer to the spread, as cautiously as if approaching a tar pit. "What exactly will I be attempting to make?"
"The FIRST thing you will make is cheese soufflé. It's a very simple recipe." That was somewhat of a lie. Without the utmost care, the finished product would collapse into an unrecognizable mass. Soufflé was one of the most delicate foods to make, which was why he had decided on the recipe in the first place.
"First we combine the flour, eggs, and cheese to make a roux."
"Gesundheit."
"Hardly amusing, Clarice. Pay attention." He set the preliminary mixture on the stove and then handed her six eggs to break. Clarice looked as if she had just been handed a live land mine and told to disarm it. She figured out how to break the eggs without mixing up the shells eventually and clumsily separated yolks from whites. When it came time to beat the egg yolks, Clarice did so gingerly as if afraid they might explode in her face.
"Come on, Clarice. Harder than that," Hannibal said as he whipped the whites into a soft, snowy mountain. Then he smiled, "Here, imagine that the mixture is Mr. Krendler's head. Would you be that gentle?"
That got her going. In less than thirty seconds, the yolks were a smooth puree and Clarice was ready to tackle the next task. Hannibal guided her through the entire process, helping less and less. As it became more and more easy for her, Clarice began to feel like she was floating on a cloud, a wonderful feeling of freedom that she had only experienced once before when she had peered into Agent Layton's mind.
They feasted that night. The soufflé was light and airy, perfect in every way. As was the caviar, the honeyed scones, and beef ragout. Clarice was no longer on the cloud but she had not touched down. Somehow, she felt that she would never again touch down. She forgot how long she had spent cooking. Minutes, hours, she didn't know and found that she really didn't care. It was as if time didn't matter anymore.
After it was over and Clarice was sitting in front of the table, she was more than a little surprised. "Are you sure I made all this?" The memory of the past few hours were blurry, as if part of a dream, but seemed to leave her with a sense of peace.
"Of course, Clarice. I've been watching." Hannibal removed a nicely aged bottle of Château d'Yquem from the shopping bag. It had taken him three hours and a small fortune to find it, but it was a perfect complement to the meal.
Hannibal raised the glass of golden liquid. "A toast. To you."
"And to you."
They smiled and drank together.
Part III
Food for Thought
Clarice awoke only once during that night, shaking with a nightmare, before Hannibal's comforting presence soothed her back to sleep. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was already high in the sky and streaming into the room in dusty shafts. She tried to yawn, but found that she was not tired. God, what time was it? She began to move the covers aside and stopped when a chill met her bare skin. Clarice shivered as she heard the air conditioner blasting in the room. The power must have returned overnight.
It was then she noticed that the bed was empty. Fear and loneliness swept over her for a brief moment before she stopped and nearly smiled. Faint sounds of a radio traveled into the room from downstairs as well as the comforting smell of eggs and bacon. At least she hoped it was bacon.
Hannibal was humming a classical tune to himself, giving half an ear to the morning breaking news, as he turned the bacon in the pan. Still careful, Clarice thought with a smile. His head came around as Clarice came downstairs in a bathrobe.
"That smells great. Is that Chopin?"
He placed the ready strips of meat in a battered plate, rough and chipped and generally unacceptable. But it would have to do for now. "Scarlatti. So, Sleeping Beauty has finally awakened."
"What time is it?"
"Nearly three in the afternoon."
Clarice sat down at the table and ate ravenously, savoring the feeling of proper hunger again. Each bite of food seemed to lift her spirits a little more. "That's odd. I don't remember ever having bacon in the refrigerator."
"Your kitchen is rather pathetic to say the least. When was the last time you had a proper breakfast?"
"Whenever Ardelia felt up to the task. I can't cook worth a damn...I can't do anything worth a damn."
Hannibal raised one eyebrow in disbelief and held it there just a minute, so Clarice could be sure to see it. Then he fetched his coat and a baseball cap from the counter.
"Where are you going?"
"Shopping. You need some decent supplies and kitchenware. And, thanks to you, I will need a new shirt." Hannibal smiled coyly as Clarice turned her head so he would not see her blush. He draped what seemed to be a trench coat around his shoulders and pulled the cap low over his forehead. He paused. "Take care and don't call the police while I'm away." Without even waiting for her reply, Hannibal stepped out the door and was gone.
What the hell would I call them for? Clarice cleared the table and looked around her kitchen. Hannibal was right, everything was a mess. She picked up a rag and began scrubbing away at a whiskey stain. She spent the afternoon cleaning up her kitchen, not paying attention to much of anything and ignoring the occasional reporter that came knocking at her door. They would not be leaving her alone for quite awhile.
By the time evening rolled around, Hannibal had not yet returned, but the kitchen looked reborn. As Clarice looked around, she realized for the first time just how much better it appeared. The countertops, where previously they were worn and stained, now sparkled white and the whole room seemed to glow with a new sense of care.
Wow, maybe I can accomplish something after all.
There came a knocking at her door. Clarice put down the rag and walked over to the door. Probably another reporter, she thought, as she looked through the spyhole. No, it was a rather casually dressed man. Short-cut brown hair, blue eyes, and he didn't seem to be hiding a camera or microphone anywhere. Intrigued, Clarice opened the door.
The man blinked and looked up at her. "Hello, are you Clarice Starling?"
"Are you a reporter?"
"You are Ms. Starling; I saw your picture. No, I'm not a reporter, let me introduce myself. My name is Michael Layton and I'm with the FBI."
Clarice stiffened at the acronym and she almost considered shutting the door in his face. The door wavered a bit before she smiled. "Agent Layton. I'm not sure I'm familiar with your name."
"Oh, you don't know me, I just graduated from Academy last year. I, um, need your help on something."
"The FBI wants the help of an ex-Special Agent? They must really be desperate." She paused for a moment while Layton waited hopefully. "Come in."
Clarice led him into the living room to a chair. Layton coughed. "Um, Ms. Starling, first of all, I'd like to apologize for what they did over the Sherman incident. It wasn't your fault and..."
"That's none of your business, Agent Layton. The FBI did what they had to." Cut the crap and get to the point, she thought.
Layton seemed to read her thoughts and shifted uncomfortably before sitting in the chair. Starling was every bit as difficult as his fellow agents had warned him, although he hadn't believed them then. Perhaps this was going to be a little more of a job than he had thought. "Ah, okay. I had some papers, but I thought you had seen enough paperwork to last you a lifetime."
Might as well tell her, he couldn't be here all day. But he really didn't like the way she was looking at him. Tell her. "I've been put on the Lecter case, and I need your help...since you seem to be the expert on him."
The tension was so thick one could have cut it with a knife.
Clarice said very slowly, "You just graduated last year? What are they doing, putting you on that sort of case?"
"I...I don't know. The Section Chief sent me. He told me to try to get several interviews with you, hopefully one today, but I wasn't sure you'd be up to it, or if you'd even agree. Um, you're something of a legend in my department." Oh God, that was stupid. What the hell did he just say that for?
Clarice was thinking the same. Oh yes, the infamous Clarice Starling. Well-known for climbing so high and then falling so far in the mere space of four years. Hoping with all her might that Hannibal was not coming back yet, Clarice said, "No one is an expert on Lecter. No one comes close to understanding him. And if you're trying to catch him..." Layton nodded. She was going to say more and then stopped.
Hannibal had just appeared immediately behind Layton's chair. His eyes went wide before looking at Clarice. When Layton coughed and lowered his eyes for a minute, Clarice silently mouthed "No." Then she continued, "...if you're trying to catch him, I'm not sure how much I could help."
A ray of hope sparked in Layton's heart. Well, at least she wasn't going for his throat. Yet. He tried to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I know. He's creepy, isn't he? I mean, he could be hiding anywhere and we wouldn't even know it."
To this day, Clarice never remembered just how she kept herself from bursting out into laughter at that time.
Layton looked at his hands again and said, "Well, um, I just need you to agree to a couple interviews. Could the first one be tomorrow at this time maybe?"
Clarice bit back half a dozen rude replies that had been running through her head. This man should seem easy to tell off. How could he expect her to help him? She had no obligation to him. Yet something was nagging, nagging, at the back of her brain and she couldn't figure out quite what it was. Then she lifted her head and her eyes met those of Hannibal's. And as she looked into his eyes, memories came back, and she knew.
You're sooo ambitious aren't you...?
In that instant, Clarice saw into Layton's life. Tedious hours of work, study, and field for this dream of the FBI. Sucking up to superiors for the prize jobs. And now he thought he had one, and he was determined not to screw it up. She saw his nervousness and self-disgust at the words he had not meant to say. Hopefulness, all aimed at her, all resting on her. Clarice saw everything. And it scared her out of her mind. Somehow, looking into this person's mind seemed wrong, but it also gave her a sense of power. I know him, I can do whatever I want, because he's depending on me, and I know him.
She did not know how she had done it, how she had thrown open the windows to his soul. But as she continued looking into Hannibal's eyes, she remembered what Hannibal might have felt, their fateful first meeting. I don't know owe this person anything, but what do I risk? She could toy with the case, make him play her game, and it would be enough for the FBI. Maybe Layton would even be promoted for his excellent work. She might give Layton the position that she had been denied. The power was intoxicating, almost overwhelming.
"Tomorrow. Definitely not at this hour, though. Perhaps a few hours earlier."
And Hannibal knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were saying plainly to her, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Maybe not. Perhaps, like Hannibal, she would never know what it would lead to. But she was sure they'd have a lot of fun.
Layton smiled broadly. "Great. Um, four o'clock tomorrow then? Would that be okay with you?"
"Four would be fine, for whatever days you need."
If Layton was puzzled by her sudden friendly attitude, he didn't let it show. He got up to leave, but before he could, Clarice was up and helping him toward the door, making sure he did not turn around. "Let me just show you the door, Agent Layton."
Hannibal didn't like it. While no buffoon, Layton was nevertheless young and inexperienced. He knew that Clarice was more than capable of handling that man. Hannibal would leave on the afternoons and let Clarice spin the man around in circles. But he still couldn't shake away his little tendril of insecurity about the matter. He couldn't explain it, and he eventually forgot about it. There were more pressing events to take care of.
The first event happened that evening. Hannibal unpacked his purchases: porcelain dishes, assorted fine cutlery, and various food items, and explained to Clarice what he wanted her to do. She took it rather well.
"No freaking way."
"I don't take disobedience well, Clarice," he said with a hint of a smile. "I would not ask this of you unless I knew you to be perfectly capable."
"I told you, I can't cook worth a damn. I'd probably end up poisoning both of us."
"Nonsense. Just follow my instructions. And we both know that you are quite skilled at that." Hannibal made sure he had everything he needed on the table. He had not missed the fact that Clarice had scrubbed the table clean, very nice job. That only increased his faith that she would accomplish the next task easily. Extremely sharp cheddar cheese, mushrooms, bell peppers, eggs, everything was there.
Clarice edged a bit closer to the spread, as cautiously as if approaching a tar pit. "What exactly will I be attempting to make?"
"The FIRST thing you will make is cheese soufflé. It's a very simple recipe." That was somewhat of a lie. Without the utmost care, the finished product would collapse into an unrecognizable mass. Soufflé was one of the most delicate foods to make, which was why he had decided on the recipe in the first place.
"First we combine the flour, eggs, and cheese to make a roux."
"Gesundheit."
"Hardly amusing, Clarice. Pay attention." He set the preliminary mixture on the stove and then handed her six eggs to break. Clarice looked as if she had just been handed a live land mine and told to disarm it. She figured out how to break the eggs without mixing up the shells eventually and clumsily separated yolks from whites. When it came time to beat the egg yolks, Clarice did so gingerly as if afraid they might explode in her face.
"Come on, Clarice. Harder than that," Hannibal said as he whipped the whites into a soft, snowy mountain. Then he smiled, "Here, imagine that the mixture is Mr. Krendler's head. Would you be that gentle?"
That got her going. In less than thirty seconds, the yolks were a smooth puree and Clarice was ready to tackle the next task. Hannibal guided her through the entire process, helping less and less. As it became more and more easy for her, Clarice began to feel like she was floating on a cloud, a wonderful feeling of freedom that she had only experienced once before when she had peered into Agent Layton's mind.
They feasted that night. The soufflé was light and airy, perfect in every way. As was the caviar, the honeyed scones, and beef ragout. Clarice was no longer on the cloud but she had not touched down. Somehow, she felt that she would never again touch down. She forgot how long she had spent cooking. Minutes, hours, she didn't know and found that she really didn't care. It was as if time didn't matter anymore.
After it was over and Clarice was sitting in front of the table, she was more than a little surprised. "Are you sure I made all this?" The memory of the past few hours were blurry, as if part of a dream, but seemed to leave her with a sense of peace.
"Of course, Clarice. I've been watching." Hannibal removed a nicely aged bottle of Château d'Yquem from the shopping bag. It had taken him three hours and a small fortune to find it, but it was a perfect complement to the meal.
Hannibal raised the glass of golden liquid. "A toast. To you."
"And to you."
They smiled and drank together.