The lengthy soak had relaxed her in body and mind; the Clarice Starling who stepped from the tub was not the same woman burdened by the demands of a boring job and incompetent coworkers. She tried to recall the last time she had truly shed the stresses of her work at the end of the day – not only the inane tasks but also the looks and whispers of the agents around her – and decided it had been months.

Before the dinner party on the Chesapeake, even; back before the shooting at the fish market. Before Brigham had died to satisfy the supersized ego of an arrogant ass on the D.C. police force.

She shrugged into her bathrobe and tied it loosely. Brigham had understood her; as much as she had let him, anyway. The doctor, though … he understood even the parts she wouldn't let herself see. That was comforting, in its way. And terrifying.

Clarice blew out a breath and shook off the unhelpful thoughts. Leaving the bath behind didn't mean she had to pick up the doubts and fears she had laid to rest there. They could drain away with the water.

She crossed the hall to her bedroom, inhaling the scent of something from downstairs. She firmly shut the door on any questions about the source; no doubt it would be rude to ask, and if the dinner guests he'd entertained before his stint in prison hadn't been able to determine the contents of the dishes they were praising, it was unlikely she would either.

There was no question that he enjoyed pushing her boundaries, but would he test her on this? Tonight? He hadn't offered, that night at Paul Krendler's house, but dinner had been a rushed affair. Would he have expected her to partake? A symbolic gesture, consuming the defeated enemy?

Clarice sighed. That was the trouble with a restless, investigative mind.

"Everywhere you go, there you are," she muttered.

Then her eyes lit upon the dress draped across the foot of the bed. The doctor must like her in black; that or he had opted not to choose another color without hearing her preferences on the matter.

She reached out and stroked the fabric. Silk. Black on black brocade. There was a distinct lack of gaping neckline; she wondered if he had chosen the high Mandarin-style collar as a deliberate distancing mechanism. Still sleeveless, though, and slit up both sides to mid-thigh, and yes, she thought, as she lifted it to look, still backless until it hit the curve of her ass. He certainly liked to look at her skin.

Don't your eyes seek out the things you want?

She shivered, and blamed it on the chill of the room after the heat of the bath. The clock on her nightstand was steadily marching on toward eight o'clock – a quarter till already and her still in her bathrobe. Wouldn't that be a surprising choice of dinner wear. She smiled at the thought.

But she had resolved to try things his way, and that meant accepting the dress.

With quick, economical motions, Clarice shucked the robe and donned the dress, fumbling for a moment with the neck clasp. The cut wasn't designed to accommodate undergarments; she hesitated only a moment before deciding to go without. The high collar negated the need for a necklace. She glanced at herself in the mirror atop her dresser, noticing as she did a shoebox and something smaller, in a blue velvet case, beside it.

She was there in three steps, opening the smaller item first. Two tiny emerald teardrops lay nestled inside, leaving her torn between a relieved sigh and the stubborn insistence that shoes were one thing and jewelry was quite another. Wrong or not, she wanted this, didn't she? The doctor had already claimed a corner of her mind for his own; that wouldn't change whether she wore the earrings or not. She was just ... accepting the external manifestations of an internal truth.

With a quiet growl, she removed the emeralds from their box and slipped them on. What she couldn't tell him with words, she could show him with actions.

It was easier to open the shoebox without a qualm once she had donned the earrings. Gucci, of course. Not an exact copy of the ones now filed away in the basement office at Quantico, but similarly strappy black heels. She dropped them to the floor and slid her feet in, lifting one at a time to adjust the straps.

Clarice twisted her head around to check the clock. Too late now for more than the barest swipe of cosmetics and a quick run of the brush through her hair. It wouldn't be enough to hide the pallor of her skin or the shadows beneath her eyes, but it wasn't as though she needed such artifice to attract his attention. If that was what she wanted to do.

She met her eyes in the mirror. Whatever it was that he saw in her, she wished she could see it, too. Courage and incorruptibility, Doctor? She stared harder, but the traits didn't suddenly materialize in her face. Her reflection was nothing more than an old, tired, bitterly unhappy woman.

Paul Krendler's words floated into her head.

Well, maybe you're incapable of being happy.

She shuddered, pulled her shoulders back and blew out a breath.

"All right, Starling. Get the hell downstairs. If you really want to kill yourself, I'm sure he'll oblige."

And wasn't that a cheery thought?