The laughter wasn't planned. It escaped by accident, the same way her tension floated away when she realized Dr. Hannibal Lecter was standing no more than a dozen feet away, a deep blue apron draped over his fancy attire.

The whole scenario was absurd. She'd come home to what she thought was a burglar – lights on that had been off, noises from deeper in the house – and discovered a serial killer instead. Why was the former more disturbing than the latter? Why did the sight of the doctor calm her fear rather than stoking it?

"Had I known I needed only an apron to provoke your laugh, Clarice, I'd have contrived an earlier opportunity to wear one. You really must indulge your amusement more often, my dear."

Well that was almost flirtatious. Was the doctor flirting with her? Did she want him to? Clarice's laughter trailed off as it occurred to her that the answer might just be yes.

Her eyes drifted from his immaculately shined shoes past his perfectly creased black pants to the white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows. He seemed … comfortable. At ease in her home, in her kitchen. She raised her eyes to gauge his expression.

There was a flicker of something there, something beyond his practiced neutrality and polite interest. She envied his ability to read people; his eyes, as always, were intent on her, but their meaning lay hidden.

"Forgive me, Clarice. I seem to have left you speechless. Perhaps I misjudged your desire?"

"My what?" Oh, that was smooth. Very sophisticated. Christ on a crutch.

"Your desire for us to become reacquainted over dinner."

There, that was a definite smirk. Brief, but unmistakable. Smug bastard, acting as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth even as he teased her. She needed to take control of the situation now.

"I'm surprised you'd admit to misjudging anything, Doctor." She stepped away from the door and shrugged out of her coat. Just a normal homecoming, nothing worth getting flustered over. Nice and easy. "You've always seemed quite confident in your pronouncements before." She turned to toss the coat over its regular hook, distractedly fiddling with the collar. "Not losing your touch, are you?"

His arm reached past hers to settle the coat more securely in its place. His mouth was only inches from her ear when he spoke. "Please, allow me."

Jesus Christ. How did he do that? Her current work assignment had her tensing all day long as people walked past her cubicle. Even the ever-present headphones, with their monotonous droning of suspected criminal chatter in her ears, couldn't stop her body from recognizing when someone moved through her space. It made her back prickle from four feet away. But not him.

No, he could cross the length of the hallway and step up behind her until he was practically on top of her – now there's a thought, and a lovely image, no, don't blush or he'll know. Ah, Clarice, be honest. Do you think I don't know already?

Of course he did. And he wasn't saying anything because … because … as a gentleman, I would prefer not to press a lady for her answer…. Oh.

"You're being a gentleman."

It was the masculine hand pausing in its task that alerted her to her error.

Shit. It was definitely not proper etiquette to carry on a conversation with his voice in her head while the man himself stood so near. And it was downright stupid to answer out loud.

The doctor finished hanging the coat and stepped back. His movement gave her space to turn and face him, if she would. If she could. Of course she could; she was Clarice Starling, dammit. A possibly mentally unbalanced and extremely dissatisfied with her life Clarice Starling, she admitted, but fundamentally the same person who had walked into a dungeon in Baltimore all those years ago with her shoulders back and her head high. She turned and raised her eyes to his.

"Thank you, Clarice. I do like to make the attempt" – was that an unspoken with you in his eyes? No, she was being ridiculous. – "and I must admit to some small measure of gratification that my effort has been noticed."

"It's just, uh, unexpected."

"That I should act as a gentleman ought?"

Well, she had blundered into that one.

"No, no, I meant I don't have – I mean guys don't – that is to say – oh, hell, Doctor, you know what I mean."

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea, Clarice."

He was teasing again; she was certain of it now.

"There aren't any gentlemen in my life." The "other than you" went unspoken, and now she was the one sending messages with her eyes. "And learning the proper responses isn't real high on the list of lessons for trailer camp tornado bait white trash."

Why did she say that? That wasn't what she meant to say at all. What purpose did it serve? It had been months since he penned those lines, years since she had truly thought of herself in those terms. Was she a child now, to bring every scrape and bruise to light for his inspection? Did she think he would make it better with a kiss? No. It was time to stop that line of thought before her blood rushed to places it ought not.

"I see you're dispensing your rage in small doses these days, Clarice," he said, his tone so light and airy it might have been meringue on her tongue. "But you've had a long day, and you're weary from your toil, so we'll let it pass, hmm?"

He didn't wait for a response, merely gestured for her to precede him to the foot of the stairs.

"We've just about an hour before dinner. True, eight o'clock is uncommonly early, but I thought it might suit you better than holding the meal until a more seemly hour, given your habit of skipping lunch. It's quite unhealthy to leave such a large gap between mealtimes, Clarice."

"Fine," she snapped back with more speed than thought. "You can pack me a proper lunch Monday morning and send me off to work with a kiss and a wave."

And that, she noted in mid-mortification, had finally gotten a reaction out of him. It felt as though his chuckle warmed the air between them; his amused delight coaxed an embarrassed smile from her as well.

"You may be assured, Clarice, that if circumstances should be amenable on Monday, I will endeavor to make certain that you are well fed."

She opened her mouth to apologize, or at the very least explain that she hadn't been thinking, but he forestalled her with a wave of his hand.

"No, don't apologize, your frankness is rather charming and it was presumptuous of me to attempt to dictate your eating habits, as I have no such standing in your life that would permit the familiarity."

Damn right you don't, she thought. Yet. Wait, yet? What was that supposed to mean? She really needed to chase down the source of the stray thoughts that kept contradicting her. But not now; he was already speaking again.

"That said, I'm afraid I took the liberty of leaving something suitable for you upstairs in the event that you might wish to dress for dinner. You're under no obligation, of course. But you might desire a relaxing bath first, hmm?"

She raised an eyebrow, and he tilted his head.

"Doctor, did you draw me a bath?"

"And if I did?"

Well, if he could be gracious, so could she. What was allowing a serial killer to enter her home uninvited, choose her clothing, draw her baths and cook her meals really going to fuck up in her life that she hadn't already ruined beyond repair? In fact, when the serial killer in question was this particular one, it almost seemed downright relaxing.

"Then I'll thank you for your thoughtfulness, Doctor." She mounted the stairs, feeling better than she had all day. In months, even. Possibly ever. "An hour until dinner, you said?"

"Yes, eight o'clock." His answer followed her up the stairs, and when she reached the top and dared a brief glance over her shoulder, he was still standing at the foot, watching her with the oddest expression.

"I better get a move on, then. Wouldn't want to be late."

"Yes. Quite." He nodded to her and disappeared back down the hall into the kitchen.