Yes, I'm a terrible human being for leaving this story for so goddamn long. Shall we move on?
Clarice was concerned about her behaviour regarding Dr Lecter. He was forward, flirty, he played with her, and she didn't stop any of it. She didn't tell him no, or ask him politely to refrain from referring to her as 'Clarice' in his metal-rasp voice, drawing out the sibilance like a snake's tongue. In his mouth, her name was a prayer, a hymn, an aria, a canzone.
Oh, God, listen to yourself. You're obsessed, girl, Clarice chastised herself. He's the most unreachable man in the whole world and you decide you want this... flirtation to continue?
Maybe I am doomed, thought Clarice dismally. However, she could not supress a note of glee from blossoming in her chest. The knot of feelings tightened almost pleasurably, like being hungry. But Clarice knew she hungered for more than just food.
Dr Lecter wondered about Clarice often.
How could he not? He had limited reading materials, day-to-day life crept on in a petty and monotonous pace. Full-body cavity check, cell maintenance, each time strapped to that infernal trolley contraption. And that God-forsaken mask. What a way to project his public image.
Careful, Hannibal, he warned himself, you're becoming vain in your solitude.
But back to Clarice, a far more pleasurable thought, and one that could keep him occupied for hours. Once he had exhausted his sexual questions (What does she wear to bed? Would she scream during orgasm? How does she taste, and would she accomodate him if he so desired?) far more mundane (by comparison) took their place; how does she like her tea? Is she the kind to wear nail polish? What is her favourite comfort-food?
She made his heart flutter, if he were so inclined to describe his feelings for her in the manner of a fifteen-year-old girl.
What a mind, what a beauty. He could, and did, spend hours locked in his mind palace, embellishing details and elements of her for his own pleasure and enjoyment. In his head they debated Shakespeare's intent in describing Caliban of The Tempest like a native at the subject of colonists, they discussed the effect of William Blake's 'The Tyger' on the history and subsequent development of poetry. Occasionally they spoke of Dante, and his deep, unconditional love toward his Beatrice.
Sometimes he dressed her. He tried green silk, and found it very agreeable. He held up black satin, and marvelled at the contrast. Soft pink was most becoming, and blue accentuated her bright eyes. Once, just once, he pictured lingerie, all lace and trim, but found himself reacting a little too obviously to be subtle, and put an end to that particular train of thought.
Dr Lecter delighted in his crush, to some extent. His infatuation gave him a distraction from snide remarks, and endless dull and dark corridors, supervised showers and terrible, terrible food.
Chilton had become increasingly vocal, in regards to Clarice, which irked Hannibal no end. Clarice was no object, nor was she simply just 'a girl'. She was a woman, a fighter, a warrior, the righteous, the fair, the brave, the individual. To hear her be reduced to a means to an end (his end, if you wanted to be pedantic) was infuriating and belittling.
She was Clarice, clarity with a West Virginia accent, and woman with a hint of gunpowder.
I've noticed that Clarice's segments on Hannibal are much shorter than Hannibal's segments on Clarice. Maybe it's because I imagine Clarice would suppress her feelings, whereas Hannibal has the maturity and experience - not to mention intelligence - to accept his feelings for Clarice. I like writing Hannibal waxing lyrical about Clarice, because it allows me to enjoy her wonderful characterisation. Maybe I have a crush on Clarice...