Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows and favorites- They keep me on my toes!

FelineGrace: Oh my gosh, that means so much. Your comment is very much appreciated! I'll try and update as much as I can.

To the anons: Thank you! When it comes to Hannibal and Clarice's relationship in this particular story, I can assure you it's not just some fling. Plus, I feel like that would be obscenely out of character. We'll find out how their relationship blossoms soon enough, though, dear Anon.

Alright… Chapter two with a side of steamed vegetables and some jasmine rice to compliment the main course~ Comin' right up.

- L

Clarice replied within minutes of receiving her instructor's email, having proofread the response numerous times. She wasn't nearly as formal as Doctor Lecter when it came to textual communication and, despite the short length of her response, she took the time to make sure it at least sounded like it would meet up to his etiquette standards.

Doctor Lecter,

Thank you for your concern. I'd be grateful to take some constructive criticism in order to improve my work.

I'll be there promptly after the bell tomorrow, Professor.

Thanks again,

Clarice Starling

Not waiting for a moment to pass, Starling sent the message and leaned back in her chair to swivel side to side in an attempt to think about how and what he'd teach her the following day.

He has such an odd aura to 'm… Mysterious. But… Poised too. His Maroon eyes… so intimidating. I can't even fathom the idea of being in a room alone with him. He carries 'mself well, though; right, Starling? ... Yeah. Y'ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. It'll be alright. He's just a professor. Don't over think the things that could go wrong.

That night, Clarice fell asleep to the false sound of crisp ocean waves crashing against sand, the sound produced from her hi-tech alarm clock; plus some lavender pillow mist to help soothe her nerves.

Nerves. The wild things that seemed to keep Clarice as strung out as she was. No matter the situation, the person, the scenery… Always rousing some sort of tension in her petite frame. Ever since her father passed, everything and everyone seemed to depend on her, so she grew accustomed to having other people's weight on her shoulders. She always pulled through, but the process was not always no nice. Anxiety from dreams, anticipating the possible outcome of a crime, being criticized by someone… All triggers for her terribly sensitive self.

In short form: Clarice was broken. What she loved most was taken away from her at such a developmentally crucial age, and what she yearned to save continued to scream in her dreams. No one was saved. All lambs were eventually slaughtered for Clarice.

She slept peacefully, for the most part. The sky was pitch black and the wind moaned her to bed, helping her rest until about two am.

Once the clock struck two twenty one am, her body awoke to moist bangs stuck to her forehead, heart racing horrifically fast. Still half asleep, she propped herself up on her elbows and noticed that both the sheets and blankets were in a puddle on the floor-along with her pillows-and that a thick film of sweat enveloped her body. Her frame jolted awake in a spasm when she realized that she was no longer dreaming, resulting in her forearm hitting against one of the bed posts.

Starling groaned in displeasure, knowing that a bruise would form soon enough, and slowly opened her eyes to allow her pupils to adjust to the darkness. For a few moments, she laid in silence, still recovering from the close encounter of death that occurred in her dream. She eventually turned onto her side in order to look at the clock, red numbers brightly flashing in her eyes.

"Two… Thirty three..? Damn…" she murmured and rolled over to turn on the dim lamp, sitting up to gather her sane thoughts once more. Another few moments of complete silence passed, followed by a five or so minute session of stretching. She then rubbed her tired eyes and laid back down to practice some breathing exercises.

Her eyelids slowly closed and she inhaled, humid air travelling through her body, soon followed by a deep exhale—very audible.

After a few moments of breathing to recover from the nightmare, Clarice turned off her bedroom light and eventually drifted back into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

The following morning had slid by without any hitches, considering Clarice had always been a morning person.

Coffee in hand and scarf cradling her neck, she was off to her Classic American Literature course.

When that hellhole was done with, she rushed to her final class of the day: The Sociology of Crime and Punishment. One of her favorite classes, it touched on the more sensitive areas of Sociology courses that most teachers skimmed over. The subject helped fuel Clarice's determination to get inside the heads of criminals—what was necessary to evolve into a well-rounded FBI agent.

The sound of the bell was bittersweet when it rung. On one hand, Clarice wanted to stay in the class and relish the abundant information that constantly flowed into her curious mind, the theme that day being Napoleon Bonaparte, but on the other hand she wanted to know what Doctor Lecter needed to speak with her about.

Such a naive individual; Clarice.

After a few moments of packing up, she headed to her Psychology teacher's homeroom.

Just as she had attempted to knock on the professor's door, he called for her to enter.

"Come in, Clarice," Professor Lecter stated in a velvet tone, laced with rasp.

Once again in slight awe of his senses, she nodded subserviently and closed the door behind her, eyes travelling around the area. It looked more like a home's study than a teacher's office.

The room was painted a light olive color, mahogany wood to compliment it. Rays of sunlight passed through translucent curtains which draped over French style windows, giving the room an eloquently polished Gothic style. Pieces of artwork—presumably his own—hung in frames, their black and white color scheme complimenting the olive well. Despite the rather small size of the room, the arrangement of sitting chairs, globe, and desk all blended together to give the appearance of a larger area.

"Afternoon, Doctor Lecter," Starling stated politely-her accent consciously repressed-and stood with her hands behind her back as if not wanting to intrude. What she didn't realize was that her rather closed off body language wasn't polite in the slightest.

Hannibal sat at his desk, arms folded neatly in his lap. His lips wore a grin for his expected guest, hair slicked back as per usual.

"Good afternoon, Clarice. Please, take a seat," his hand gestured to the leather seat across from him.

Almost too soon, Clarice sat in front of him and put on a smile.

"About your email-" she begun.

"False." The professor interjected before Clarice could elaborate.

"'M sorry?" Starling's accent decided to intervene, considering she was caught off guard. God, Clarice. Keep it together!

"'M…'" Lecter discreetly mocked. "I don't need to help you on your essay writing, Clarice. Two things," he leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen in his hand. "Essay writing is not number one for the FBI requirements, let's be honest here. Second," he set the object down on his desk, "the essay was written well. No large changes need to take place."

Starling furrowed her brows for a moment, processing the information. My essay was written well? Well… That's an accomplishment…! But… Why would I be here? She couldn't help but look completely confused.

"Yes, I know." Hannibal emitted a soft chuckle as he interrupted her thought process. "Why did I invite you to join me? Oh, Clariiice…" he swiveled in his chair, just enough to move, but not enough to distract Starling from his piercing gaze. "I 've noticed that your body language has changed lately. And you're not interacting with students unless asked to. Something has been going on in your mind. I can sense it." His words simply lingered in the air.