I had a free period at school, and my friends are VERY interested in the fact that I write fanfiction. Eeep.
"Dr Lecter, I don't think you calling me a 'playmate' is entirely appropriate-"
"Agent Starling, you are currently conversing pleasantly-" at her look, he edited, "at least to some degree, with a known serial killer and cannibal. Nothing about this situation is 'entirely appropriate', my dear." Clarice half-smiled at his wit. So sue her, he was charming. Didn't mean she forgot what he had done.
"Point taken, Dr Lecter." Lecter smiled, showing neat white teeth. He had lifted the heaviness of the conversational topic, but was about to let it fall once more. Let us see how young Clarice handles it.
"May I press upon you for an answer, Agent Starling?" Starling took in a breath. Lecter steepled his fingers against his mouth in anticipation.
"In answer, I do wonder sometimes if I wasn't just a pretty, young woman, to turn you on and tease you into cooperation." Dr Lecter frowned. Those were not her words, he could tell. They sounded far too masculine...
"My dear, I promise you that you are far more than that." Clarice blushed, pink filling her cheeks.
"Thank you, Doctor." she said quietly.
"You're most welcome, Clarice. May I ask from whom you borrowed those words?"
"Chilton was very vocal when I first visited." Just as he thought. Of course Freddie would throw such a backhanded compliment with the same finesse as one would throw a hand-grenade.
"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he isn't worth listening to, my dear." Clarice half-smiled again, and she looked away, before looking back at Dr Lecter. From this angle, he could see how the gaps in her eyelashes shadowed the blue of her eyes, and created an entirely pleasing contrast in cool colour.
Clarice wasn't fully sure if he was being genuine, or manipulating her. As perceptive to untruths as he was, she had a few senses that told her when a person was lying.
She wasn't sure what to make of what her senses where telling her about Dr Lecter.
Once Clarice had left, Lecter reclined. Well, he leant back, prison furniture wasn't exactly conducive to relaxation.
Brave Clarice, singular, wonderful, special Clarice Starling. She was a cheap birthstone bought at a market stall; poor origins with enormous potential. It displeased him how she was treated around those who should nurture and respect her. After all, she had the courage to visit him. None of her superiours ever paid him such a courtesy.
Not that he'd want them when he could have her. Have her... Freudian slip, it seems, Lecter thought. He most certaintly did not 'have' Clarice. Clarice was not a woman to be 'had'.
His stirrings for her had blown into fully-fledged emotions. No point denying it to himself any longer, he would not treat himself as a fool, as confusing as that may seem. Indeed, Hannibal Lecter knew that he was very much involved in Clarice. He wanted her to succeed, he wanted her to thrive. She was more than just cheap entertainment, she was desired company.
Admitting this to himself was less troubling than he had orignially envisaged. He was not repulsed by the thought, in fact he welcomed it.
For the first time, Lecter allowed himself to set free the part of his palace labelled 'Clarice'. Details filled in, colour was added, she became alive, blinking and breathing, in his mind.
During the night, Hannibal let his imagination run free, dressing her in silks and satins, placing her in various environments, discussing literatire, art, music, theatre with her. Only for now, he promised himself. For now, he would dream of Clarice. At least until her next visit.
A short one, I'm afraid, but it is late where I am. Review, if you please!