Another update, on the same night! Aren't you lucky? Consider this an apology for leaving it so long.
Clarice's next visit was scheduled for the second of December, as frost blanketed her windscreen and stuck her wipers to the glass. A few choice words, some yanking and tugging, and they were free, leaving her cheeks flushed charmingly, and clean sweat beading at her upper lip.
Descending the now-familiar steps, Clarice took a moment to let her breathing settle. She was panting as if she had run a marathon, and her heartbeat hammered in her throat, the pulse intense at the meeting of her neck and shoulders, just above her collarbone.
Calm once again, Clarice stepped into the lion's maw with next to no fear, having become used to the staring. No one dared make comment on her since the incident with Miggs, and Clarice felt a perverse smugness, that Hannib- Dr Lecter had done that for her.
"He did it to amuse himself." Crawford reminded her in her head, lest she get any ideas. Of course, he did it for kicks, just like how he murders and cannibalises people who are rude, or do not play adequately in a symphony orchestra. But she held herself a little taller nonetheless.
Her smell reached Dr Lecter before she did. Her warmth, intriguing and eager, like clean sweat and hard work, with the unmistakable musk of woman was so poignant a scent Hannibal found himself breathing it in, holding it in his lungs to let the arome permeate his tongue and palatte. You're too far gone, old man, he told himself, and for a woman half your age.
"Good evening, Dr Lecter," said Clarice cordially, as she settled herself in the plastic seat. She was wearing a skirt today, Hannibal noted. And her perfume had been recently sprayed, lingering in the air around her. She warmed the air next to his cell, so much that he could almost feel that phantom heat on his face. Or was he blushing?
"Hello, Agent Starling. How are you, my dear?" He answered just as pleasantly, letting his eyes meet hers. Bluer than veins in the wrist, than the coldest frost.
"I'm just fine, Doctor, thank you," she drawled, her mouth turning up just a little. He answered with a smirk.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, Clarice?"
"I came to determine your relation to Buffalo Bill. You said he was a patient of yours?"
"No, he was the lover of a patient of mine. Benjamin Raspail, I believe you've met?" He teased, watching her inhale a little sharply, and colour bloom up her neck to her cheeks. Clearly she was remembering the exhiliration of finding Raspail's head, and it was heady to witness.
"Yes," she said as blankly as possible, "Benjamin Raspail. And what did he tell you of Bill?" She took a pen from a hidden pocket in her blazer, and twisted her fingers around it until the cap popped off.
"Ah, let me think, Clarice. While I remember, how about another round of quid pro quo?" Clarice's pulse spiked again, he was being very provocative today. First Raspail, now this.
"Go, Doctor." Dr Lecter smiled at her go-to phrase.
"Very well. May I ask if you have a suitor?" There went her pulse again.
"No, I haven't the time, really." Clarice deliberately kept her tone flippant.
"Not even Jack Crawford?"
"Especially not Mr Crawford. Even if it were allowed, I see him as a father figure." Lecter's heart jumped subtly. So he wouldn't have to compete with Jackie-boy for Clarice's affections. Goody-goody. But what of her classmates?
"Not any of your peers?"
"I don't accept dates from my peers, it makes it harder to ascend the ladder later on." Clarice found herself being rather candid with the Doctor. Where had this sharing instinct come from?
"That is wise, my dear. But surely you desire companionship, familiarity, the comfort a partner can bring?"
"There'll be time for that later, I'm sure." Clarice said flatly, wishing she could go back to her inquiry.
"If only you didn't have to sacrifice anything to be taken seriously as a woman in a man's world." Dr Lecter pressed. He wanted her indignant at the hand the universe had dealt her, he wanted her ready to battle any limp boy that tried to cross her. She had the skills the FBI needed, the mind of a profiler, the instincts of a hunter, the empathy and care needed to address the many problems the Bureau dealt with.
He could see her future, and it was blindingly bright.
"If only." Clarice echoed, wistfullness in her voice. Her heart ached for her fair shot, her chance at recognition and promotion and advancement.
Dr Lecter eyed her soft face with sympathy. She deserved better, as an Agent, as a woman, and as a human being.
Clarice didn't remember seeing such a soft look on Dr Lecter's face. Usually he was impassive and blank, the only discernable emotion smugness in a sly smirk. His eyes were warmer, more bloodstone than maroon.
He felt for her, she could tell. It was a new feeling, that someone cared enough to let that emotion colour their features. It was also a dangerous feeling, and that it was related to a serial killer and cannibal made her stomach lurch. Oh, God, oh God, oh God, oh no...
"Clarice? are you quite alright?" Lecter asked, eyebrows furrowed.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Clarice brushed it off, tucked her hair behind her ear. She shifted the notepad to rest on the tops of her thighs, took a breath.
"So what did Raspail know about Buffalo Bill?"
Clarice is beginning to realise what she means to Hannibal, and what Hannibal means to her. Finally. Review with your thoughts.