I'm not really sure where I'm getting this free time from.
Watching Hannibal Lecter, known cannibal and convicted killer, make hot chocolate out of a Wonder Woman mug was quite possibly one of the most absurd sights Clarice was ever likely to witness. He moved about the tiny kitchen with relaxed ease, filling the silence with clangs of the spoon against china and the whistle of the kettle as it boiled. He did not speak; he seemed to be waiting for her to break the silence.
She did not.
"I must say, the FBI doesn't shell out much for its trainees, does it?" He said, letting his eyes slide over the spartan facilities. Clarice felt some need to defend her temporary home.
"It suits me just fine."
"I'm sure it does, I meant no offense." He backed down, aware that while she had left the gun in her room, he wouldn't put it past the resourceful Clarice to use any of the knives in the drawers. Not that he didn't trust her, just that he was aware of her power.
Her other kind of power was quite rousing. Clarice was wearing tight exercise shorts with a baggy FBI top, made soft by countless washes. She had a patchwork blanket around her shoulders, like a child seeking protection from the dark. The neck of the shirt was wide, and fell to expose her collarbones more than once. Such an enticing part of a woman, the throat. It begged to be kissed and caressed, touched and teased.
"You look wonderful this evening, Clarice." Having been keeping her eyes on his every movement, Clarice was surprised by the sudden compliment.
"Th-thank you, Doctor."
"Hannibal," he gently reminded her, "and you're most welcome, my dear." He let the silence fall once again, as he poured the boiling water into the mug, filling it half full, then topping it off with milk. He heard her shift uneasily, and her scent reached him, woman with a hint of fear. Stirring the hot chocolate, Hannibal turned to face her slowly.
"Here you are, one hot chocolate, made in apology for making to spill the first one. Can I help you clean it up?"
"No, I'll do it tomorrow." Neither of them moved; Hannibal did not extend the cup, Clarice did not move to take it. They had reached another stalemate, and it was stale to Hannibal at this point. He was ready for a little more action. Crooking a finger and beckoning, Hannibal smiled.
"Come closer, Clarice, your hot chocolate will get cold." Clarice watched him with her careful eyes.
"No, you come to me." Hannibal smirked.
"When you put it that way... as you wish, my lady." He took a step, then another, until he was essentially handing the steaming mug to her. She did not take it still. Hannibal sighed, and put the mug resignedly on the counter to his left. Clarice was leaning against the counter closest to the swinging door.
"Clarice, what must I do to prove that I mean you no harm? I have no weapons on me-"
"You don't need a weapon to subdue someone, Dr Lecter."
"Back to Dr Lecter, eh?" Hannibal sounded almost sad, "I had rather hoped you would call me by my given name. After all, you always did show me courtesy."
"I was decent, you deserve decency."
"Indeed, but you did more than that. You indulged an old man in his little game of quid pro quo."
"You're not that old." Clarice said, looking a touch uncomfortable. Her eyes shifted away from him.
"Clarice, you need not save my ego, I am at least thirty years your senior."
"Mr Crawford isn't much older than fifty-"
"Mr Crawford?" Clarice realised what she had just said. She knew that his quick mind was connecting their conversations about Mr Crawford's supposed interest in her, knew that he was linking it to her father, knew that he was linking it to him.
"Still searching for your daddy, Clarice?" Her face almost crumpled, and Hannibal felt an empathetic stab, but she steeled herself.
"None of your business." She spat. She suddenly noticed how close he was to her. She could smell him, he was a little fresher than the cells. It was a nice smell, she admitted.
"Ah, but I appear to be competing the role of father in your head, Clarice."
"I'm not deluded, I'm not putting you in that role." Clarice defended herself vehemently. Her eyes flashed in warning.
"But you did consider it once." Clarice boiled over.
"Yes, fine! I did, once! But I don't anymore!" She hissed, aware that people may hear them. Then she would really be in the shit. She glanced a look at the door, but no one seemed to be running towards the kitchen, all guns blazing. She turned back to look at him, only to find him alarmingly close to her face. Her stomach flipped.
"Not at all?"
"No!" Clarice considered a headbutt.
"Are you sure?" Clarice considered some more.
"I'm positive, Hannibal." She said, dangerously low.
"Then you won't mind if I kiss you." Before she could even think about reacting, his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding. Her gasp of complete shock was muffled, as he worked his lips gently over hers. He kissed like a lover. Clarice grabbed his shoulders and wrenched herself away from him. She drew back an arm, but Hannibal caught it.
"Careful now, Clarice."
"How dare you?" She seethed, quiet, tempestuous anger filling her veins, setting her skin on fire.
"Clarice, I-"
"No, don't you try to psychobabble your way out of this. I did not want you to kiss me to 'clarify' that I wasn't making you into a father figure, Hannibal. I want you to kiss me because you want to kiss me-" Before she could finish her rant, his mouth met hers again, passionately. This time she kissed back, and felt Hannibal grip her around the waist eagerly.
He surged forward, suddenly with a new energy, and encouraged her mouth open. When she obliged, he bit gently, oh so softly at her bottom lip, and she smiled. Open-mouth kissing a cannibal was surprisingly satisfying. But not enough, not yet. Clarice was still hungry for more.
Hannibal had not anticipated such honesty from Clarice. He had lost some of his renowned control on her, and kissed her earlier than he wanted to, but her passionate demand that he kiss her because he wanted to made him putty in her hands. Kissing Clarice was glorious, it felt like how poetry sounded, how music affected, how an opera moved. She was an artful kisser, and Hannibal was a willing canvas.
The mug of hot chocolate sat forgotten.
I'm not sure if I want to end it here, since this is chapter 9 and my perfectionism is picking away at me because it's not 10 chapters. Review with what you think, please!