Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two households, both alike in dignity…

The gymnasium in Quantico’s FBI Academy is large and sterile, with enormous blue crash mats lining the walls, rolled tightly and smelling of old rubber. The floor is faux-wood linoleum, polished to the point of reflection, and the walls are stark white with the FBI’s fundamental values plastered along the length of them in imposing blue letters, shining in the late spring sunlight as vinyl decals do;

FIDELITY, BRAVERY, INTEGRITY

Clarice Starling had been working up a sweat for the better part of the afternoon, and only paused when the gym door opened and John Brigham poked his head around, smiling at the sight of her in her sensible tracksuit, sated and breathing heavily.

“Starling?”

Pant. “Sir?” Pant.

“Get changed. Grab your bags. Crawford wants you.”

Clarice Starling felt a chill in her stomach; the cold tension that came before something big. 

She was dressed and standing at Crawford’s door within fifteen minutes, sweating for an entirely different reason.

Starling liked John Brigham and he liked her. He’d taught her to shoot when she’d first started at Quantico and they’d worked up a good, firm rapport in the few years since. He was a calm, steady island and Starling had been relying on him to ease her nerves as they’d walked up to the Behavioural Sciences Unit, talking idly, but then Brigham had excused himself and thus Starling had been left alone.

She hovered outside of Jack Crawford's office door, plucking up her courage, for longer than was probably justifiable. 

She’d seen Crawford many times, yes, but only at UVA and never once had she spoken to the man properly, one-to-one. People didn’t get called to his office unless they’d either done something really good or really, really bad. Starling, with her latent sense of self esteem, didn’t believe she’d done anything exceptionally good in recent times. 

She knocked after a few hesitant moments, and opened the door when she heard him call for her to enter.

“Mr Crawford, sir?”

His head had been hanging low over a thick stack of paper, spectacles perched over his long nose. He looked up slowly when she pushed the heavy door open, and Clarice was struck momentarily by the image of an old giraffe craning its long neck. 

“Starling.” His voice was cool and even. He glanced downwards quickly at a sheet of paper. “Clarice M. Have I got that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, good. Perfect.” 

Starling remained hovering on the threshold of the office. Crawford hadn’t yet waved her in. He seemed to be assessing her, his eyes slightly narrowed and his mouth drawn into a contemplative smile as he took in her face; she was sure that her anxiety was clear. 

And then, finally, his posture loosened and he beckoned for her, gesturing at the chair. 

“Come on, sit down.” A pause as she did so. He leaned his weight forwards on his elbows. “You’re wondering why I’ve called you up here this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled slightly. “You’re not in any trouble, Starling. Please, relax.” He leaned back in the chair, brow furrowing suddenly in thought. “You know… I’ve had an eye on you for a while, Starling. Your instructors tell me you're doing very well.” Some of the tension left her and she tried not to preen under the compliment. “Top quarter. Good grades but without the ego to go with them. Good qualities in an agent,” He trailed off, seeming to chew on his cheek thoughtfully for a moment, and then blinked himself back into focus. “Anyways, a job came up and I thought of you. It’s just a small errand.” His eyes shone. “A little birdie told me you were hoping for a place up here in Behavioural?”

“Yes, sir, certainly.”

“Good stuff, good stuff. We’d be glad to have you, some day, you know.” And then he paused again, and inclined his head slightly. “But, as you know, it’s no easy process. We don’t just hand out spaces here, Starling. It’s a pretty exclusive department.”

“I’m well aware, Mr Crawford. And I’m prepared to work hard for it.”

He nodded encouragingly, “I like that, Starling. I like that enthusiasm. And I’m glad because I picked out this job specifically for you. I’m hoping this might help you along a little quicker, if all goes well.”

And then his demeanour switched and he was all business. Starling got a momentary glimpse of the Crawford that everybody knew. He reached down beneath his desk and resurfaced with a thick manila folder in his long, thin hand. He slid it across the desk like dirty money. Starling continued to look at him for a moment longer before drawing her gaze slowly down. The name on the folder made her falter.

“Oh.” Her voice sounded rather small all of a sudden. “The Chesapeake Ripper, sir?”

“The very same.” He leaned forwards on the desk, elbow facing outwards, and his expression was intent. “Another victim surfaced, Starling. It’s not been released yet, but we found a body just yesterday outside of Virginia. That's six, now. That we know of. And still not a solid peep of concrete evidence. People are getting restless.”

Starling was well aware of this fact. Everybody was. The Ripper case was prestigious, and the current talk of the academy. The name was like a fable to her and seeing the real case file before her felt unreal in some strange way.

 “And… how do you think I can help, Mr Crawford? I mean no offense, sir, but I’m not exactly the most qualified for somethin’ like this.” Crawford raised a brow. Starling stumbled to clarify. “So, I s’pose what I’m askin’ is why me , sir?”

He sighed, and an unidentifiable expression crossed his face. Years later, Clarice Starling would reflect that this expression had been guilt. She hadn’t realized it at the time.

“Well, I confess, a student such as yourself usually wouldn’t be my go-to for this sort of thing…” he leaned back again and fiddled with his pen. “Do you know Will Graham, Clarice?”

He’d addressed her by her given name and she frowned a little, but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure he himself had even noticed. “Certainly, sir. I know the name well.” 

“Then I’m sure you know he’s out of commission at this time?”

“I’ve heard he’s in recovery, yes. Because of the Hobbs case.”

“Yes.” A grim look passed over Crawford’s face. “He’d usually be my man for this sort of job, but… I’m afraid it’ll be a long while before he’s up and well enough to work. If ever.” A pause and then a stern expression. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Of course.”

“You two are remarkably similar, you know, Starling. Similar test scores… similar sense of drive… similar personalities and all. I see some of him in you. You’ve got a keen eye, Starling- Brigham has told me a lot. You’re quick in the field and up here-” and then he tapped his temple. “But we need to sharpen up those interrogational skills and I thought what better way than to try you out with a little something. Think of it as work experience.”

He smiled reassuringly and tapped the case file, still sitting and burning a hole in the desk before her. She had yet to touch it. “I don’t expect you to solve this case, Starling- not at all. But we do have somebody who might be able to. That’s why I called you here. I need you to go speak to this man for me… You might’ve heard of the guy. You’re well-read, or so I’ve been told.” Crawford then pulled a business card from within his desk and placed it atop the file. “He used to work closely with us. Not so much so as of late. We’re not on the best of footing.”

Starling picked the card up and her brow furrowed in recognition. “Dr Hannibal Lecter? The psychiatrist?” 

“You know him?”

“I’ve read some of his articles.”

“I figured you might’ve. They’re good work.” Starling thought he sounded reluctant as he said so.

“Why is he on bad terms with the BSU?”

“There was a little something with Will. A disagreement.” Crawford waved his hand dismissively. “Hobbs screwed Will up pretty bad. Lecter was an advisor on the case. There’s been some bad blood ever since Will got all cut up. He blames me because I set Will on the case. I blame Lecter, personally, for pushing him too far into it, but that’s just me. I’m hoping you’ll do just fine with him so long as you keep things distant and professional.”

“Why Lecter if he’s so much trouble to work with?”

“He’s the best there is, Starling. The best we’ve got.”

“Right…” And then Starling squared her shoulders, a sense of service coming over her quickly like a wave. “What exactly do you need me to get from him, sir?”

Crawford smiled and mentally rejoiced. The fire in her eyes was intoxicating. He had to take a moment to breathe before he flipped the case file open to the latest addition.

“Look. Sixth victim. See here. He was a deer hunter. See this mark?”

Starling felt her stomach turn a little as she looked down. 

There were a variety of Polaroid photographs of the victim on a metal autopsy table from a range of angles, each more gruesome than the other. The victim was nude and littered with all manner of injuries; each nasty, bloody laceration spanned every inch of his skin. He was hardly recognizable as a human being. Crawford was pointing to the victim's thigh where Starling could vaguely make out a long-faded pink scar running vertically from his knee and stopping just beneath his hip. 

Crawford wasn’t looking at the file, though; he was looking at Starling and assessing her expression as she peered at the gruesome images… testing her…

He was pleased when she grimaced only slightly and kept her jaw firm and tense. “This mark is an old surgery scar. The victim suffered a hunting accident some few years ago. It was Dr Lecter who treated him, we’ve found out. We checked the victim's medical history. It’s a lucky coincidence, really, but it gives me a reasonable excuse to ask him about the case. I just need you to go have a chat with him, on my behalf.”

Crawford flipped the file shut again and Starling felt like she could breathe easier now that the gory tableaux wasn’t sitting in her peripheral. “Lecter’s input would be a great asset to the case, Starling. He’s a tricky man - closed off at the best of times and an asshole at the worst, mind my informalities, but he’s damn smart and he’ll be a good help. He wouldn’t talk to me if I damn well begged him. And he wouldn’t give anyone in my department the time of day, either. You, however, I have a feeling he’ll listen to. He won’t be expecting you and that will intrigue him.”

“So I’m playing messenger, sir?”

“I prefer the term courier. Liaison. Factotum. Whichever sounds best to you.”

Starling’s lips turned up ruefully. “Any and all is fine, sir. I’m in.”

Crawford turned his head slightly in a jerky motion reminiscent of the way a wolf twitches its ear before it pounces. His eyes continued to shine behind his spectacles. 

“Are you sure, Clarice? You can say no, of course, and it’ll have no impact on you. You’ll get a place with me either way eventually, I’m certain… Hannibal Lecter is a tricky man to work with so don’t think I’m sending you off for an easy conversation over some nice hot coffee. I’m trying to test you. See what you’re made of. You sure you think you’re up for it?”

Starling steeled herself. Her resolve hardened in her gut. “I haven’t shied from a challenge yet, sir.”

Crawford grinned and reclined, folding his arms cheerfully. “That’s the spirit, Starling.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. Something in the air had shifted. Some big event had happened- the future had turned on its axis. Starling wasn’t sure whether it would be for better or for worse but the promise of advancement was sweet and the opportunity she had been suddenly presented with on that quotidian Monday afternoon was one that she’d be a fool to turn down. Crawford saw this resolve and smiled earnestly. 

Then he clapped his hands and the moment moved on.

“Well, in that case, Starling, we ought to get you an ID and a file sorted out, hm?” He stood quickly and Starling followed suit, picking the case file up as she went. “Grab your bags. Take the business card, too. Follow me.”

Chapter Text

“Knock knock, girl.”

Starling jumped at the sound of knuckles rapping on her dorm-room door and quickly finished changing, then called out, “I’m decent, Dee. Come in.”

The door swung open. Ardelia Mapp practically fell into their shared dormitory. “Damn right you are.” Her bags were thrown down and the door was locked and then Mapp was on Starling’s twin bed, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her down beside her. 

“Dee, c’mon, I got work to d-“

“Nu-uh. We’ll talk and then you can do your work.” A stern look and Starling lay still. “A little birdie told me somethin’ today, girl.”

“A little birdie, huh?”

“Mhm. What’s all this talk about Mr Crawford,” Mapp inquired, rolling onto her back and grinning up at Starling whose face had also broken out into a repressed, self-satisfied beam. “Someone said John Brigham came and got you from the gym ‘cause Crawford wanted to talk. People are wondering what happened.”

“Word spreads fast, huh?” 

“Clariiiiice.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, he did. Scared the shit outta me when he said Crawford wanted me, I’ll tell you.” Then Starling narrowed her eyes. “Though, I think you’re more excited about Brigham than Crawford, ain’t you, Dee?”

“Damn right I am, girl.” and then Mapp paused as Starling sat up and began to struggle with her hair. She’d pulled it out of the tight ponytail that it’d been confined to all day. It was matted at the back since she hadn’t had time to shower at the gym and brush her hair out. 

Mapp fetched a comb and quickly sat herself behind Starling. “Sit still. Lemme help.” And then she began to work at the knots as they continued their conversation. “Did you talk to him?”

“Brigham?”

“No, mangy old Jack Crawford. Yes duh, I meant John Brigham, girl, come on.”

“It’s not like we had a candlelit dinner together, Dee. I just followed him to Behavioural like a lost dog and then he left.”

“So nothin’ scandalous happened?”

“No, Dee. Come on, girl, be real. He told me where I was going and then he was gone. End of.”

“Yawn,” Mapp muttered. She continued to comb away at Starling’s hair absently. “You had a chance and you blew it. Should’ve been me.”

“As if I have a chance.”

Mapp frowned and then tugged on Starling's hair. 

“Ow. What the fuck, Dee?”

“Shut up, Clarice, you’re hot shit and you know it. Dumbass.” And then Mapp sighed and moved on. “So. Big bad Crawford, then. What did the high n’ mighty guru want with you? What’s he like? As stuck up his own ass as everyone says?”

“He was alright, actually. Weird guy. Seemed more down to earth th’n I was expecting… I thought I was in trouble but I was wrong. He had a job for me, Dee.” And then Starling smiled and Mapp saw the eagerness work its way into her muscles. “It’s big, girl.”

Ardelia Mapp felt a sense of instinctual unease for a moment but the excitement thrumming through Starling’s veins was hard to ignore. She suddenly felt inexplicably maternal. 

“Tell me. Get talkin’, Starling. Tell me everything.” 

Chapter Text

It was with a sense of numb acceptance that Clarice Starling drove to Baltimore, just three days after her meeting with Jack Crawford. 

She’d always found it remarkable, the ways in which human beings were able to adjust so quickly and easily to new truths and realities. Three days ago her biggest upcoming concern had been a mock forensics exam. Now it was the precious manilla case file sitting on her passenger seat and the impending promise of a conversation with somebody as prestigious and intimidating as Dr Hannibal Lecter, M.D. 

Clarice Starling was in that transitional stage that all people must face when navigating early adulthood. Important things were happening; keystone events that she’d look back on for years to come as pivotal turning points. Things were moving forwards and all around her people were going off in their own directions and finding themselves. Sure, students at Quantico all attended the same classes but the FBI was a large organization with hundreds of different sectors and factions and everybody was bound to end up somewhere that suited them best.

Starling recalled, somewhat fondly, the first couple of years in Quantico back when she still hadn’t been sure what her particular talent was. She’d stumbled her way through her tiny, rural high school and then through UVA and had finally found herself suddenly immersed in the overbearing enormity of the FBI and all it had to offer. She’d been scared and alone for a while but, soon enough, Ardelia Mapp had inexplicably found her and they’d been connected at the hip ever since… but time was wearing on and now they were due to go their separate ways. 

After all, Ardelia Mapp wasn’t made for fieldwork. She was good with numbers and reason and rationality; that was her special talent. She’d swerve off towards the land of white-collar crime and would do her bit for justice whilst sitting behind a desk and that was fine because it was what suited her. But Starling was built from a different material. She knew that her future lay, inevitably, in the BSU and the terrifying world of serial murderers. She needed the challenge and adrenaline that psychological profiling provided in order to keep her mind quiet and satisfied. 

It had all seemed like the distant future but now Starling saw that she’d arrived at that crossroad. As she and Mapp had laid together on her small twin bed just two nights ago giggling about Brigham and theorising about Crawford, Starling realised that their time together was drawing to a close. They were getting older- they were outgrowing one another. Crawford calling on her was a sign of the times. His assignment was a pendulous storm drawing near; dangerous and more than likely to blow her on a different course yet the rain would be nourishing and she needed the opportunity to thicken her skin. 

The manilla folder sitting on her passenger seat wasn’t a fake case created for the purpose of an exam. It was real. It contained the stories of real people who had suffered at the real hands of a real serial murderer. And it’d been entrusted to her. And she recognised that it was the weight of this reality that heralded the coming of the next stage of her life. She was damn scared but she hadn’t shied from a challenge yet.

It was for this reason that she kept her head held high, even as her trusty Pinto carried her over the Maryland border and straight into the heart of Baltimore where Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatry practice was located. 

Starling had been concerned about locating his practice, for central Baltimore was a busy place, but upon finding the street detailed on the business card, she realised that it would’ve been impossible to miss the remarkable building. 

The building in which Hannibal Lecter had founded his practice was of considerable size, and was seemingly out of place amongst its more modern neighbours. Several dark ways held tall windows peering out from under great round arches, and the estate seemed bigger than it really was in the stark daylight. And, although it was endlessly imposing with its old English appearance - more reminiscent of a Tudor mansion than a house - Starling still found the building charming and full of remarkable character. 

She felt her neck cramp as she parked her car and stepped out, for she had to peer up so steeply to take it all in. Upon approaching the great studded door, she saw on the welcome sign that the enormous house actually hosted two other businesses alongside Dr Lecter’s psychiatry office. It seemed a chiropractor and private dentist also practiced there. The plaque said Dr Lecter’s office was on the top floor. She pressed the adjacent buzzer to announce herself and stepped inside, feeling as though the great mouth of the house were swallowing her up. 

Into the grand foyer and up the stairs, then. She made a slow ascent, taking the time to peer curiously at the many old paintings lining the walls and the details carved into the wooden bannisters. She came to the top floor and waited a moment, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. 

She was beginning to feel excitement growing within her mind, her heart pumping a little faster in her chest. It was the thrill of the hunt and the opportunity to prove her worth that guided her hand up and inspired her to knock thrice, firmly. 

A voice called her in, but it wasn’t the doctor’s. It was high and female and Starling frowned as she slipped inside. She came to a small waiting room.

There were a dozen or so chairs placed about the edge of the room and a desk nearer the centre where a tidy-looking woman was sitting, peering at Starling with the repressed curiosity that any bored receptionist might have upon seeing an unusual client. 

She stood as Starling entered, smoothing down her neat, floral dress. 

“Good afternoon. How may I help?”

“Um. My name is Clarice Starling.” A short pause. “I'm with the FBI. I need to talk to Dr Lecter, if he has a moment.” 

The woman’s face scrunched up in a practiced look of customer-service sympathy. “You’ll need an appointment I’m afraid.”

“I was sent by Jack Crawford at the BSU, ma’am. It’s a matter of importance.”

“I’m afraid the doctor is on his break, Miss Starling. You’ll need an appointment beforehand,” she insisted 

“It won’t take long, ma’am.” 

“If you schedule an appointment now we can have you back in sometime this week.”

“I’m with the FBI. I promise it won’t take any more than five minutes.” 

“Ma’am, like I said-“  

“Julie.” 

The receptionist fell instantly quiet as a third voice entered the room. Neither of them had noticed the office door open, for Dr Lecter had done so quietly, amused by the increasingly heated exchange that had caught his attention.

They both looked over quickly. 

Starling met his eyes for the first time. Her blood hummed in her ears. 

Starling’s immediate impression of Hannibal Lecter was that he was smaller and tidier than she’d expected him to be. He smiled at her, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and then looked back towards his receptionist. 

“It’s quite alright, Julie. If Jack Crawford has sent one of his good little agents then turning them away will do nothing. He'll just send another and then another.” A short smile. And then a curious turn of the head back towards Starling. “Credentials, please, if you will?”

He had a slow, languid sort of speech pattern which she found unusual, and typical of the way in which she’d discovered most psychiatrists tended to enunciate. She hurried forwards, pulling the ID that Crawford had procured from her out from her bag. She held it out and he stepped forth to take it. She caught a whiff of cologne as he stood near. Something earthy and herbal. He pursed his lips.

“This is a temporary ID,” he hummed as he scanned her details. “Starling, Clarice M.” And then he looked back up and his eyes travelled the length of her, curiously and analytically. She did seem rather like a starling, he supposed. Small but steadfast. It was a fitting moniker for her. “You’re not a fully-fledged agent, are you?” 

“Not quite yet sir.” 

“Still a student?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A dash of the head. “Interesting.” His interest had been successfully piqued. Jack Crawford was a crafty nuisance. Hannibal Lecter wondered, just for a moment, if maybe he was becoming predictable... Still, he sighed and handed the ID back to the young woman, standing so firmly and resolutely before him. “I have some time to spare. Please, Clarice Starling, come in.”

The sound of a door unlocking somewhere echoed deep within Starling’s mind, mirroring the click of the doctor’s office door opening. She followed after him, sparing only a momentary glance back at Julie, and the sensation of falling swelled in her gut. 

Chapter Text

The door closed heavily behind her, like an air seal; the peaceful, carefully-constructed dimness of Dr Hannibal Lecter’s office surrounded her all at once. 

It was a handsome room - distinctly masculine in an aged and delicate sort of way - and the European architecture of the house continued into the modest space. The furniture was dark and regal and the bulk of Starling’s initial attention was directed towards a large bookcase spanning the length of the wall behind his desk. There was also a chaise lounge before the sole window, which was covered by a pair of heavy brown curtains. The only true colour in the room came from a careful selection of flourishing green plants dotted purposefully about the room wherever there was space.  

Hannibal Lecter rounded his desk and stood there a moment, straight-backed and elegant,  seemingly observing Clarice Starling in the context of his cool, dark office. 

He had an intense gaze. Penetrating. His eyes were intelligent and were studying her closely- Starling thought it might’ve been the dim lighting, but they appeared maroon. 

She inspected him in turn with the same sort of scrutiny; he was slimly built and dressed sharply in a cotton grey suit with a dark shirt and a matching grey tie to weave the ensemble tidily together. His dark hair was slicked back - not a strand out of place - and it gave him the appearance of a sleek otter. He had a unique and noble face; somewhat unconventional with its sharp, angular points but nonetheless attractive in an aristocratic, foreign sort of fashion. He didn’t look old, per-se, but the lines about his eyes and the grey strands peppering his hairline spoke of experience and he had a sense of timeless academic wisdom about him. 

Starling felt suddenly out of place, but she held her ground firmly as she had been taught to- she spoke first. 

“I apologize for the lack of forewarnin’, sir. I wasn’t aware I needed an appointment.” 

Her tone and distance spoke of careful courtesy, despite the thick accent that muddied it. Dr Lecter smiled and shook his head once, gracefully, before seating himself behind the wide desk. 

“No fault of your own, Miss Starling. I expect no less from Jack Crawford.” He winked at her, knowingly. “I’m sure his instructions were wonderfully vague. He finds new ways to needle me every day, or so it seems.” 

She suppressed a smile, discovering that the disdain between Crawford and Lecter was clearly mutual.

“Well, I won’t be in your hair too long, sir. Mr Crawford sent me over just to ask a few simple questions.” She began to reach for her bag. “I have them right h-“ 

“Would you care for a drink?” he cut her off smoothly. 

“Um- I’m just fine. So-“

“How about some food?”

“No thank you.” 

“Very well.” 

“So, here I have-“ 

“Not so fast,” he cut her off once again. Starling quickly closed her mouth with thinly veiled irritation, her brow furrowing a little. He was suddenly deeply amused by her. “Why the rush, Miss Starling? I have plenty of time, after all.” He waved towards the seat opposite him. “Please, sit.” She swallowed and approached, sitting carefully down. Though he wasn’t remarkably large in stature, Starling felt far smaller than him as she seated herself opposite. His presence itself was supernaturally imposing. His voice, when he spoke next, was smooth and even. “I’d like to talk before we continue. About yourself.” 

“Myself?” 

“It’s only polite, Miss Starling. We ought to get to know each other, don’t you think? Before I start divulging my secrets.”

“Well, sure, sir.” 

He nodded once and was quiet for a moment.

There was a fire in her eyes, smoldering but certainly with the potential to grow into something great and destructive; it had him momentarily caught. Her aura was… disorientating; a keen sense of determination... a fierce desire to prove herself... Intriguing…

“Now then.” He steepled his hands, and snapped himself back into the present. “You’re here as Jack’s errand-girl, I presume?”

“Well, he preferred the word courier.” 

“Yes, I’m sure he did. Did you know, not-yet-agent Starling, that’s exactly what he called poor Will Graham whenever he needed somebody to do his grunt work. Do you know Mr Graham? Surely you do, as a student of behavioural sciences. I would be disappointed if you did not.”

“I do, sir.”

“Hm. Good. Yes, Jack would send Will after me to mull over the dull details of cases that he presumed below himself,” Dr Lecter said, tapping absently at the desk in a slow and measured pattern. “I assume you’re not being paid for your efforts today are you, Clarice?”

“Not in money, sir.”

A short, humourless smile. “In what then?”

“Experience.” 

“Experience ,” he echoed back, almost mockingly. Starling bristled. “That’s what men like Crawford often say to young people, such as yourself. Bright, eager young agents whom he doesn’t have the energy or decency to dedicate any money to for their efforts. So he fools you with the notion of experience. And you don’t see it, do you? A shame. From what little I’ve seen, I figure you are smart. Or perhaps you do see it, and you allow yourself to be undermined out of personal curiosity...”

Starling sighed, beginning to see where Dr Lecter’s reputation of being difficult had come from. “Sir…” 

“Doctor Lecter is just fine, Clarice. If I may call you Clarice?” 

“That’s fine, Dr Lecter,” she corrected herself. “Listen, either you will or you won’t talk to me today. I was just sent here to try. Nothing more. My personal motives are my own.”

“And what are your personal motives, Clarice Starling? Besides experience, I mean? Please, tell me.”  

She thought for a moment, frowning slightly. Dr Lecter found the look of concentration charming. “Personal interest. If I can help a case in any way big or small I will,” she answered firmly after the pause. “It’s why I wanna do this job. To help folks.” 

“Touching,” he remarked somewhat bluntly, and then added more earnestly, “I appreciate your frankness.” 

He sat back, then, his rigid posture slackening slightly as he observed her. No longer otterlike- Starling thought he now looked more like a curious panther watching a prospective meal. 

“How are you finding the academy?”

“Great. I struggled at first but I’m doing well now.”

“What inconvenienced you initially? Was it a social struggle? An academic struggle? Moral? Emotional?” 

“I found the preliminary examinations tricky,” she answered easily, glad for the semantic tone the conservation had suddenly taken. Perhaps he had sensed her discomfort. “It’s a hard course to adjust to coming straight from a small town. They’ve got a very different style of doin’ things over here.”

“Certainly… You’re a straggler amongst your classmates, then?” 

She smiled, averting her eyes. “I was. But not anymore, sir. Top of my class, now.” 

Dr Lecter couldn’t detect a trace of juvenile boasting in her admission. Just good, honest pride. He appreciated it. 

“Hmm, no surprise you caught Jack’s eye. How long until you graduate, Miss Starling?”

“Less than a year, now.”

“And you hope for a spot in Behavioral Sciences?”

“That's why I’m here,” she nodded. “Mr Crawford says he’s hoping to help me along.” 

“And how does he presume talking to me will aid you in that?”

“Developing my conversational and interrogations skills.” 

And finally she reached into her bag and placed the papers on his desk, before he had a chance to interrupt her. “He wants me to chase up a lead with you. Get some information.” 

He stared at the papers ruefully, though admired her ability to segue. “I no longer work with the FBI, Miss Starling, unfortunately.”

She had the decency to look sheepish then, shifting on the chair. “I think Mr Crawford was hoping I could help change that, too.” 

“He said that?”

“Not explicitly. It was implied.”

Dr Lecter hummed and sat forwards once more. “Reading implication is an important skill. One that can’t be taught. One you possess, clearly… But I’m curious, what else can you imply from Jack’s request?”

“…I don’t follow, sir.” 

“Why did he pick you, Clarice? Why a rookie student and not an established agent working in his department? Somebody more qualified to speak on behalf of his precinct.” 

She shrugged. Dr Lecter winced at the colloquial gesture. “I’m not sure.”

His eyes took her in, wholly, again- just as they had in the waiting room. 

“I think I might be.” 

She frowned. “Sir?”

“No matter,” he waved the line of conversation off swiftly, moving backwards into shallower waters.  “We can theorize another time, perhaps. Now, what is this nondescript file that you have so kindly thrust upon my desk, Miss Starling?”

She sat up a little straighter. “Information on the Chesapeake Ripper case, sir.”

Some strange expression flashed across the doctor's face, though Starling wasn’t quite quick enough to catch it. “Ah. And suddenly things get interesting. A slippery case, indeed, hm?”

“Indeed.”

“Causing Mr Crawford some trouble, I presume?” 

“Very much so, sir.”

“And what would he like from me? A detailed profile? A theoretical diagnosis? A comforting kiss on the forehead and some warm words of reassurance?”

Clarice stifled a smile. “Just some information on a lead, actually, Dr Lecter. There’s been a link between you and the sixth victim, you see.”

He raised a fine brow, head tilting ever so slightly. “Is that so?” 

Starling took the initiative, shuffling the chair closer to the desk and flipping open the case file just as Crawford had done so to her. She found the correct page and turned it around, pushing it towards Lecter. 

“Are you familiar with this man, doctor?”

“Straight to the point, then,” he hummed as he leaned forwards. He peered at the gruesome case images for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before looking back up at Starling. “Perhaps I would be if I were able to discern any of the details of his face, Agent Starling. Unfortunately, it appears that this young man has suffered a rather nasty accident.” 

“Not an accident at all,” she muttered. “But I mean his name, doctor. Are you familiar with his name ?” 

“Raymond Howard,” Dr Lecter read aloud. “I’ve met many people in my time, Clarice, as is the nature of my profession. Many names. Many Raymonds and many Howards.” 

“But not many Raymond Howards?” 

He smiled. “Perhaps not so. I do believe the name rings a… distant bell.” 

“You treated him, Dr Lecter. In 1970, at Johns Hopkins. He suffered an injury involving a projectile whilst hunting. A large puncture wound in his leg.” 

“Ah. Yes, I recall. He was stuck like a pincushion with a crossbow bolt, I believe, when he came in to us. Nasty injury. The result of trusting an imbecile with a weapon, as this country so readily tends to do.”

She ignored the jab. “The hospital noticed the surgery scar during the biopsy and doubled back on medical records. You and another resident surgeon treated him.”

“As I’ve said, Clarice, I’ve seen to many people in my time. My treatment of him for the wound is, perhaps, an odd coincidence but no more. Why is it of interest to Jack, I wonder?” 

“I think he just wanted me to see if you remember anything strange about the victim. Anything strange about the wound? Or the friend who brought him in? Or the man himself?” 

“This was a few years ago, Officer Starling.”

“Anything would be useful.”

“Jack Crawford is grasping at straws, then?” 

“He’s securely covering all possible bases.”

“And wasting time and resources doing it.”

“So I take it you have nothing useful?”

His expression tightened at her slight slip in courtesy. No worries. She’d learn. “Oh, not-yet-Agent Starling, I certainly have something useful…just not in terms of this young man.” Dr Lecter let out a slow breath before waving a hand flippantly. Starling noticed for the first time his extra finger. She chose not to comment on it. “Raymond Howard was an old patient. He came in badly wounded. He rolled around and whined a little before I stitched him up and sent him on his way, and that was the end of it. What Jack wishes to extract from that is up to him, but I can’t see it being useful.” 

“…But?”

“But my wider input... That is what he wants.” The maroon in Lecter’s eyes caught the light again as he sat forwards, bringing himself closer to her. She caught another whiff of that earthy scent. “He sent you here as a ruse, my dear. He wants my help again. He wishes to draw me in, and he knew coming here himself would not do that.”

“But why are you so reluctant, sir.”

“I don’t work well with Jack Crawford.”

“What if you didn’t have to work with him?”

“He tried the middleman approach before, Clarice.” Lecter shook his head regretfully. “Back to poor Will Graham, again… Have you heard from him lately? Seen him around?” 

“I- no, sir, I-“

“It’s because he’s in the mental hospital, Clarice. Completely out of his mind. That’s what Jack Crawford does to people. He sends them out like nutcracker soldiers and then tucks them away from sight when the nut cracks them back.”

“I’m not here to work on the case, doctor. I’m not a working agent like Graham. I’m just here to talk and get some information. That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t, Clarice.” A pause, then. He seemed to mull over something. His lip turned up in disdain. “But… Perhaps Jack Crawford is more intelligent than I give him credit for.” 

“Sir?”

“I like you, Agent Starling. You’re intriguing. And it wouldn't do for Jack to hold you under the water before you even had a chance to leave the shallow end…. So. Clarice Starling, if it is experience and impact that you seek, then I have a proposition for you.”

Excitement sparked within her. “Yes, Doctor?”

“I’d like for you to accompany me on a trip.” 

She faltered. “Sir?”

He smiled at the confusion on her face. The light caught her profile as her fine brows furrowed. “You want experience? I’ll give you it. True experience; not the cheap, dishonest kind that Crawford is so generously dishing out... I’d like to visit Mr Howard. It says here he’s being kept in a morgue in West Virginia… and I’d like you to come with me. I need somebody who knows the facts of the case. And somebody who can report back directly, to avoid the sticky risks of secondhand accounts.”

She blinked, dull shock ringing in her mind. “Ah, well, I don’t really-“

“I have a free evening in two days, Miss Starling. We can make our visit then. That leaves you with plenty of time to brush up on your knowledge and talk to old Jack about my proposal. You’re a student, yes? I’m sure you have adequate experience with last minute revision, soon-to-be-agent Starling.”

“I'm… something of a veteran, yes.”

He smiled, pleased. “Excellent.” 

And then he paused, allowing her the time to catch up with what he’d told her, before sighing and glancing back down at the case file. “I presume Jack still requires a structured report of our conversation today? And answers to these… preset questions of yours?” 

Starling chewed on her cheek and nodded. “Yes, doctor, unfortunately so. It is what he officially sent me for, after all.”

“Well then… In that case, allow me to humour you...” He waved his hands and relaxed back into the chair. “Ask away, Officer Starling”

She picked up the list of questions Crawford had given her, though as she spoke and as he answered she was only half present. Her ears were ringing and something was bubbling deep within her. The promise of advancement. Real advancement.

Crawford would let her go on this impromptu trip. She knew he would. How could he not? 

Dr Lecter bid her a polite farewell when they were finished. Starling drove back to Quantico well over the speed limit. 

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling was crossing the WV/VA state line in the back of a cab. Her beloved Pinto had been left behind for this particular trip; Starling wasn’t sure, in all honesty, that it would’ve survived the lengthy drive. 

Of course, taking a cab from Quantico to Charleston, West Virginia, both ways would’ve crippled her financially- student that she was- but thankfully Mapp had already been planning on visiting family in Beckley over the weekend. Starling had only needed to pull aside enough money to afford an hours cab drive after carpooling the longer stretch of the journey. She wasn’t too bothered by this; the quiet cab ride had given her time to look back over the Ripper file. 

Starling felt remarkably at peace as the small cab trundled along the rocky roads of rural West Virginia. It was home, after all, and her spirits didn’t dampen even as they pulled up at the morgue. Or Charleston Mortuary service, rather- serving temporarily as the morgue since the small city didn’t actually have its own and it was rare that they had to store bodies for any extended period.

The coroner greeted her when she stepped out- a local physician with a name badge reading Dr. Pine- and bestowed upon her a wide smile to match his overly enthusiastic handshake. 

Not often did Charleston get external visitors from the FBI, it seemed, especially not for such a high profile situation. 

A few words were exchanged and she flashed her identification before moving forth. The exterior building was small and run down. The inside was no different. 

Dr Lecter was the first thing Starling saw- standing in the open front room, looking jarringly out of place amongst the corkboard walls and laminate flooring. He was waiting with his perfect posture, dressed tidily in a pair of dark slacks and a sharp button up, but was sans jacket and tie to make room for the stuffy Virginian heat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. 

He turned when the door opened and acknowledged her arrival, tilting his head slightly whilst watching approaching her with keen and careful eyes. 

“Agent Starling.”

She chose not to correct the wrongly assigned title. She suspected he’d done it on purpose; the slight turning up of his mouth gave him away. 

“Afternoon, Dr Lecter.” 

“Your journey was okay, I trust?” 

“Yeah, it was just fine, thanks.”

A nod, and then he gestured vaguely to a man who had been standing behind him; Starling hadn’t spotted him immediately but he seemed to perk up once she finally looked his way. He was short and plump. His cheeks were ruddy and she sensed, immediately, that he had a good and easy disposition. Men in the business of death often did; humor, it seemed, was a coping mechanism. 

“Starling, this is Doctor Wilburn. Doctor Wilburn, this is Clarice Starling- one of Jack Crawford’s.”

“Oh, Crawford, excellent. Great man. He was down here jus’ a few days back. It’s a pleasure, Agent Starling.” 

A brief handshake. Starling smiled warmly, feeling comfortable amongst her own people, and Lecter pursed his bowed lips.

“Pleasures all mine, doc.”

Dr Wilburn clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly, bouncing on the heels of his small feet. “Well. If you fine folks would follow me, we can get started.”

Down, then. 

A steep set of stairs leads into the basement which at least was better furnished than the rest of the mortuary. The walls were stark white PVC, as were the floors, and a small collection of metal tables lined the back wall. There was the lumpy shape of a body on one- covered by a plastic sheet. Dr Wilburn approached it with all the whimsicality of a man approaching a piece of artwork. “I’m sure you FBI lot see a whole peck of strange stuff but you gotta understand that for us folks somethin’ like this can be mighty strange…” And then he pulled away the black tarp and Starling had to fight to keep her expression neutral. “It took us a while to place this fella but it’s got Chesapeake Ripper all over it. Though, not sure they can call him the Chesapeake Ripper anymore... Bastard has branched out to wider territory, so it seems.”

“Or he did his business up that way n’ just dumped the body here,” Starling suggested. Her voice was small. Dr Lecter was looking at her with an unplaceable expression. 

“A more likely story, I ‘spose, ma’am. We think the poor guy was huntin’ up your way by the Chesapeake when the Ripper nabbed him. He has a West Virginia address, ‘course, but a broader Virginian huntin’ license. He was found all trussed up onto a wall in his tool shed a few miles north of here with arrows n’ the like sticking’ outta him n’ all. I’m sure you’ve seen the snaps. Nasty business. Real weird work. This Ripper fella woulda hadda lug the guy all the way up here from Chesapeake n’ tie him up n’ set it all up n’ all. Dedication, I’ll tell you. Phew.” He stood with his hands on his hips then, looking at the body and shaking his head. “Some mighty strange injuries. Mostly post mortem, too.” 

Starling finally plucked up the courage to approach. Raymond Howard the bow-hunter lay pale against the metal table, unclothed completely yet that wasn’t what disturbed Starling by any stretch. He was riddled with holes; perforations where a broad variety of blades and arrows and bolts had once stuck out of him. No single inch of his skin was untouched. She swallowed thickly as she looked him up and down; she’d read the file and seen the images but it was vastly different in the flesh- so to speak. She turned to Dr Wilburn, then, and managed to find her voice. 

“Walk us through it, doctor.” 

And he did. He pointed out each injury with admirable knowledge- Dr Lecter himself even seemed pleasantly content with the small-town doctor’s professionalism. 

Once he was finished Starling asked the question that’d been weighing on her mind. 

“Is there nothing internal missing?”

“Internal, ma’am?”

“Organs, doctor.” 

“Ah,” Dr Wilburn sucked in his lips. “No. Nope- not on this one.” 

“But it’s definitely a Ripper?”

“Oh, for sure. There’s a sorta style to it,” he shrugged. “Like how artist folks have recognizable styles, you know?” 

Clarice Starling found herself disturbed by his flippant nature. Dr Lecter beside her simply nodded at the observation, seemingly in agreement. And then he spoke for the first time, having been curiously quiet and observant thus far.  

“Could you leave us for a while, Dr Wilburn?”

“Ah, yeah, ‘course,” Wilburn said swiftly, waving his hand. “FBI business an’ all that. You folks just tap tap on my office door up the hall and I’ll be here if you need me.” 

And then he was gone. Starling turned to Lecter, who was already looking at her with a deep abject curiosity in his eyes. 

His voice was slow and calm and low as he addressed her. “Have you seen a body before, Clarice?” 

She swallowed, not quite yet used to his forwardness. “I’ve seen a damn lot of pictures, sure. And a couple of live post mortems for class.”

“And how do you find yourself affected, typically?”

“Not all too much. I’m alright at holding myself together, for the most part.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Were the extent of the damages to the previous bodies you’ve seen extreme or outlandish?”

“Some more than others.” 

“And in comparison to this?”

“This is certainly up there, doctor.”

“Mhm.” And then he smiled, to her surprise and slight alarm. She turned back to the body on the table, somehow finding that easier to face than his penetrating gaze. He continued to watch her despite her uncertainty, and it felt strangely voyeuristic in a way that she couldn’t quite describe. “A perverse sort of beauty in it, don’t you think, Clarice?” 

“…Perverse, sure. Don’t know so much about beauty though, doctor.” 

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re young,” he said simply, as if that excused it. “You’ll learn. Observing the aesthetics inherent in destruction is necessary to staying afloat in your line of work, Clarice. Though, that’s something I suggest you ought to learn sooner rather than later.” He chewed on his cheek, thoughtfully. “And if not aesthetics, the next best alternative is humor. Find humor in it or else you may well sink.” 

“Do you see beauty in this? Or humor?” 

“Of course.”

Slightly helplessly, she asked, “how?” 

He approached the pale corpse slowly then, and ran a finger along the steel edge of the table, his face unreadable. 

He was quiet before continuing. “These killers that you seek see beauty in these things, more so than most. And to be efficient in your role you must learn to think the way they think. Your job is to capture them, after all- you won’t be able to achieve that unless you let a little part of them into you. It’s why Graham was so promising. He has a way of allowing himself to think like them. You detach yourself from your job when you allow disgust and disdain to overcome your other senses. It dulls your abilities.”

“So what do you think of it, doctor? At face value, I mean? What angle do you think the Ripper came at this from,” she asked carefully after mulling over what he’d said. There was an uneasiness in her gut. She pulled her notepad from her bag, needing to do something with her hands. “That’s what we’re here for after all. Your input.”

He glanced back at her, humor dancing in his strange eyes. “So frank. Down to business, Agent Starling?”

“Down to business.”

“Very well.” A short sigh before his tone turned clinical. “There’s a precision to it. The nature of this murder is seemingly chaotic, yes, but undeniably deliberate.” 

“I figured the same,” Starling nodded. “What do you think that means, though?”

“What do you think it means?”

“Doctor…”

“I wish to hear your thoughts first, uninfluenced. Experience, Clarice, remember? I’ll give my own after.” 

She pursed her lips before speaking. 

“The killer isn’t… necessarily driven by passion. Not like most killers. This arrangement would’ve taken time. Time and patience and a sense of detachment, I think. If he’d had personal feelings towards this man then they would’ve interfered with the precision of his work.”  

“He, Agent starling?” 

“You don’t think the Ripper is a man?”

“Perhaps you could argue that such precision requires a… feminine touch?”

A quick and firm shake of the head. “No. No this is still too brutal for that, I think. There’s no femininity to this, despite the grace of it. It suggests masculinity. But not typical masculinity.” She worried at her lip. “I don’t know... It’s tricky.” 

She approached the table again then, this time turning her attention away from the gruesome corpse and instead focusing on the faint scar on his thigh. Dr Lecter felt a tiny, inexplicable shiver of satisfaction run up his spine when she reached out curiously, almost to touch it, but paused and let her finger hover over the scar tissue. 

“This is your work?” 

“Yes, it is.”

“How bad was this at the time of injury?” 

“Quite stark, if I recall correctly. The bone was protruding.”

“It healed well.” 

“I take pride in my work.”

“Clearly.” She paused, thinking, and then turned quickly to face him. “What made you take the jump, Doctor? If you were so good at surgery why take the leap to psychiatry?” 

“Hardly a leap , Clarice,” he waved her away. “I desired change. Something more challenging. The human mind is infinitely trickier to traverse than simple flesh and blood. All bodies are the same once you delve inside. The mind, however, not so much. And I find I have a knack for people. Analyzing the way people think, that is. It’s a worthy challenge.” 

“You like a challenge?”

“Yes I do, Agent Starling.” 

A short smile then, despite the morbidity of their location. “So I ‘spose you’ve been analyzing me , doctor?” 

“Hmm, no more than you’ve been analyzing me, Clarice. You’re a psychology student, don’t think I’ve forgotten that. It’s in your very nature, as it is in mine.” 

“Touche,” she said under her breath, then realized she’d yet again gone off topic. “Well what about our guy here?” She gestured toward the metal table. “Come on. Gimme your two-cents. You said you would, after I did.”

He smiled and acquiesced. “I think you’re correct in your observations about lack of personal drive, Clarice… But to argue a lack of passion, I believe, may be an oversight.” 

“You think this was a crime of passion?”

“In a way, perhaps. Answer this for me; What is passion?”

“Um. Well, it can be anger… or desire…”

“No, no, no. Those are types of passion. What is passion, holistically- what is it composed of? What discerns passion from… say, vague interest?”

“Strong, intense emotion? A goal? Something more human than plain lust… Or-“

“Yes, that is it. Passion is distinctly human- hold on to that. Follow that line,” he said firmly. She blinked. “What else is more human, as you put it? What is it that separates us from wild animals?”

“Uh… Consciousness?” 

“Partly, but what else? Be specific.”

“Self awareness.” 

“ Exactly. The awareness of perception. To be aware that one is being perceived.” He inclined his head. “And combine that with passion?”

“You get…” she trailed off, furrowing her brow in thought. “Well, you get a show off.” 

“A layman’s way of phrasing it, perhaps, but yes. A performer. A showman. A person who enjoys creating something for other people.” 

“The Chesapeake Ripper is putting on a show?” 

He smiled. Starling smiled back.

“You think he’s doing it for the purpose of attention? Rather than revenge or anger?”

“I think it’s a viewpoint to consider, Clarice. One of many.”

“Performers like rewards, though... They like trophies,” she argued. “Serial killers tend to keep trophies… The Ripper takes trophies, but only sometimes.”

“Which trophies?”

“Body parts, doctor. Organs,” she clarified, somewhat uncomfortably. “But he didn’t take any here.” 

“Perhaps the man himself is the trophy, Clarice. Perhaps the display itself is the reward.”

“But he didn’t keep the body. He dumped it.”

“And thus it has been on display in every tabloid across the country, Clarice. A showman, remember?” 

“I see,” she nodded, then frowned. “But where does this man come into it, in particular?”

“Poor luck, I think.”

“Random picking?” 

“It could very well be so.”

“That would make our job harder...”

“Unfortunately, serial murderers don’t tend to commit crimes with the well-being of their pursuers in mind.” 

She laughed shortly - sardonically - as she dipped her head and began to jot some notes down. “Damn rude if you ask me,” she clipped absently. 

“Perhaps you should put in a complaint.”

She looked up momentarily, her smile widening. “Next time I come across a serial killer maybe I will.”

Dr Lecter hummed in good humor but didn’t respond. Something thumped in his chest. Amusement, yes, but… something else. What a strange game he was playing, here, with this young woman. What a strange, dangerous, delicious game. 

The room was quiet for a while as Starling finished her notes, and then she spoke with disdain painting her tone. “It’s starting to squick me out a bit, being in here.”

“You’re finished?”

“I think I am. Are you?”

“Yes. I think so. Unless there’s anything else you wish to theorize on?”

“I’m all good.” 

“Very well.” 

Back up the hall, then. They knocked on the kindly doctor’s door and bid their farewell before emerging back out onto the dusty Virginian air. It was darkening- the sky was growing pink and the clouds had become fine, dusted across the sky. Evening was quickly approaching. Dr Lecter, ever courteous, offered her his arm immediately upon arriving at the edge of the property. 

“Allow me to walk you to your car.” 

She smiled sheepishly. “Don’t have it with me, sir. I got a cab.”

He frowned. “From Quantico?”

“Well, my roommate drove me part way ‘cause she was heading west anyways, but I cabbed the rest.” 

His frown deepened. Starling was hard pressed not to laugh at his firm expression. “What, doctor?”

“It’s late, Clarice.”

“Keen observation, sir.” 

His eyes narrowed at her teasing tone, but he acknowledged that she was joking- and then he was silently pleased that she felt comfortable enough to do so, even so early into their acquaintance. “You’d be arriving home no sooner than sometime in the early morning tomorrow, Clarice. Still dark, I’m sure.”

“Well, it’s a mighty good thing you picked a Friday to do this, then.” She shrugged flippantly. “I’ll sleep in tomorrow. No worries.” 

“You’re not traveling back with anyone? Not your friend?”

A shake of the head. “Ardelia ain’t heading back home until Sunday evening. It’s fine.” A rueful smile. “I can handle myself, doctor.” 

He pursed his lips and Starling felt suddenly small beneath his firm expression. “I’m staying at a hotel a half hour away. We’re here out of season, Clarice- I’m sure there will be rooms available.” 

And despite the sense deep in her stomach that she shouldn't argue with him, she couldn’t help but push back. “Forgive me, sir, but something tells me I wouldn't be able to afford an impromptu stay at your kind of hotel. I’ll be fine cabbing, honestly.” 

“My kind of hotel?”

“Nevermind,” she waved him off. 

“I’d cover the finances.” His tone was firm. 

“Absolutely not.” Hers was firmer. 

She sensed a shortness growing within him. “I invited you down here, Miss Starling. Think of this as a business trip. You wouldn’t be expected to pay for that would you, Clarice? Nor would you be expected to cab several hours across the state?”

“Well, no, but-“

“Excellent. So we agree.” 

“Do we?”

“Clarice. If you’d prefer a slew of overpriced cab rides late at night alone then be my guest.” He stepped closer. “Or you could accept a night on my tab. It is of no real difference to me. I’m merely considering courtesy.” 

“But then I’ll have to get home either way tomorrow. Cabs will be more expensive then. Saturday daytime rates go up.” 

“Simple. Drive back with me.” 

“I don’t wanna be a bother.”

And finally he smiled, albeit tightly. “We don’t have to talk, if that’s what concerns you. I’ll drive in silence if you wish. You can sit in the back of my car. It’ll be just like your favoured cab ride… Although, you may have to endure my music.”

She smiled a little and chewed on her cheek. The tension broke as quickly as it had formed. “You got any Lynyrd Skynyrd tapes?”

A pained look overcame him- only half fake. “And to think I was beginning to believe you may be halfway intelligent.” 

“So that’s a no?”

“It is. But I’m sure I’ll be able to find something agreeable for us both.” 

She was tired and it was dark and her bank account was already straining… a long night of hailing cabs all the way back to Quantico didn’t seem all too appealing and she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to accept some help… Dr Lecter wasn’t all that bad, despite what Crawford had insinuated…

Starling gave in after a further few moments of thought. Lecter silently celebrated his victory. 

“Alright. Lead the way, sir.” 

Just like Lecter himself, his handsome car stood out in stark contrast to the dusty, distinctly West Virginian surroundings. A 1970 T1 Bentley sat quietly in the parking lot just around the back from the mortuary, and Starling had a hard time keeping her mouth shut as Lecter fished his keys from within the breast pocket of his suit vest and approached the vehicle. 

He spared a sideways glance, perhaps sensing the silence that Starling had fallen suddenly into, and smiled despite himself. 

“You’re keen on cars, Clarice?” 

“Damn right I am,” she spoke softly, tentatively approaching the metal beast as though it might flee if she moved too fast. And then as a side note, she added somewhat teasingly, “I’m more of a Mustang girl myself, though, doctor, if it comes down to it.” 

He smiled and bowed his head. “I’d expect no less, pure blooded American that you are.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Clarice.” A pause as she stopped just short of the car. “Now, am I driving you as a colleague or cabbie?”

“Colleague, doctor. I’ll get in the front.”

“I am pleased to know you tolerate me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanna get a look at the hardware,” she grinned, ducking her head. 

He smiled back, wider. The dying light of day caught in his eyes, and then so was Clarice. He stared at her a moment longer, something unspoken passing between the two of them, and then finally moved to open the door for her. 

“By all means, look. But don’t touch.”

Chapter Text

“I realize now you’ll be arriving home later tomorrow than you anticipated,” Dr Lecter said after a long period of silence- one that’d initially been awkward but had soon settled into relative comfort. Starling truly had spent the time admiring the mechanics of the car; and thus admiring the sure way in which Dr Lecter worked them. 

Clarice Starling was learning many things swiftly about the enigma that was Dr Hannibal Lecter, M.D. - namely the fact that it seemed he did nothing without a distinct sense of grace and purpose, even if that did include the simple act of turning a steering wheel. “I hope I’m not interfering with any plans? Student life is busy, I’m aware.”

Staring scoffed a little then, turning her head to the passenger window as she watched the fields fly past. “No worries about that, sir.” She waved her hand, setting her head wearily against the headrest. She was exhausted, in truth, and was growing more and more glad that she’d accepted the doctor’s offer as time wore on. “All I was gonna do was stay in and catch up on sleep, anyways. You’re doing me a favor, sir.”

“No weekend plans?”

“Not for me, doctor,” she said, her tone softening. “My roommate, Ardelia, goes out enough for the both of us…” followed by a fond shake of the head. “Wild girl.” 

He frowned, and stole his gaze from the road for a precious few seconds to glance at the young woman beside him. “Your peers aren’t quite your crowd, then, I presume, Clarice?”

“Never have been… I can’t find time for goin’ out n’ all that. I like to keep my head down, you know? All the social stuff can come later.”

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, and amusement painted his tone. “I remember my time in education. A while ago, mind, but I’m sure little has changed. The sticky, simultaneously fleeting and infinitely monotonous enjoyments of the youth, hm? Tedious. Very tedious.”

“Yeah…” and then she sat up a little straighter, and turned to face him again, forming mock air-quotes with her fingers. “I’ve been told I need to ‘let loose’ before. More than once, too. Who knows, maybe they’re right.”

“Perhaps they are. Or perhaps your individual expression of ‘letting loose’ simply lies in your education. Perhaps your peers are too focused on party life to realize that now.”

Starling didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she pursed her lips and shifted where she sat, watching the doctor curiously now with little inhibition. Weariness had her feeling loose and oddly confident. Perhaps the subdued adrenaline of the day was catching up to her. Lecter’s eyes were fixed on the road despite her fidgeting. He took her attentive silence as a sign to continue and did so, his tone turning clinical. “On paper, the study of the human mind seems awfully monotonous but once you enter the wide world and are faced with the opportunity to study people in a true day-to-day setting, Clarice… well, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun. There are some very intriguing individuals out there.” A brief, pointed sideways glance. “It’s why I do what I do. It’s why I stop and talk with people such as yourself.”

“Oh, so I’m just a case study, is that it?” Starling smiled. “And to think you were actually being gentlemanly, offering me a lift an’ a job an’ all…”

“Well, why not both?” He was similarly amused. “Don’t we all wish to study that which we find intriguing, Clarice Starling? That which we think is worth our time?”

“I guess so.” She smiled to herself. “It’s why I’m here.” 

Another silence befell them. Not yet had they worked up a close enough rapport to comfortably fill these frequent moments of silence. Their conversation was like a dance- and a tentative one, too, considering the many vast differences between the pair of them. They were still discovering how the other moved, and it was a delightful game in Dr Lecter’s opinion. It’d been a considerable length of time since he’d had a suitable dance partner; one that matched him in wit. 

He reclined slightly and dropped one arm from the wheel, bringing it to fiddle idly with the gearstick. Starling’s eyes dropped and fixed on his strange hand with its prominent extra finger. Polydactyly, she’d guess- she’d touched upon the condition briefly during the brief biological module of her earlier course but they hadn’t covered a case as developed as the doctor’s seemed to be. Perhaps she’d ask him about it some time. 

Her attention climbed back up to his profile, painted dimly golden as the final rays of daylight fought for their moment before the sun dipped below the horizon. Noble and aristocratic- but sharp and aquiline, too, and endlessly imposing. There was the suggestion of great intelligence behind his temples yet Starling suspected she’d only seen a mere sliver of it thus far. His eye twitched ever so slightly and she suspected he could keenly feel her gaze, but was choosing to feign ignorance so she could take her fill. 

After some time, he pursed his lips before speaking again, and this time his voice was low and rough, almost as if he were speaking to himself. 

“I’ll help you catch him, Clarice.” 

Starling blinked. Instantly, she was snapped out of her weary reverie. Some strange emotion bloomed in her chest; something warm and hopeful and jarring. 

“You’ll work on the case, doctor?”

“With conditions.”

Her spine straightened eagerly. “Shoot.” 

“I’ll speak to you. You. Not Jack Crawford.” A rasp worked its way into his tone as he emphasized that crucial condition. Starling nodded in his peripheral. “I’ll work with him on this case, assuming you’re able to procure the case file for me, but I will consult through you. I’d appreciate it if you made that clear to him.”

“I understand, sir.” And then a small frown. “But remember I’m still a student. I’ll have lessons. I won’t be able to just… come visit any time.”

“I’ll arrange a fixed time. I’m sure your superiors will understand.” 

Starling nodded, chewing her cheek. “I’m sure Mr Crawford will be very grateful.” 

“I couldn’t care less about Jack's opinion,” Lecter assured her swiftly- almost before she’d even finished speaking. 

“I know. I’m just sayin’.” A quiet beat in which Starling fought hard to keep the wide grin off of her face. She settled back into the plush leather of the seat. “I’m very grateful, doctor.”

“I dare say you deserve the chance, Clarice. You have potential. It would be a shame to waste it.” A sideways glance- one that lingered this time. 

“Just don’t disappoint me.” 

The hotel was surprisingly quaint, considering the company she was with, and Starling found the staff to be remarkably welcoming once Dr Lecter had parked the Bentley and accompanied her in. 

The staff appeared to recognise Dr Lecter when they’d entered and had acquiesced to his request for an additional room with swift and eager courtesy. Starling found herself whisked away and had fallen asleep quickly that night, after showering and changing into one of the robes courtesy of the hotel. 

She woke some time later to the sound of knocking, and winced when she opened her eyes to a beam of sunlight streaming directly over the thick double bed she was spread out across. Starling thought perhaps she’d imagined the knocking and turned over to doze back off, but then knuckles rapped on the door again and she was up quickly, brow furrowed slightly in irritation

“One moment!”

The bathrobe she’d slept in - since she hadn’t planned for an overnight stay and thus hadn’t brought along a change of clothes - had fallen open and so she paused to tie it back up before crossing the room and opening the door.

“I- oh.” She blinked a little dumbly when she found Dr Lecter stood on the threshold, dressed to perfection as he had been the previous day. Clearly he’d been awake for a while. He raised a brow and Starling pulled the tie of the robe a little tighter. “My bad, doctor. I thought you were room service or somethin’.” 

He seemed amused, tilting his head slightly. “I’m sure I could fetch you a drink and some fresh towels if you so wish?” 

A short laugh and then Starling shook her head after stifling a yawn. “I’m jus’ fine, you’ve done enough for me already.”

“You slept well?”

“Very well. The rooms here are lovely.” 

“So they are,” he nodded softly, and then paused before speaking slightly more formally. “I have business in Baltimore this afternoon. I’d like to be back sooner rather than later. I plan on leaving in an hour or so but if you’d rather indulge yourself this morning then by all means do so, and I can arrange for a lift. I have somebody on standby, it would be no problem. Pierro is my personal driver and I’m sure you’d find him to be very pleasant and exceedingly courteous.”

Starling actually considered it for a second- she wanted nothing more than to sink back into the covers- but her penchant for politeness prevailed and she shook her head firmly. “I can be ready, doctor.”

He appeared to be pleased. “Excellent. We’ll reconvene in forty minutes, then? The staff are serving breakfast downstairs if you wish to eat.” 

“Sounds good.” 

A quick shower and she redressed reluctantly in the clothes she’d worn the previous day. Then down the stairs and out into the large dining hall that the hotel boasted. She spotted Dr Lecter with ease, reclined at a large round table as though he were painted there. He spotted her as quickly as she had him, raising his chin and nodding in greeting. She seated herself and then he hailed over a waiter. 

Breakfast was delicious. Dr Lecter had ordered himself a sensible steaming coffee paired with three slices of croissant slathered with butter whereas Starling felt no shame in ordering pancakes the second she saw them listed. Good, greasy American pancakes; topped with a square of butter and an abundance of sugary syrup. She ate them cheerfully, even as the doctor shook his head slowly and tutted, fighting to disguise his genuine amusement with a faux-look of disapproval. 

“Snob,” she’d muttered playfully at one point, forgetting herself. His expression had changed minutely. Starling pretended not to notice, and had schooled herself for the remainder of the day. 

It was only in the car that they spoke properly once more. She’d been flicking idly through the case file as they drove steadily closer and closer to the state line. 

She’d felt his eyes on her for some time before he opened his mouth. “How do you feel?” A remarkably loaded question, she figured, until he clarified. “About the case, that is. It’s your first experience with a real one, yes?” 

“With an active one, sure,” she nodded, chewing on her cheek as she continued to scan details she’d skimmed over previously. “I feel… I feel involved .”

Dr Lecter turned his attention back up the road, one hand on the wheel and the other resting idly on the stick. She stared at it as the silence stretched. His body language seemed tight; or consciously controlled, rather, and he chose not to address her lingering gaze. “Yes, I expect you do.” 

“Seeing him, I mean… seeing the young man yesterday… it feels different now than seeing it on the news n’ the bulletins back at Quantico,” Starling continued, feeling something deep within her chest throb. “It makes me wanna get this guy, you know? I mean, this is my home. West Virginia, that is. N’ seeing one of my own like that… cut up on that autopsy table… for no discernible reason…” 

She trailed off, shaking her head sadly. 

Hannibal Lecter sighed inwardly, and mourned silently for a moment. He mourned because it seemed that Jack Crawford had, yet again, picked a student out of the masses just a little too efficiently. How many more would Crawford send his way? How many bright young students did he have at his disposal? Well, Crawford had an eye for talent, clearly. Yet talent was self-destructive by nature and the little bird sat brooding in silence to his right was certainly the type to either go out in a fiery blaze of glory or burn herself down to the wick.  

Nothing good awaited her whilst she labored under the thumb of the FBI. Yet, Hannibal Lecter feared that nothing he could say to her would disillusion her. Not yet, at least. For the meantime all he could do was observe. 

“As I said, Clarice… I’ll help you. If you help me.” A brief sideways glance. She was looking at him. He smiled. “Quid pro quo.” 

“Quid pro quo,” she echoed, as if she were testing the words on her tongue. The phrase seemed to amuse her for some reason. “That reminds me. I need to talk to Crawford about all this.” And then she grimaced. A suitable reaction to thoughts of Jack Crawford, Dr Lecter figured. “He won’t be in the office today. I oughta do it Monday, really… I’ll have to get my report done by then, too.” 

“Yes, that would be ideal. I’m sure you’ll manage it.”

“Hm. I hope so. I’m gonna be damn tired.” 

He didn’t respond, instead watching her thoughtfully as her head lolled back onto the headrest, noting the heaviness beneath her eyes. 

He turned his attention back to the road and spoke softly. “Don’t fight sleep, Clarice. Rest if you wish. It’s a long drive.” 

She cast him an uncertain gaze, as if the thought of dozing in his car was improper to her, or discourteous. 

He simply shook his head. “I won’t mind. I’ll wake you when we’re near.”

And so she did nap, eventually. She found it disconcertingly easy to let her guard down. As Starling drifted off, eased into light slumber by the gentle thump of the Bentley making its way over the rural West Virginian highway, she wondered if it was at all normal to feel quite so inexplicably at ease with a person you’d met but twice. 

Chapter Text

“You know, Hannibal, with you it always seems to be either insufferable chattering or silent brooding. There really is no inbetween.”

Ordinarily, Hannibal Lecter might’ve quipped back with something smart and witty. That morning, he simply kept his eyes closed and waved his prattling companion off.  

“I’m thinking, Rachel. Perhaps you ought to give it a try one of these days.”

“Very funny, Hannibal,” Rachel DuBerry remarked dryly, even as she did genuinely smile and cast a backwards glance at Dr Lecter, laid in repose atop the wide bed, quite starkly unclothed with the cover pulled up just above his hips. She admired him for a long moment- sleek and tidy despite his age, so unlike most of the men in her circle- before turning back towards the vanity. “What’re you thinking about, if I dare even ask?”

“Crawford is harassing me again,” the doctor hummed simply, and finally opened his eyes. He sat up, drawing the covers more securely over his midsection for modesty’s sake. 

“That foul man,” DuBerry muttered. Dr Lecter watched her reflection in the vanity as she applied her makeup with the careful precision of a practiced artist. “He cannot just leave a person alone, that one, can he?”

Rachel was clothed in nothing more than the sheer, flattering camisole he’d removed from her the previous night. The room still smelt vaguely of sex. His mind was halfway absent as he responded, “I fear that may just be an attribute all FBI agents possess.”

“So what is this time? Has he turned up at your office waving some ghastly case file around, again?”

“He didn’t. He sent someone else to do his dirty work for him.”

“Some eager young pup?”

“Not so much a pup, although she is rather young,” Lecter shook his noble head quickly. A small unbidden smile. “No, this one was interesting.” 

“She? Hm. Crawford may be an insufferable bastard but at least he is not impartial to employing both sexes. I appreciate the progressiveness.” 

Lecter found that amusing, smiling vaguely. “Surprisingly so.” 

“So. Who is she?”

“A young woman. A Miss Starling.”

“Dainty. I like it.”  

“She is an interesting little birdie. Not dainty at all, though, mind.”

Rachel met his gaze through the mirror. There was an airy look to his expression that she found peculiar and unfamiliar and almost laughable. 

“Are you fond, Hannibal?” she asked, her tone laced with amusement and teasing. “Should I be concerned for our little rendezvous? Am I to be replaced?” 

“Don’t play coy jealousy, Rachel, it is unbecoming on you,” he almost snapped, then reigned himself when he realized she was joking. “She’s a student. Pure West Virginian. Well mannered, yes, but not classically trained in such things, by any stretch.” 

“The very opposite of me, then,” Rachel remarked wispily.  “Well, you have always liked variety, Hannibal. Who’s to say she’s out of the question.”

“Really, now, Rachel, don’t be crass.” 

“I’m mocking you, don’t be so defensive,” she shooed the stern look off of his face with a flick of her manicured hand. “You’re like a teenager with a crush.” And then she moved swiftly on before he could scold her for the comment. “I suppose this is a similar arrangement to Will Graham?”

“Similar, yes. Although dare I say she has more of a backbone than Graham did.”

“That surprises me. I always liked that boy. He was cute. And smart.” 

Lecter’s lip turned up. “Perhaps it is I who ought to be concerned, Rachel.”

“Oh, not about him. Not anymore. I’ve heard Graham is still in the hospital… and I like my men without too much baggage. It gets exhausting otherwise… and he’s too young,” she listed the reasons carefully. “It’s a shame about everything that happened to him.”

“He’ll bounce back,” Lecter said dryly.

“Do you think this Starling girl will, too? When Jack Crawford pushes her too far?” 

“He won’t, I’ll make sure.” Rachel found herself surprised by the fierce assurance in his usually composed tone. “And if he tries, then I’m sure she will handle it just fine… But I’m hoping such mistakes won’t be repeated.”

He was met with a knowing smile as Rachel finished her makeup and turned to face him properly. “You are fond, aren’t you?”

“I’m fond of peaceful silence, Rachel. She talks less than you do.” 

“You’re just scared of a woman with a little personality, Hannibal,” she poked as she stood from the vanity. Dr Lecter paused to admire the way in which the camisole settled atop her slender hips. He did like Rachel, truly- she was classically attractive and the casual arrangement they had was pleasant and pleasurable, even if she did pick at his nerves occasionally. 

“Yes, that must be it,” he said absently. 

“Hm. Well. I ought to be on my way,” she said, sensing the change in the room. “I have a luncheon with Elizabeth and her husband in a couple of hours.” 

“Likewise. I have appointments. I need to be in the office for the afternoon.” 

“Well then, I’ll allow you your dignity so you can wash and change,” she smiled, tilting her head as she collected her purse and bag of fresh clothing, slinging it over her dainty shoulder. 

“Thank you, Rachel. There’s breakfast in the fridge downstairs.” 

She went to him, then, and placed a slender hand on his chest before leaning down to kiss him lightly. It was chaste and friendly. 

“I shall help myself.” 

“You always do, Rachel.”

“Ta ta,” she waved, and then left him to prepare herself in the modest privacy of the guest room. 

He lay back for a long while, eyes closed as he listened to the sounds of movement about the house; first the shuffling of fabric and then dull footsteps making their way down his stairs to the kitchen where she prepared for herself the food he had left out. And, finally, the front door closed and he was alone in his home. 

Hannibal Lecter, whilst not like the many men who were reliant on intimacy as a source of satisfaction, still appreciated the release and sense of clarity that such activities provided. His frequent arrangements with Rachel DuBerry served as nothing more than mutual enjoyment for the both of them- no more incidental than enjoying the opera or perusing art. It was simply yet another pleasurable outlet for the senses; one that exercised both his mind and his body and left him refreshed as exercise would to a sportsman. 

And so, Hannibal Lecter lay there in calm clarity that morning and allowed his mind to wander, perusing the halls of his vast memory palace. And it came as no surprise when it ventured to that strange, ambitious little agent-to-be, as it had so frequently over the last handful of days; so much so that a dedicated filing cabinet for Clarice Starling was slowly coming together, completely against his will.  

Clarice Starling, then. Sent to him like Iris, personal messenger from Hera. Clarice Starling, strong in her foundations like the thick root of a plant yet to flourish, but one that was sure to flourish beautifully. Not to say that she wasn’t already desirable; she was, to be sure. Although, in a sort of hardy and headstrong manner, conventional from a distance, perhaps, but up close she was almost intimidating, in a strange sort of way… 

He couldn’t quite figure her out, and that itself was driving him crazy. 

And then there was, of course, the titillating possibility of her figuring him out. She was beyond herself in terms of intellect- she had the potential of somebody far more powerful than he’d expect anyone of her standing to be, and Dr Lecter feared that if he let their little game go on for any longer she might just unearth who exactly he was and what exactly he’d done. Yet alas, Hannibal Lecter lived for fun. He lived for the danger of indulgence, and it would take more than a little bit of healthy caution to cut Clarice Starling off now. 

He was having far too much fun, indeed. He was like a young child climbing a tree. He knew the dangers associated with falling - and he knew that if he continued to climb with such vigor he would fall - yet the urge to reach the top and see the full extent of the view she offered was far too tempting. Nevermind. He’d deal with the consequences of his whimsy when they arrived. He always had done, and he was doing alright thus far.  

So, onwards then. Enough brooding. 

Hannibal Lecter climbed out of bed that morning and did so with an easy smile on his face. He washed and then dressed slowly, humming as he did so, and continued to hum as he brushed his teeth and tidied his hair and shaved the stubble that grew insistently. 

His humming continued as he ventured downstairs and prepared breakfast for himself, grateful to see that Rachel had left the ingredients out for him. He whisked up his food quickly, sitting down in good nature at his large dining table to eat the frittata with fresh vegetables, and slowly drank the deliciously hot coffee. 

And then there was a distant thump.

The sound of something soft hitting thick wood. Dr Lecter blinked and was reminded of the final chore he needed to complete before he departed for a long afternoon in central Baltimore. 

He finished his food at a leisurely pace, set the dishes aside and then made his way down the basement steps with the same light-hearted, absent-minded energy he had approached every other task on that fine morning. 

He unlocked the basement door, walked through his wine cellar and then pushed one of the hinged wine racks aside to reveal a second, concealed entrance. 

He opened it. 

Within the dark, concealed room - almost an oubliette - lay the shape of a man on the floor, arms, legs and mouth bound and he struggled on his side. He’d been there for no more than two days and still had, apparently, the energy to shuffle around and attempt to kick the annex door open. It was almost amusing as he wriggled around like an overturned cockroach.

Dr Lecter had spotted the young Princeton student at an academic evening event sometime a week ago; the young man had been making some rather ungraceful and certainly unreciprocated advances on a number of the attendees there, and had thus tarnished the agreeable atmosphere of the party.

No worries. Dr Lecter had quickly removed him from the premises, ridding the otherwise pleasant event of the taint. 

It was important to note that Dr Lecter had devised a number of intricate plans for the young man and they’d all involved keeping him there in his basement for a much longer period of time, but he was in a good mood that morning and figured that whimsicality was the theme of the day. He’d make an impulsive decision, purely for the hell of it. God forbid he become predictable. Why on earth not. 

“Good morning,” he greeted the man as though he might greet an acquaintance at the gallery or the orchestra. The student's eyes widened in panic; the primal look of a person so utterly terrified that they had regressed into the most formative parts of their limbic mind. 

Lecter discarded his jacket patiently, hanging it up carefully on a hook in the wall, and then slipped on a long, waterproof coat that had been hanging beside it. He smiled amiably as he smoothed the material down, ensuring that no single inch of his immaculate suit was exposed. 

“I suppose we ought to get this over with,” he hummed, more to himself than the young man. 

Dr Lecter didn’t take nearly as much time as he would’ve liked dispatching the Princeton student. He needed to be in central Baltimore for eleven o’clock, after all, and there was a lovely café that he liked on the way which he wanted enough time to stop in at.

As he wiped blood off of his hands and coat and shoes afterwards, he decided he’d buy a nice pastry alongside the morning coffee he was planning on getting. 

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling was hunched over the desk in the student common room, her hair falling about her face and closing her off from the hustle and bustle of the many other trainee agents making their way steadily to their respective classes. Her hand was cramping up. She’d been writing her report for the better half of the morning.

It was the interruption of a familiar voice, drifting past the curtain of her hair, that finally caused her to snap out of her focus and save her wrist from any further strain. 

“Bright and early, Starling?”

“Of course sir,” she answered quickly upon twisting to find Jack Crawford peering over her shoulder, his long neck craning curiously. A number of students had stopped to watch him out of the corners of their eyes; Crawford rarely deigned to grace the common folks with his presence, much less to stop and talk so casually. 

“Is that for me?” he asked with an easy smile, nodding towards the report. Starling nodded back. 

“It will be, sir, yes. Just another half hour and it’ll be good to go.”

He set his coffee cup down, then, and leaned against the desk, arms folded. Starling dropped her pen and sat back in the chair, resigning herself to further conversation. 

“What did you think of him?” Crawford asked after a pause.

“Doctor Lecter?”

“Mhm.”

Starling thought for a minute, chewing on her cheek. She suppressed an inexplicable smile. “He’s… an interesting man, Mr Crawford. Not as abrasive as you made out, sir, but I think he’s just being polite at the moment.”

“Hm,” Crawford grunted noncommittally. “Or maybe he just likes you, Starling, if that’s so hard to believe?” 

She didn’t respond, but did silently bathe beneath the sort-of complement. “Maybe, sir.”

“Graham got on with him, too, after all… for the most part.” A small, ironic shrug. “Perhaps it’s just me he hates. Who knows?” 

“Maybe.” 

“I’m glad you found him okay, though, Starling… What did you think of the Ripper?” he moved swiftly on. “You’ve met him too, now, after all. Brigham told me about your trip.” 

Starling swallowed thickly. “It was a lot to take in, sir.” Crawford tilted his head slightly, watching her face carefully for any sign of fragility. He found none. “But I was alright. I dealt with it just fine. Dr Lecter seemed to have a few good ideas. You’ll read them once this is done, Mr Crawford,” she smiled then, gesturing towards the report. 

Crawford tilted his head further, and appraised her with a look of fondness that Starling found quite disconcerting. “You don’t spook easy, do you, Starling?”

She shook her head once. “Not yet, sir.” 

“Good...” A pause, and then, “get that report on my desk soon, then, and then back to lessons.”

“Of course,” she nodded and turned back to her work. He collected his coffee and had begun to stroll away before Starling’s memory kicked in and she stood abruptly, calling after him. “Sir?” 

He spun back around, one of his thin, wispy eyebrows arched. “Starling?” 

“I need to talk to you, actually. About the case. And Dr Lecter.” A curious turn of his head. “He offered me an opportunity. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Crawford smiled to himself and knew instantly what Starling was going to tell him. He celebrated inwardly before schooling himself and nodding once. “Very well. We’ll talk in my office. Come on then, Starling. And just bring that report of yours along. I don’t mind that it’s not completely finished.” 

Clarice Starling gathered her things and trailed after him. The students of Quantico watched her go. 

Chapter Text

They’d agreed on a time. Five in the afternoon every Friday, after which Dr Lecter had an hour and a half of no appointments. He’d agreed to keep the time free for the ‘foreseeable future.’ Starling finished her lessons at lunchtime on a Friday. It worked out perfectly. 

It was a pleasant day; cloudless but still cold enough to justify dressing up nicely in something cozy and sensible. She tapped her wheel as she drove, the radio tuned to some local rock station, and arrived at the practice in Baltimore at ten to five on-the-dot. She wasted no time entering the building, already considering it somewhere familiar. 

A knock on the top floor door and then she slipped into the waiting room with a small smile. The receptionist recognised her this time and greeted her far more warmly than she had after their initial meeting.

“Hiya Miss Starling. Good to see you again, hun. Take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s with someone at the moment but I’m sure he’ll be happy to hurry them along.” 

Starling nodded and seated herself, pulling her nice bag up onto her lap and tapping her foot as the receptionist crossed the room. Julie stood and knocked on the office door thrice, then poked her head in tentatively. 

“It’s the FBI girl, doctor.”

“Ah,” she heard Lecter speak, his voice muffled through the thick wall. “Tell her to wait at the door, Julie.”

Julie gestured and Starling stood and waited. 

And then Dr Lecter exited his office, followed by a young man of tall, broad stature with contrastingly limp brown hair and soft-yet-skittish eyes. He glanced only momentarily at Starling, but seemed more focused on Lecter who was talking in a low, steady voice to him. They exchanged some quiet parting words and then the young man made a hasty exit.

Dr Lecter turned his full attention to Starling, then. He smiled, silently appraising her appearance in the quickest of glances downwards. Tidy dark slacks and a pleasant cashmere sweater. She’d upgraded from her previous sweats and UVA jumper, it seemed. After a moment of silence, the doctor bowed his head and gestured for Starling to follow after him.  

“You had a patient with you, sir?” was the first thing she asked, mild concern lacing her tone. She was sure that the doctor had said he’d be free, and was momentarily concerned that she’d gotten her times wrong. 

He quickly shook his sleek head, easing her anxiety. “Not a scheduled one, Clarice. I received a rather impromptu visit from that young man. I found time to slot him in. Please, come on in.”

She walked past him then, and he guided her over the threshold with the lightest of touches at the small of her back, closing the door firmly with his free hand. Starling ignored the slight shock that ran up her spine at the moment of contact. She couldn’t’ve been sure if he’d done it deliberately, but when she turned to face him he was looking at her with an infuriatingly neutral expression. 

A deep sigh. “I could’ve waited, doctor, honestly, I-“

“It’s no matter, Clarice,” he waved her into silence. “Please, sit.” She did so. “Thank you. The young man was referred to me by a concerned friend, you see- another patient of mine whom I have been treating for quite some time. He is not a paying client. Not yet.”

“Why see him then?”

“He intrigued me. He’s a strange case.”

“I see.” She set her bag down on the floor and smoothed out her slacks as she watched the doctor move gracefully about the room, tucking his things away. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything about him, then? Patient-therapist confidentiality?” 

“Naturally. I take my obligations as a therapist very seriously,” Lecter nodded with some amusement. He then gestured towards a pitcher on the bookshelf behind the desk. “Some water, Clarice?”

She nodded easily this time, in contrast to her first visit. “Yeah, sure. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He glanced back at her and noticed her stiff posture. He found himself amused. “Get comfortable, Clarice, please.” 

She smiled a little and settled back into the chair, though she still spared a humored look around her office, her gaze settling on the stiff chaise lounge. She figured she could spare a joke with him. “I would if you had anything a little more comfortable to sit on. I thought you were supposed to be a shrink?”

Lecter placed her cup of water before her and sat opposite, his lips curling up into a smile. “I’m a psychiatrist, Clarice- a real one. Are you proposing I purchase a couch? Have my patients lay back on it and tell me about their mothers or fathers?” His smile widened as he shook his head. “I prefer not to follow - nor pay any attention to - experimental Freudian practices. Perhaps bring a cushion next time if my chair is not comfortable enough for you.” 

Starling smiled then wrinkled her nose, her gaze darting to her lap. “Yeah… I wasn’t too keen on Freud either, to be honest, doctor. We studied him in first-year psych. I hated it.” 

“So you’re not a believer in the Oedipal approach?”

Starling shook her head once, firmly. “It didn’t apply all too much to me, doctor. I thought it was a bunch of theorist bullshit, in truth.”

The doctor tutted at the crass language, but noticed that her vulgarity was actually firm deflection; he also noted the discomfort in her posture and he filed the observation away for later consideration. Perhaps Mr Freud did get some things correct. Her vague discomfort on the subject of the deceased neurologist spoke volumes. A past issue surrounding a father figure, perhaps? An aversion to theories that related to that of a troubled childhood? Interesting... Her eagerness to please Jack Crawford seemed a little clearer, all of a sudden. Speaking of…

“How is Jack, Clarice? I take it you mentioned my business propositions, since you are here?” 

She blinked at the subject change, but recovered swiftly. “I did, sir, yes.”

“And? Do tell. I am on the edge of my seat here.” 

She smiled and then slowly bent down to pull a thick manilla file out of her bag. She placed it - with a dramatic flourish - on the desk between them. She beamed, then, and he found that such a bright expression on her face was particularly toothsome.  

“You’re in, doc.”

“Don’t… call me doc...” 

She ignored him. “Mr Crawford is just mighty pleased that he doesn’t have to deal with you directly… Although, he said I shouldn’t tell you that.” 

“Oh, did he now? And, yet, you’ve done exactly that. Is not the very first value of the FBI fidelity, Clarice? A devotion to your superiors and their privacy?” 

“Well, technically I’m not FBI yet. So I’m off the hook for a few more months.” A smile. Dr Lecter couldn’t help but return it- and then he wondered how on earth it was that she had such an effect on him. “And I’m sure you knew how he felt already, anyway.” 

“Mhm. And how will you navigate the issues of being a working student and working this case?”

A shrug. “I can juggle workloads. It keeps me busy. Keeps my mind sharp.” 

“Is Jack offering you any slack, academically?”

“It’s not up to him, really. It’s up to the academy to decide... I think he’ll put a good word in, though. My weapons instructor seems to like me and he’s close with Crawford so I’ve got that going for me. Brigham will give me some slack, I’m sure.”

“John Brigham?”

“Yup. You know him?” 

“I know the name…” Lecter’s tongue darted out from between his lips, quickly, and then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “He likes you?”

“Yeah.”

“In which way?” 

“I’m handy with a pistol, doctor.”

“So as a mentor, then.”

“Yes, doctor. He is my teacher, after all.” 

“How good are you?”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“How good are you. With a pistol, Clarice.” He tilted his head slightly, amused. 

“Oh, right,” she collected herself. “Well, I’m damn near the top in my class, sir. I’m entering the firing championship next year. It’ll look good on my CV.” 

“Hm,” he assessed her curiously. “I didn’t pin you down as particularly competitive.” 

“I'm not really, but I am determined. I don’t care much for beating other people; just satisfying myself.”

“An admirable quality. One we share,” he nodded, and then turned his gaze to the thick folder sitting before him. “The case, then?”

“Of course,” she nodded quickly. Before, she’d been given a cut-down dossier but the file Crawford had given her this time was the full thing. The real deal. “Uh, it should all be there. Crawford said you’ll need to sign that off every week as it gets updated. Security reasons. But that’s not a problem ‘cause you can pass it back and forth through me. They’ve given me clearance.” 

“Excellent. I’ll have a thorough read through it.”

“Mr Crawford liked your ideas, sir. He read my report and seemed impressed.” Starling sat up a little straighter in the chair. “He agrees with the idea of showmanship. Thinks the Ripper probably has a lot of time and space on his hands as well as a high level of intellect and good education. They’re turning the investigation towards higher class folks and people with medical degrees- practicing and retired surgeons. And they’re also startin’ to look at performance magazines and art societies. Artsy things, you know, since they think that might be an influence on him.” 

“Good…” Lecter hummed, and then steepled his hands beneath his chin. “But remember that they were your ideas as well as mine, Clarice.” 

“He liked them either way.” 

“Of course.” A slight tilt of the head. “Was he impressed with the quality of your report? On a literary and technical basis, that is?” 

“He seemed to be. Said it was good, solid, professional work.”

“And that pleased you?”

“Of course. Encouragement is always nice.” 

 “Especially when it is well deserved…” He leaned forwards then, towards her, before she had a chance to thank him. “I have a task for you, Clarice Starling.”

She smiled. “Homework, doctor?”

A slight raise of his brow. “If you feel the need to make it seem so juvenile, then yes. Homework.”

“Hit me with it.”

He ignored the colloquial language and then peered back down at the manilla folder. “How familiar are you with the other… victims? The other details of the case, I mean.”

“I’ve only had a brief look over them.”

“Well, then. Your task is to look closer. I want you to look at each in detail - as much detail as you have the deer hunter - and note down what you see. Note down links and ideas, with your current suspicions in mind, and bring them along next time we speak. I’ll compare your notes to my own. It’ll be intriguing, I do hope.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Good.” He sat back, then, and Starling felt like she could breathe again. “Now. I’ll be seeing you next week, Clarice. Though I’d love to chat for longer today, I feel that it is necessary that you take some time to do your research. There’s no point starting an in-depth discussion, now, whilst you’re not fully informed.” 

“Sure,” she nodded, a little disheartened but understanding nonetheless. She stood slowly and began to collect her things, and spoke as she did so if only to fill the silence. “Do you have any more appointments today?”

Lecter’s lip turned up. “I do, yes.” 

Starling smiled a little as she clipped her bag shut properly and straightened her clothing out.  “You don’t seem too keen.”

“Well, some patients can be particularly tedious, Clarice. There’s certainly other company I’d rather be entertaining.” A short, pointed smile. 

“I don’t doubt it,” she said quietly, and then smiled back uncertainly for the flicker of a second as she backed towards the door. Lecter stood gracefully to see her out, holding the door. 

“Good luck, Clarice. Have a pleasant afternoon. We’ll reconvene in a week.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” She nodded. “Good luck with your patient.” And then Lecter watched her depart through hooded eyes.

Julie, sitting at the reception, was watching him curiously out of the side of her eye. She’d become a master at peripheral observation; her line of humble work often demanded it. She figured the way that the Doctor watched the Starling girl was curious and quite unlike him. Emotive, almost. She rarely saw the doctor anything less than perfectly schooled and professional in his visage and the small slip in his expression gave her reason to form suspicions. She chose not to comment on it, but smiled to herself nonetheless. How curious.

Dr Lecter hovered for a moment longer, spared Julie one short glance, then retreated back into his office without another word. 

Chapter Text

“Movie?” 

“Absolutely.” 

Starling dropped her bags as she closed the dorm room door, falling backwards onto her bed with a puff of air. Mapp was across the room from her, laying on her stomach as she played around with a jumbled mix of VHS tapes piled atop her comforter.

She was looking at Starling, whose brows were furrowed and her lips were drawn into a thin, contemplative frown. Mapp watched the woman shudder in exhaustion and go lax; not unlike the way in which her namesake might too shudder and die. 

“You look mighty tired, Clarice...“

“Long day, Dee. Lotta drivin’ around an’ working. All up to Baltimore and back.”

“Aw shit, yeah,” Mapp remembered, sitting up quickly, her eyes sparking with intrigue. “How’s your little pet project going?”

“Good I think… Crawford is fine with it n’ all. Gotta bring the Ripper file up to Lecter each week to swap it out.” She smiled, then. “N’ I get to read it in the car real quick before each appointment. Keep up with what’s going on, y’know?” 

“Crazy,” Mapp shook her head. “That’s top secret shit, you know? And they’re just lettin’ you drive about with it.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

“So how’s it going with the Lecter guy? What’s he like? You ain’t told me nothing, Cee. Come on. 

“I’ve been busy, girl.”

“Yeah we both been busy. But you ain’t busy now. So spill. What’s he like? He stuffy? He old?”

She thought for a moment, smiling down at her lap. “He’s not what I expected. He’s… sorta old, I guess.”

“Old n’ wrinkly?”

“Nah, Dee, nah. He’s not all that bad, actually.” 

“Oh yeah?” A spreading grin. Mapp sat forwards slightly, her dark eyes shining. 

“Mhm.”

“Not like Crawford, then? The ugly mug.”

Starling stuck her tongue out. “Crawford’s alright too, come on.” 

“Yeah but he’s no John Brigham.” 

“Nobody looks like John Brigham." 

“Damn right.” Mapp sighed, playing idly with the material of her pajama pants as she watched Clarice settle back against her headboard, eyes closing wearily. “So… what are you n’ him doing?”

Starling shrugged. “Just talking over the case. He’s doing profiling. I bring his reports back to Crawford each week.”

“Ain’t that awkward? Just sitting in his office n’ talking about dead people and serial killers?”

A short laugh. “Not really. He’s good at talking. It’s his job, after all. He’s making me work it out for myself mostly, though. Won’ answer a question I ask him until I’ve answered it first.”

“So it’s basically just another lesson on top’a everything.”

“Basically, girl. Except this is actually interesting n’ it ain’t some fake case or an old cold one.” 

“Yeah, it’s real...” Mapp hummed, as if she’d only just realized it. Then her eyes widened. “Shit, Cee, what if you actually help find this guy?”

“Then I’m fast tracking my ass into behavioral sciences right outta the academy,” Starling beamed back. “And I’m helpin’ people. Real people.” 

“Lucky bitch… It’s gonna look good on your report whatever happens.”

“Yeah,” Starling sighed, and turned her gaze to the ceiling as she felt a wave of satisfying exhaustion spread up through her spine. There was a moment of silence before she looked back up at Mapp, who was still playing with the small stack of VHS tapes. 

“Which flick are we watchin’ tonight, Cee? Take your pick.” 

“The Godfather, duh.”

“God, you’re predictable, Clarice.” 

“Yeeeah,” she grinned, and settled back into the pillows. “Now get it on.” 

Chapter Text

It was in good spirits that their meetings officially began that following week, and in good spirits that they continued every Friday afternoon; and most of them, from that point forth, lasted the full hour and a half that was available. Sometimes they ran over. 

It became a pleasant respite amongst a slew of irksome, insipid appointments with people Dr Lecter couldn’t have cared even the slightest about. Though his level of professionalism and his quality of care never once slipped, his internal attention certainly did. He’d only find himself partially present for the vast majority of his working day, and then Clarice Starling would come knocking at exactly five o’clock on Friday and he’d be back in the room and ready for a game of verbal back-and-forth. 

The pleasure he felt at the prospect of conversing with her, even over professional matters, was disconcerting and unlike any sense of anticipation he’d truly felt before. Dr Lecter found himself surprised at the odd effect that the girl was having upon his general daily functioning. It wasn’t often another person featured so frequently in his musings. 

Of course, he’d agreed to see her originally out of pure whimsy and nothing more. The idea of a young, naive student investigating the ‘Chesapeake Ripper’ and using him as a reference was beyond amusing and hilariously ironic. He’d had visions of sending the little Starling on a wild goose chase; running rings around her head and leaving clues in the most frustrating of places. Towards the very start of their agreement he’d even seriously considered disposing of her at the end of his game. 

But things had changed, inexplicably. He’d become intrigued by her. All he’d needed to do was spend a mere fifteen minutes in her presence and he’d swiftly discovered the bright, sharp edge that lay hidden beneath her charmingly disarming exterior. 

Perhaps he’d even become fond of her. 

The thrill of seeing her observe the bow hunter had been part of the problem, in hindsight. He’d invited her on his impromptu trip purely to amuse himself, yet the rush of voyeuristic pleasure he’d felt at the sight of her admiring his own work in front of him had been almost dizzying…

It was almost perverted. And Dr Lecter might’ve felt bad for his rare lapse in courtesy if he wasn’t still riding the high of it, so to speak. 

He’d only started to truly consider the worrying depth of his interest in her when he’d pulled up her file on his computer just two meetings into their one-sided game. It was hardly an appropriate or legal or polite act on his behalf, but he never had been one to abide by petty laws. So he’d allowed himself to snoop. Her file had revealed much to him. 

Poor background. Unremarkable education, but remarkable grades. No guardians listed; one deceased and the other absent. Four siblings, but seemingly none of them in contact with her. How very intriguing. Her birthday was reportedly two days before Christmas which he also mentally filed away, for reasons yet unknown to him. There was a biblical essence to her, he supposed; not in the way of chastity or Puritanism, so to say, but something about her was pure in a darker sense and he figured her birth being so close to that of the birth of Christ fit her character excellently. 

Hmmm yes, Clarice Starling- toothsome, pure of heart and endlessly intelligent in a way that almost transcended the muddy, tepid waters inhabited by most of the people that originated from her sort of background. 

He wished to study her more. It wouldn’t do for their game to end too quickly and so he’d hidden his latest spoil of war well. The Princeton student from the basement had been tucked neatly away somewhere that nobody would ever find him; at least not any time soon. 

Indeed, he’d have to spend some more time planning his future recreations now that he knew he’d be discussing them in depth with Clarice Starling. He wished to challenge her some more, and he’d have to arrange his trophies in such a way that did so adequately. He recalled, fondly, the way she’d sat across from him during their fourth meeting after she’d gone back to Quantico and done her homework ; she’d been looking at him with firm eyes all whilst singing about her theories regarding the other victims and the notion of capture.

He then recalled another one of their more recent sessions. It had been somewhat the same; she’d sat across from him and he’d let her simply talk. That meeting in particular had been slower and less emotionally charged, however, as there’d been less to discuss and her youthful excitement had ebbed slightly since their friendly rapport had strengthened. 

There hadn’t been anything to make notes upon. They’d simply been brainstorming; firing ideas back and forth in a high-paced style of conversation that had become familiar to them. 

She’d read the case details and new notes aloud and he’d decided to pull out his pad to sketch whilst she’d done so. She’d been curious but courteous enough not to ask him to stop or ask what he’d been sketching, though she had shown interest when he’d asked her to move, speaking softly…

“They’ve scrapped the idea that he’s unemployed. They’re thinkin’ he has a medical degree… maybe a practicing surgeon somewhere in the Chesapeake,” Starling hummed, tapping her pen on the desk. Silence in the office for a second when she paused, all except for the scratch of his pencil. “Crawford said that-“

“Indulge me, if you could,” he cut her off. She blinked. “Look down a moment- just… no, slightly lower… a little more…. That’s it. Keep your head at that angle, if it’s not too uncomfortable… just a moment more… thank you.”

“No problem,” she chewed on her cheek and then continued, as if nothing strange had occurred. “Crawford said that the blade types used to slash the victims match common surgical ones. We…”

She continued to speak for a while and only at the end of their session did she break professionalism and ask to see the sketch he’d been working on. He raised a fine brow, assessing her with an inclined head. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s of me.” A small smile. “I wanna see it.”

“How are you so certain it is of you?”

“Because you’ve been staring at me for the last hour, doctor. And asking me to tilt my head down n’ all.”

He seemed amused. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and she thought he might’ve been on the verge of denying her, but eventually he nodded and handed her the pad. She took it gingerly, careful not to smudge the charcoal, and her small smile dropped into a look of pleasant surprise.

“I didn’t know you could draw so well.”

“I studied art, Clarice. In France.” 

A look of intrigue. “Alongside medicine?”

“I did a lot of anatomical and medical sketching.”

“Wow,” she hummed, and continued to look down at the drawing. It was of her, of course. And the likeness was somewhat disorientating. Starling had a small moment of silent crisis, wondering if that was truly how she looked to other people. He’d made her appear so… strong? Hopeful? Alive?

Her voice was quiet, following her silence. “This is really amazing. I’m flattered, doctor.” A glance up. “Do you have any other drawings?”

He’d shown her his many sketches that afternoon. They hadn’t discussed any unpleasant business further past that point; instead he’d allowed her to flip through the few sketchbooks he’d kept from his time at Johns-Hopkins which remained stored in his office, and he answered any questions she’d had about his work. 

From that point onwards their meetings had taken a slightly more casual tone... closer to social visits than meetings at all, in truth. 

That wasn’t to say that their work stopped. Not at all. The file was being added to and built upon constantly. She’d take home solid, useful notes with her every week and Crawford became increasingly impressed with the work she was getting done in Baltimore. 

She was getting closer to unearthing the gritty truths of the case. The entirety of behavioral sciences were, in truth. Dr Lecter would begrudgingly admit that they were occasionally good at their jobs... 

As it was, Starling’s theories about the ‘Ripper’s’ motivations and behaviors started to become worryingly acute. Her personal profile of the Chesapeake Ripper began to match Dr Lecter’s own description rather closely. He could sense the immense danger she posed to him and he would pause occasionally as she spoke, his brow furrowing imperceptibly like a fox’s nose twitching as it sniffed the air…

…And the danger smelt delicious . Delicious, all of it- the titillation of capture at her hand added something uniquely satisfying to each misdemeanour. And the fact that she understood him seemingly so well… Her acumen was dizzying. 

But, that being said, she couldn’t truly know all of him, despite how close she consistently came. There was still one key component to his recreational habits that nobody had yet managed to identify- or even begin to theorise upon…

…His unusual dietary habits were to remain his own little secret, it seemed, for the time being. 

He’d butchered the Princeton student for his useful assets before burying him, half a month ago. Yes, the young man had been rude in life but his tender age had rendered his organs healthy and still untouched by the taint of alcohol or nicotine. 

On the following Friday evening he’d cooked himself a dish from the aforementioned organs and it had been exquisite . The regrettably lonely meal had been inspired by the classic tête de veau en sauce verte, although he naturally substituted the veal head for the alternative meat he’d had on hand. 

And as he’d eaten, again, he’d thought back to Clarice Starling. Always back to her in his quiet and reflective moments, it seemed. And to think that he hadn’t even known the woman for any longer than two months. 

He’d cooked and eaten a young man’s flesh and yet the most exciting thing he’d been able to conjure up in his mind through all of it was the prospect of talking to Starling in just a week’s time…

“Hm.”

…It was possible that Dr Hannibal Lecter was not immune to the emotional trials and tribulations of being human after all. 

Chapter Text

“Is it bad that I’m starting to understand him?” 

The question didn’t surprise Dr Lecter, but it certainly amused him- and the fact that she’d voiced it out loud was also somewhat surprising. Her inhibitions were dropping. He was pleased. It had been two months, after all, since they’d begun their collaboration.

Lecter turned to her from where he’d be standing at the window, nursing a small glass of cognac, and watched in silence for just a moment more as she continued to tap her pen against her lips and endearingly frowned down at the manilla folder resting on her lap.

They’d moved from his stiff desk in recent meetings, dropping the tighter formalities. Starling was sitting on the chaise lounge now and he often preferred to stand at the window like that, either watching her or watching the world go by with her voice in the background to fill the quiet. 

“Understand him how?” he asked, inclining his head as she chewed at her lip. 

“Well, I don’t know. I guess understand is the wrong word, doctor. More like… I see it. I get the appeal of it, a little bit…” she started, trailing off as her lips thinned. “I don’t understand it but I see that it all has so much character. It’s very unique- The BSU have nothing like it in their databases. He seems fundamentally different, somehow. Very interesting.” Her frown deepened. “That makes me a bad person, maybe. I should despise him. And I do, I mean- it disgusts me but…”

“Not at all. You’re very close. I believe you may be starting to see the beauty in it, Clarice, as I said you would. Beauty is inherent in that which is unique - or sublime, rather - and hard to understand.” She frowned at that but allowed him to go on. He spoke softly, graceful as he bowed his sleek head in thought, his dark hair catching the light like a shiny otter dipping under the water. “Think of it this way, perhaps… Do you not, say, find beauty in the tragic plays of the Jacobeans? The stark and violent artwork of the Baroque?”

Starling shook her head once, feeling suddenly out of her depth, and was unsure as to where he was going. 

“Another dire lapse in the American education system, I see.” A pause, and then he moved quickly from the window, stopping just short of the chaise to offer her his hand. “Come here. Let me show you something.” 

She hesitated for just a second and then took it, allowing him to pull her up. She followed him to the expansive bookcase along the back wall. He paused for a moment, resting a finger along the length of his nose, before he spotted what he needed and pulled a heavy book out. 

He lay it out on the desk, and flicked quickly through it before he found what he was searching for. It was a thick tome, mainly text, with some images scattered throughout. He’d stopped on one full-page spread; golden tones and marble, the pages displayed a number of sculptures. 

“See here,” he pointed to one sculpture in particular- two figures perhaps seemingly in embrace upon a cursory glance, but upon closer inspection Starling discovered the gruesome truth. Displayed was a woman unsuccessfully fighting to flee from the harsh grip of a much larger man. “Go to the Borghese museum and look at the Bernini sculptures sometime. They’re far more impressive in the flesh, so to speak. See how people flock to them in reverent awe. Do you recognise these works, Clarice?”

“I don’t, doctor, my apologies.” 

He exhaled shortly beside her, and she may have felt offended if she hadn’t been transfixed, staring at the page. “It surprises me, Clarice, young and headstrong woman that you are. I imagine that these tales might spark your interest, given the attention. Closer, Clarice. Look at the beautiful images of horror that display the tales told and enjoyed throughout history.”

Starling nodded, glancing only momentarily at the doctor who was watching her closely, pinpoints of maroon fixed on her with focused intent. She still hadn’t grown used to the intensity of his gaze at times. She swallowed and spoke carefully. “And how does this link to the Ripper, doctor?”

“On the topic of the art of violence, of course, Clarice. See the beauty in pain and suffering, even in such instances as historic art. You hear people say 'oh but it's so violent,’ but surely you see that it is that which makes it so interesting, hm? It is in our human nature to be morbidly curious.”

“I guess so,” she said slowly, reaching out to run a finger over the printed page, peering closer at the image. She felt her stomach twist in concern for the woman, doomed to remain in anguish for eternity, but nonetheless couldn’t deny the elegance of it, even merely as a printed image on paper. “I understand you- you’re saying that somethin’ can be respected and admirable whilst still depicting violence. But… sculpting or painting violence and committing it are two vastly different things, doctor.” 

“How so?”

She turned around then, frowning, and found that he was rather close, having been standing behind her as she’d perused the violent images. He didn’t move back, but didn’t move forwards either. She blinked but continued, her voice wavering only slightly.

“...What do you mean ‘how so’? It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re inherently different.”

“Of course they are. But I’d like you to explain to me why. You see why I find your black-and-white approach to this topic contradictory, don’t you? Especially in the wider context of our discussion.” A pause as he considered something for a moment, and then he spoke again- “What is the crucifixion, for example? People sleep under the crucifixion in their beds and sit before it in their churches... but isn’t that a depiction of horrific violence? A real event - at least in the eyes of some - that remains glorified endlessly in an artistic form.” 

Starling frowned, feeling frustration rise in her, for his argument was redundant in her mind. “The people that hang a cross over their beds aren’t the same people that commit serial murder, Dr Lecter.” 

He caught her clipped tone, and his smile only widened. 

“Calm, Clarice. Consider me the devil's advocate for now, that is all I ask; that is all I’m attempting to do. Don’t mistake my needling for discourtesy or honest argument… I’m testing you. Assume I am a layman, Clarice, with no knowledge of modern human ethics. Please, go ahead. Simplify the distinction.”

“Right. Fine. Well… One is passive and one isn’t. Painting or sculpting or hanging a crucifix up is… cathartic. It's symbolic. It’s a harmless release. And even when it’s disturbing it can still be beautiful because it’s safe ,” she began carefully, speaking hesitantly. “Killing… is not. Killing is the lack of catharsis and control and it hurts everybody involved.” She swallowed thickly. “And therefore there is far less beauty in it.” Her tone was still clipped. Usually, she enjoyed Lecter’s mind games but she was tired and unsure of his point. 

He simply smiled, overlooking her shortness, and inclined his head slightly. “Catharsis isn’t defined by its palatability and harmlessness, Clarice. It’s defined by release and pleasure. Painters feel pleasure when they paint. Sculptors feel pleasure when they sculpt. And our killer may feel pleasure when he kills. And in all instances, the byproduct can be beautiful.”

“But how? How can you say that? This is fake,” she said, pausing to point at the book, still open, on the desk. Then she pointed at the case file lying on the chaise lounge. “But that isn’t. Real people are dead and real people are mourning, now, with no justice and no peace.”

Something in Lecter’s chest twitched as her eyes seemed to shine with passion; a small, involuntary spasm where his heart usually beat so steadily and consistently. Righteous little birdie. Though wise beyond measure, she still had much to learn. Not today, though. She’d had enough; he could sense it.

So he softened his tone and simply nodded.

“I know, Clarice. But our man here sees so differently. That’s all I’m trying to show you. I’m trying to help you understand how the people you’re employed to hunt may see these things.” He lowered his voice to compensate for the distance, still so short between them. Still, he didn’t step back. The desk behind Starling was a firm island, keeping her legs steady beneath her as she leaned on it. “As you’ve said, my dear, this man had a distinctive style. An artistic style. It's implicit that you pay attention to that. Your superiors may not do so; men have a tendency to overlook the fine details. You need to pay attention, as you have been. And in paying attention you may well start to understand him- and that is fine too. Don’t fight that. Don’t be tempted to feel guilty, Clarice. Guilt is worse than fear or anger, at the best of times. It is the most inhibiting of the emotions, perhaps only second to yearning.” 

Dr Lecter watched her visibly deflate. Her eyes fell downcast. “I know. I’m just… still getting used to this. Trying to think the way they do. Trying to get into their heads and sympathize. It’s a lot to face.” 

She was still young, after all. Young and weighed with the responsibility of somebody many years her senior. A sudden, inexplicable urge for contact struck Dr Lecter. He gave in.

A stray hair hung loose before her ear. He took it between his forefinger and thumb, gaze seemingly absent as he rubbed the hairs between his fingers and tilted his head slightly at the texture. Instantly, Starling seemed to snap back into the present, jumping a little in surprise and frowning in confusion, but she didn’t dare move away. His tone was firm when he next spoke. “Don’t be afraid of your ability to see the humanity in all of this, Clarice. After all, it is a human you’re seeking.” The desire to tuck the hair behind her ear arose next. This time he did not give in, fearing that it may have been too intimate a gesture. Instead, he dropped his hand and let it hang back harmlessly by his side. “Many fail because they box these killers in as animals . Other lesser agents distance themselves when they do that. The few who don’t succeed… Well, it’s why Will Graham was such an excellent agent, Clarice. Because he was able to understand, intimately, the insides of their minds.”

“Yeah, well, Agent Graham is in the loony bin. So I don’t know what that says about me.” 

His lips thinned a little, almost into a smile. “Will is in the loony bin because he was unable to live with himself, Clarice, and his ability to comprehend darkness. He lacked the courage and physical skill he needed to pursue his own abilities.” A meaningful pause. “You don’t, Clarice. Not at all.” 

She looked down again, a small frown of uncertainty forming. He tilted his head slightly at her clear discomfort, and finally stepped back. She felt as though she could breathe for the first time in a while; like resurfacing after being pulled under by a wave. 

Her numbness towards his praise disturbed him. “You doubt my observations, Clarice?” 

“I’m… glad you think of me that way,” she answered after a long moment of thoughtful quiet.

“But you still doubt me.”

She exhaled shortly and then excused herself, momentarily leaving the steady comfort of his desk as she walked back to the chaise lounge and sat down on it firmly. “I doubt myself sometimes, doctor.”

“But only sometimes?”

A small shrug and a humourless smile at his nitpicky nature. “It comes and goes. As doubt does. Sometimes I remember how big all of this is.” She was able to look at him again, then. He was still standing by the desk, shadowed by the tall bookshelf. He looked severe in his dark suit and waistcoat; his blazer was hanging on the coat tree. She could still smell him, even from across the room. “The problem with being ambitious is I have to look ahead all the time. And when I look ahead I see a lot. Too much, sometimes. It gets daunting.” 

How wonderfully frank. A slow nod, and an imperceptible raising of his brow.  “Ah, so it isn’t necessarily your own skill nor your potential for understanding darkness that concerns you, but rather which direction you will take with it?” 

“A… mix of both, maybe,” she shrugged. “There’s a lot of options out there.” And then smaller. “I’ve never had so many options.”

“You’ve relied on the order of institutions for most of your life, haven’t you?” 

A wince, but no reply. He continued. 

“Yes. Perfect order. And thus, the polished and structured world of the FBI calls to you. But you’re finding it’s not so linear, aren’t you?” 

“Something like that, doctor.”

A long moment of quiet. "Another drink perhaps, Clarice?”

She shook her head quickly, brows furrowing. “No thank you.”

“Very well.” He strolled back to the window, finally, and he appeared less intimidating once he was back in the light. Everything was less intimidating in the light, as it was. A bird had settled on the roof of the house opposite. It pecked away at a worm it’d found. Lecter watched it absently. A question occurred to him; one he’d been meaning to ask. “Do you have something you use when you want to get up your nerve, Clarice?" 

Starling blinked at the segue. “What do you mean?” 

He clarified. “Many of those in your profession have specific methods to deal with insecurity within the career. Your anxieties are common.” 

She caught on and smiled - or grimaced, rather. "No. Not really. Motivational affirmations don’t work for me. I just… keep on wanting what I'm after. Usually, I get there."

He turned back to her, lips thin. "Do memories or tableaux not occur to you during times of struggle, whether you consciously dig for them or not?" 

She shrugged. “Maybe. I haven't thought about it.”

“Do so,” he said simply. “Turn inwards. Watch and see next time you encounter trouble- it might interest you.” 

“I thought it was your job to look inwards, doctor. Figure out what makes me tick.”

“You’re not my patient, Clarice, and I’m not your therapist.” 

She’d been joking, of course, but his tone had been firm in response. Her insinuation had annoyed him, for some reason, and so she let it drop. Instead, she settled a little more into the chaise and stared ruefully at her empty snifter. 

“…Maybe I will take that drink, doctor.”

“Of course. Just a small one, though... something virgin.” 

She nodded and waited as he retreated to his cabinet, pouring her a half-glass of clean, spiritless bourbon. She took it gratefully. The session - their tenth, now - had been particularly taxing. Whilst she would’ve appreciated perhaps another small glass of something with a little kick, the cold liquid in the snifter was the second-best thing. It cooled her. She’d grown hot. 

They were in silence for a while. Dr Lecter continued to stare outside. Starling continued to flick and make aimless notes and tap her pen, only half-present behind her eyes. 

“Clarice?” 

He spoke again after that short eternity had elapsed, his voice back to its usual timbre now- low and methodically distanced. Starling set her things completely aside now, sensing that their meeting was finally drawing to a close. She tucked the case file shut and slid it back into her bag, along with her pen and notepad.

“Yes?”

“There was something I neglected to mention earlier, I apologize. I’m engaged next Friday,” he said quite simply after turning yet again to face her. She frowned a little. “There’s a social event I'm obliged to attend. One I am unable to reschedule.” 

“The philharmonic orchestra?” Starling asked without a pause. He arched a brow and she instantly smiled sheepishly as she realized she’d exposed herself. 

“You’ve done your research on me? In true FBI style.” 

She sat up straighter in the chaise and shrugged. “Just a little harmless digging.”

“Hm.” He held her gaze for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, before continuing. “Yes, I’ll be meeting with the society. We’ll have to skip next week, I’m afraid. There’ll be no time to reschedule.” He seemed to sigh and then let the statement hang in the air, before furrowing his fine brows slightly and speaking slowly. “Unless…”

She perked up slightly. “Doctor?”

“Ummm. I had an idea but… I’m sure it wouldn’t interest you at all.” 

She smiled then, slightly. There was an airiness to his voice that clued her into his approach; he was playing with her. He did it sometimes- evasiveness for the purpose of inspiring her to lead the conversation.

“Out with it, doctor.”

He inclined his head, pleased. “Would you consider accompanying, Clarice?” Then added, “as a colleague, of course. The society would be interested to meet you. And perhaps you’ll learn something, since the pursuit for our Chesapeake Ripper seems so intent on the artistic side of things. Think of it as a learning experience. Or… revision.” 

“I’d love to,” she responded without hesitation, but then her small smile dropped away in lieu of thoughtful uncertainty. “But… you’ll have to point me in the right direction on what to wear, doctor. I’ve never been to somethin’ like that before.” 

“Oh, I’m aware,” he assured her. “Don’t worry yourself. For that matter, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” she blanched and watched him swiftly walk past her to cross the room. For a moment she was worried he’d bought something for her to wear, and the implications of it froze her in place. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while?”

“Just this past week. I like to plan well in all things I do.” He went to his cabinet on the far side of the room and unlocked it, then retrieved a small white card and Starling relaxed. No surprise clothing; good. He crossed back over to her and held the card up. “Now, It would pleasure me greatly to have presumed and chosen you something myself, but I fear it would have been discourteous, and perhaps you’d have viewed it as unprofessional...” She nodded. “Here.” She took the card and turned it over. It was a contact slip for a clothing shop... High-end, by the looks of the simple, gold-leaf layout. “When you visit, tell them I sent you. They’ll take good care of you, I’m sure.” 

She swallowed and continued to look over the card, even as she replied. “If I can trust you on anything, doctor, it’s good hospitality.” 

“It pleases me to hear so.”

“You’ll give me an address too? For the orchestra, I mean.” 

A short shake of the head. “I’ll send somebody to pick you up.” She blinked at that, but didn’t argue. “They’ll bring you to the front of the theatre and you’ll find us. I’ll be there to greet you. We stand outside before the performance, often.” His lips turned up in a smile- vaguely fond, to her estimation. “Rachel does like her hourly cigarette. The lobby doesn’t appreciate indoor smoking.” 

“Rachel?”

“A friend of mine, Clarice. You’ll meet her.” The pinpoints in his eyes danced. “I have a suspicion the two of you will get along.” 

“I’ll be looking forward to it, doctor,” she said truthfully, and tucked the card securely into her bag. “Should I… expect this driver at any particular time?”

“He’ll be waiting at six. The performance begins at nine. Plenty of time to mingle.” 

A nod. And then, talking of time, Starling realized just how much she’d spent in his office that afternoon. They’ve gone off track more than once. She nodded to his watch, catching the light on his wrist. “Where are we at, doctor?” 

He checked, then pursed his lips. “Hm. Twenty past six.”

“Right. I ‘spose I ought to get going, then.”

“Yes, unfortunately I need to prepare for my next appointment.” His tone was less than enthusiastic. 

“Well,” Starling smiled, “good luck as always, doctor.”

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you, Clarice.” 

“Likewise.” 

A mutual nod and then she settled her bag more comfortably on her shoulder and turned to leave. She was halfway across the room when he called back to her. “Oh, Clarice?” 

She turned.

“Just one more note. More of a suggestion than anything… When you visit the address I’ve given you… perhaps consider picking something maroon?”

A curious tilt of her head. “Why?”

He smiled evasively. “Oh, you’ll see. Or you won’t. It’s up to you. Just a suggestion, remember.”

“Right.” She nodded to him once more. “Bye, doctor.”  

“Goodbye.” 

Chapter Text

The duality of Clarice Starling’s life struck her only sometimes.

Growing up in rural West Virginia had not exactly been an opulent experience, and nor was student life; Starling had long grown used to living a frugal lifestyle. Arguably, the only true elegance she had ever been exposed to, up until two months ago, had been a very brief trip to the FBI headquarters in the first year of studying at Quantico. The academy had taken a small selection of students up to Washington for a presentation in one of the many large offices, and Starling had spent more time, admittedly, staring at the hundreds of plaques on the spotless walls than she had the guest speaker. 

Now she was, for the most part, accustomed to lavish environments since she had begun spending every Friday afternoon in one. Driving into the wealthy centre of Baltimore and settling in Hannibal Lecter’s regal psychiatry office had familiarized her a little more with the cushiness of wealth. 

Yet, there were certain things that still occasionally caught her off guard, and caused her to feel the sting of her poorer background more keenly than usual.

On the Monday morning following her last meeting with the doctor, she found that she had some free time before her afternoon lessons and so decided to locate the address Dr Lecter had given her. The clothing store he’d directed her to sat just on the outskirts of central Washington and, upon pulling up, she realized it clearly begged for a clientele with a lot more money than she had.

The shop was sleek and painted in dark, matte paint with mannequins dressed up in fitted suits and silky blouses and flowing gowns in the ornately decorated windows. The sight tugged at Starling.

She parked her car around the corner and then walked back up the row of shops, entering the boutique with some trepidation, aware of her low-brow clothing in vast contrast to the clerks who instantly turned to greet her at the sound of the little bell chiming. Curious, silently judgemental looks met her.

Within were two men, dressed sharply, and three women also attired similarly. They were the types of women Starling had only ever really seen in the sorts of magazines she kept tucked under her bed; tall and slim and almost disturbingly clean, and clearly not used to people like her just wandering in.

Still, Starling smiled shortly and greeted them as confidently as she could, holding up the little white card she’d been given. “I was… recommended to come here. Uh, by Dr Han-”

Dr Lecter’s first name hadn’t even begun to finish passing over her lips before the five employees’ subtle frowns turned into wide beams of recognition. And, thus, Starling was swiftly ushered forth into the heart of the shop, directed to the back rooms to be fitted without any further judgment. 

She’d never been properly fitted and styled for specific clothing before, having previously only shopped by sight and convenience, and found the experience oddly charming. Starling had long distanced herself from the concept of fashion, admittedly, turning her sights to more practical and sensible clothing, but just this once she allowed herself to relax and push away the strange sense of guilt that self-indulgence seemed to bring.

Clarice Starling found that she enjoyed the explicitly feminine attention that morning. The women were eager to pull and prod at her with their tape measures and pins and she let them go with it, feeling silently pleased when they complimented her ‘strong figure’ and ‘colour palette’ - whatever that meant - once they’d stripped her of her cotton slacks and Quantico zip-up. 

They asked for the particular occasion and she answered, “an orchestra performance, I think,” which seemed to be more than enough information. Like clockwork, two of them disappeared and returned five minutes later with a moderate selection of clothing, all laid out and presented to her. 

For the most part, they’d pinned her personal style well and had picked out a fair assortment of loose, flowing slacks and silky blouses with narrowed waists and neat button-down fronts. This wasn’t at all dissimilar to what Starling often chose to wear, just that it was all of visibly better quality and additionally would be much a more flattering fit. That being said, the clerks had also brought forth two dresses, perfectly suitable for a formal event yet still a little intimidating. Whilst Starling would always be one to drift towards the more sensible, or ‘masculine’, clothes, she recalled suddenly at that moment Dr Lecter’s suggestion of choosing something maroon. And, as it was, the only item in the lineup that was maroon was the second of the two dresses. 

It was a richly pigmented dinner gown, not exactly stuffy in appearance but equally not at all inappropriate; long-sleeved, narrowly décolleté, fairly fitted in the bodice then loose to just above her ankles and paired with a simple silky jacket in a matching shade of red. 

Against all odds, Starling had chosen to try it on. 

It’d looked good. The women had made sure to tell her so. Repeatedly. And very enthusiastically. 

Starling had acquiesced, sending away the rest of the clothing they’d picked out for her before she could change her mind and go with the safe choice. 

But then, of course, the issue of money came up. Starling felt her spirits drop. She hadn’t once looked at a price tag since she’d arrived - too afraid to, in all honesty - and she finally went to tentatively ask how much the item would cost. To her surprise, the clerks waved her off quickly and dismissively, explaining that Dr Lecter had a pre-existing account with the store. They informed her gleefully that the doctor had set aside an agreeable sum of money in order to cover whatever she decided to purchase. They’d been expecting her, then, and their willingness to help her suddenly became clear. 

Starling felt suddenly intensely out of her depth. 

The feeling remained with her long after the clerks had folded the exquisite garment and had handed it to her in an equally nice bag. She’d thanked them, a little numbly, and had felt quite silly climbing back into her beaten-down car in her itchy clothes with the gorgeous shopping bag sitting on the back seat.

She drove a little under the speed limit as she passed back over into Quantico.

Chapter Text

Starling felt good. Feeling good felt good. Though, she came to the realisation somewhere subconsciously, that she was only able to feel so good because she was doing so in private.

Ardelia Mapp was busy on that Friday evening; she had a late gym session with a boy she’d met in training and Starling had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t hear from Mapp until the next morning. She hadn’t been upset, in truth. Starling was glad she’d been left to slip into the maroon dress and primp and preen alone. Again, doing so felt good; it’d been a long while since Starling had dressed herself up some.

Her celibacy from anything self-indulgent had left her somewhat unsure of how exactly to act. She was sure that if Mapp had been there, fussing at her, she would’ve felt overly uncomfortable. Yes, there was some deep-rooted aversion to saturated femininity in Starling. It was a problem, probably. Starling chose not to analyse it too deeply.

It was at five minutes to six that Starling heard the low hum of a vehicle beyond her small block of dorms. It was late autumn and so it was already dark by that time. Starling grimaced, suddenly a little embarrassed that whichever undoubtedly prissy personal driver had been sent her way was being forced to pull up outside of some dimly lit, run-down student accommodation. Then she pushed the embarrassment away and reminded herself that Dr Lecter valued politeness above all else and so surely his personal employees did the same. 

One last pass in the mirror and she dictated that she looked just fine. She hadn’t done much past brushing her hair and styling it neatly and ever-so-slightly sharpening her features with some light touches. Anything more would’ve been excessive. The dress looked better now that she was adequately neatened, Starling also noted. Yes, she looked… she looked good. A quick flash of embarrassment and then it passed. Starling left quickly. 

The driver stepped out as she approached. His name was Pierro, with which he introduced himself. He was a short, slightly plump man with a kindly olive face and bright eyes. He nodded at her and then made to open and hold the car door. Starling almost laughed at the courtesy, with which she was so unaccustomed to.

Both of them in the car, then. It was dark and tinted and smelled clean. There was a privacy divider open between them. His gaze didn’t linger on her, nor did he exude any threatening masculinity. Just simple professionalism. Starling relaxed completely.

“There is water back there for you, if you wish. You need for anything else, you let me know.”

And then they were driving, and Starling could only admit that it was more pleasant than any dingy cab ride she’d caught before. She wondered, not for the first time, if Dr Lecter did what he did for the sole purpose of showing off. She figured doing so amused him. She wondered if he thought that subjecting her, a girl with an underprivileged background, to immense finery was funny to him, in some perverse way. He seemed the type to be amused by such things.

And that brought her back to his insistence that she accompany him to the orchestra in the first place. 

Of course, he’d told her the trip would be an educational experience more than anything else - intended to help her learn more about the higher circles of society around the Chesapeake area - yet, Starling couldn't help but suspect that his invitation was purely social. It wasn’t typical for somebody of his standing to invite somebody of her station to such an event, after all. And, plus, she certainly hadn’t informed Crawford about the trip which in and of itself suggested guilt, didn’t it?

Did she have reason to be guilty? Or was building a friendly relationship with a man like Dr Lecter simply to be expected after an extended period of collaboration? Their sessions together had been bordering more on the casual side in recent times, she supposed… Their conversations often strayed ever closer to personal matters and further from the case. It certainly didn’t help that the Ripper had supposedly entered a dry spell, and that no new evidence had surfaced for weeks.

Starling didn’t really mind the turn in tone. Dr Lecter was, after all, a pleasant man to converse with- if not a little intense and wordy at times. Dr Lecter liked her, she had come to realise. Or maybe he just liked testing her and poking at her. She liked doing those same things back, too. Their appointments were a bright point in each dull week. They had a good, solid rapport; something purely equal and refreshing- something she’d not shared with anybody before. Not even Ardelia.

Maybe that was why she was so eager to get to the orchestra. Maybe that was why she’d put time and effort into looking nice. Maybe… that was why her stomach turned in expectant trepidation as the taxi rounded the corner and she saw the dim lights of the orchestra hall and the dotted forms of patrons lingering outside. 

The driver’s voice, then, invaded her silent reverie. “This is it, Miss Starling. I’ll drop you at the front, yes?”

“That’ll be perfect, thank you, sir.”

“An absolute pleasure, ma’am.”

There was a rounded lay-by for dropoff in which the car came to a stop. Starling, on instinct, went to open the door but the driver stilled her and insisted on seeing to it himself. It’d been amusing the first time. Now she just rolled her eyes. She watched the driver exit and round the car, but then a figure from the mingling crowd came quickly forward and conversed with him for just a moment. The driver nodded and stepped back, then, and the approaching man - who she quickly surmised was Dr Lecter - opened the door instead.

“Clarice,” he greeted, and held out his hand. It was dark outside, evening now, but she could still make out clearly the amused shine in his eyes as she accepted his aid. His hand was cool from exposure to the evening air. Hers was contrastingly warm. His gaze dropped, imperceptibly quickly, down to her body as she stepped out of the vehicle. “I see you heeded my advice.”

“I did,” she replied simply and softly, finding her feet on the cobbled road. He helped her to the smooth pavement and then dropped her hand. Now closer to the lights lining the front of the orchestra hall, she could see him in all of his sleek glory. He wore his darkest suit yet; handsomely conduit-cut and completely black, including the shirt, with the exception of the deep maroon inner lining and a pocket square and tie to match. The red accents were the exact same shade as her dress, she realized with a somewhat rueful smile. She had no doubt in her mind that he’d planned this. “And now I see why you asked.”

He exposed all of his small, straight teeth when he smiled in return, bowing his head slightly almost like a dog that had been caught, but without the guilt. “I thought the congruence would make for a pleasant image. I see I was correct. You look lovely.”

Starling’s tongue flitted out to wet her lips, which had gone suddenly dry. “You clean up alright too, doc.” 

A dash of his head and a quick twitch of his eye at her informality, but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to comment. Based upon the slight upturn at the corner of her lips, he assumed she’d done so on purpose. Strange little birdie. “Did the shop treat you well?” he asked instead. 

“Yes, everybody was nice. Very welcoming.”

“Good. They can be a handful at times, or so I’ve found.” They’d started walking, slowly and idly towards the front of the hall where the groups of people had amassed and were smoking and talking in low voices. “I told them to take good care of you. And it appears they certainly did.”

“Yes, well-”

“Ah, excellent!” a loud voice cut into their low conversation, then, and their small moment was lost. The man who had approached and interrupted, followed by a group of around seven, was only an inch taller than Dr Lecter and dark in appearance, with his severe eyebrows and tightly slicked-back black hair. His suit smelled of money in an obtrusive way, unlike the sleek subtly that Lecter preferred to communicate with his attire. “Is this your friend, Hannibal?”

“Indeed it is,” Lecter nodded, and Starling seemed to be the only one who heard the slight irritation in his tone. “Clarice Starling, this is Thomas Arnault. President of the Philharmonic. He is conducting tonight.” 

She shook his hand.

“You have a firm handshake, Miss Starling.” 

Lecter then waved behind the conductor towards the rest of the group. Introductions ensued. 

An older woman stepped forward first; dressed impeccably with her head held high in a way that suggested great confidence and poise. She waited to be presented. Humor painted Dr Lecter’s tone. 

“Clarice. This is Rachel Rosencrantz. I mentioned her, if you can remember.”

The two women nodded at each other, surveying the other in a way that only women tend to do. “I’ve heard a lot about you, darling. A pleasure to finally put a face to the name. And what a lovely face it is.” 

They shook hands, but Starling noticed that Rosencrantz looked only at Lecter as she did so, with one fine eyebrow arched, almost accusingly.

The rest of the group greeted her in similar, quick fashion. “Jonathan and Elizabeth Taymor, Damon Painter, Steven Anderson…” and so forth; names she would have trouble remembering.

And then the mingling began. It was a talent in and of itself, being able to stand around for any extended amount of time and make polite, benign conversation. Even more of a talent when you were somebody like Starling attempting to relate to the people that the likes of Hannibal Lecter spent time with. She held her own fairly well, she thought. For the most part.

One of the men had turned to her at one point, however, and had said in a relatively conspirative voice; “Miss Starling, you’re extraordinarily lucky. You’ve come on a momentous night- you’ll get to see the great Benjamin Raspail play.”

“Oh? Is he particularly good?”

And then there’d been a smattering of laughter amongst the group, and Starling’s smile had dropped and she’d felt suddenly rather out of place. Rachel Rosencrantz had taken pity on her, placing a dainty and manicured hand on her shoulder. “Ignore them all. He’s teasing you, darling. Raspail… hm, struggles somewhat.”

“No need to be overly polite, Rachel,” Dr Lecter had hummed. “Raspail is simply proof that nepotism can not get you everything.”

“Oh, he's alright, Hannibal,” one of the men then interjected, waving a hand as if to shoo him off. “Not everybody can please you.”

“Yes, you’re living proof of that, Jonathan.” 

Another smattering of laughter. 

Starling joined this time, only stopping when a gust of wind sent a chill up her bare back. Dr Lecter noticed this and frowned slightly. He turned to Rosencrantz who’d been speaking about something or other to the woman beside her with her cigarette holder balanced between her index and middle finger.

“Are you quite done, Rachel,” he asked, tapping her lightly on the arm. 

She threw him a look over her shoulder. “Hm? Yes, I suppose so.” She ashed the cigarette. 

“Good. We ought to head inside and fetch drinks, then. Before we lose our chance.” He turned back to his companion. “Clarice?”

His arm was extended; a traditional gesture of courtesy. Starling hesitated only for a moment before placing her hand in the crux of his elbow. Rachel Rosencrantz seemed to frown but said nothing- and nobody seemed to notice the small and silent exchange. The group moved swiftly inside and ordered their drinks; though Starling was more fixated on the silky feeling of Dr Lecter’s suit sleeve against her fingers than the cool glass of spirit held tightly in her fist.

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra hall was large and almost modern in appearance, with its sloping ceiling and sweeping pit of red chairs. Dr Lecter and his company had made a swift, mindless beeline to one of the second-story seating areas when they’d first been allowed in, which it seemed was reserved for them, and was decidedly less busy than the pit section. Starling took her seat at the end of the row beside the doctor, and beside him was Rachel and then the Taymor couple and so forth. 

He leaned to the side slightly, towards her, so as not to speak too loudly and disturb the crowd as the lights dimmed. “You’ve never been to this sort of concert, I believe you said?”

“No, not at all.” A quick shake of the head.

He hummed in thought, before speaking again. “The first reaction to orchestral music often varies vastly from person to person. One either loves it or hates it. An open mind, Clarice, is all I can ask for. Whatever your opinion, all I can hope is that you feel it wholly and truthfully.”

She nodded, a little taken aback, and only looked away once the stage lights went up. Starling sat back and sipped her drink, and quickly found that maybe classical music wasn’t merely a luxury to be exclusively enjoyed by the super-rich.

Halfway through the showing, then. Starling found herself utterly transfixed, moved by the resonant melodies echoing throughout the vast hall, and hadn’t entirely noticed the doctor’s gaze on her the whole time. It was only after the first group of players had exited and the second had walked on, beginning to play after a few silent seconds, that the doctor chose to interrupt her enjoyment.

“Ummm. Do you hear that, Clarice?”

His low voice was close to her ear; she jumped a little before composing herself. “Hear what?”

“The sound of something dying.” There was an amused sharpness to his voice. “You don’t hear that not-so-subtle squeak amongst the symphony? It sounds remarkably like a rodent being stepped on, don’t you think? This is Raspail’s section.” The doctor pointed to the front row of performers; the flutes. “He’s there, can’t you see? Listen out. Listen to how he fumbles over the music.” 

She grinned and shook her head slowly, sparing a quick glance sideways to see his bowed lips drawn up into a tight smile. 

“You know, doctor, that’s not very nice of you. I think he sounds just fine.”

“Your ear is untrained,” he waved her off. “And I regret to inform you, Agent Starling, that I am not a particularly nice person.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“Only because you’ve yet to aggravate me, my dear.”

“Guess I’ll have to try a little harder, then.”

His eyes flashed in the darkness, pleased. “Please do. See what happens.”

Starling’s wry smile dropped slightly then, and a subtle-but-there warmth crept up her neck and spread down to her stomach. Before she had a chance to question its origin, Dr Lecter’s attention was redirected to Rachel beside him, who’d elbowed his ribs gently. “Shh. Stop your nattering, Hannibal,” she said in a hushed voice. “I understand you dislike this section of the performance, but some of us are trying to enjoy it.” Her full lips drew up into a small smile and she spared only a fleeting glance at Starling, before settling back onto Hannibal who had tilted his head, testingly. “You can flirt once it's done.”

Like her namesake, Starling felt herself swell up and bristle with indignation, and leaned forward to address the woman. “Excuse me, but-“ but Dr Lecter stilled her quickly with a wave of his hand and shook his head. 

“She’s teasing you,” he said softly. 

Starling sat back, her jaw tight, and fell back into silence. Though, she did hear the doctor beside her mutter, even softer, with an amused, joking tone to his voice, “one of these days, Clarice, I might just kill that woman.”

“So. A trainee then?” 

They were standing back in the lobby, now, and drinks were back in hands. The performance had ended and Starling found that she’d enjoyed it much more than she’d assumed she would. Such types of music had never once appealed to her, but watching it performed live amongst the grandeur of the opera hall had been intensely moving, in some way that she was unable to identify. 

They were all standing just by the doors, now. One of the men whom she’d been introduced to at the start spoke down to her, cheeks ruddy from alcohol. Dr Lecter was beside her, as he had been all night. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, pausing to take a sip of the cocktail. “I’m workin’ with Dr Lecter for… extra credit, sort of. It’s an out-of-hours assignment.”

“Ah, I see…”

“She’s a go-between, of sorts,” Lecter elaborated, his voice low and even. His lip twitched. “So I don’t have to deal directly.” 

“Understandable, Hannibal. I don’t blame you for not wishing to. A stuffy bunch, those FBI types,” the man chirped, then glanced back down to Starling. “No offence intended to you, honey.”

Starling grimaced and lied, “none taken.” 

“Were you sent to him by Clint, by any chance?”

“Clint?”

“Clint Pearsall? He’s a friend of mine.”

Starling shook her head quickly. “Oh, no. No. Jack Crawford sent me.”

“Right, right, the BSU…” he thought for a moment, then his interest piqued. “It’s that awful business just up by Chesapeake, is it not?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” she confirmed. 

“That’s what they’re calling it. Simple, I suppose… And Hannibal invited you here… why? A school field trip?” His grin widened. 

Dr Lecter’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his tone loose. “Damon, come now. Don’t condescend our guest. It is impolite.”

“I’m joking around, Hannibal,” he waved the doctor off, then pointed to Starling. “See, she’s smiling.” She wasn’t. “She finds it funny!” She didn't. 

“I’m just here to get an idea of the sort of social circles in the area. Try and investigate what sort of people the target might know,” Starling attempted to explain, although the man was far too intoxicated to listen to her, it seemed. Dr Lecter realized this too, and swiftly stepped in to help. 

“And because I thought it would be pleasant for her to come, Damon. Another drink, Clarice?”

“Please .”

A swift departure after a very brief goodbye. They moved to a quieter corner of the lobby away from the main bar, and Starling's tone turned a little sour under the protection of privacy.  

“Your friends are certainly an interesting group.” 

Dr Lecter scoffed a little sardonically at that. “Social acquaintances may be a better and more fitting term, Clarice. They’re decidedly unlikeable, don’t you think?” 

“Hm… I mean, some of them are okay,” she figured, pursing her lips. “Elizabeth seemed nice. Rachel… has character.” 

“Oh, she most certainly does. I’ll give her that. Elizabeth is lovely, yes. It’s a shame her husband is… not.” He turned fully to her then, and held his drink up. “But you’ve fared wonderfully. I dare say they’ve all warmed to you immensely, despite the ways they may express it. Cheers to a good evening. With good company, hmm?”

Starling smiled. “Cheers Doctor. It sure beats sitting in your office and crawling through a case file.”

A slight rise of the brow. “You don’t like my office?” 

“You know what I’m saying” 

“Umm.” A smile. Was that fondness? “Somehow I do.” He touched his glass to hers. “Cheers.” 

It was almost eleven in the evening. The street lamps outside had long come on and the Baltimore nightlife was firing up just as Starling stepped outside with the rest of the group. The long and tedious process of goodbyes began. 

“Oh, please do come along another time, dear,” Rachel Rosencrantz insisted upon coming to Starling, taking one of her hands in both of hers. “I dare say the doctor has been on his best behaviour. It’s been decidedly pleasant, seeing him make an effort.” 

Starling swallowed but managed a smile, nodding once. “Of course, I’d love to.” 

Starling watched the doctor make his rounds, bending at the waist to press his lips lightly to the hands of the women and clasp the hands of the men firmly. 

And to her surprise, he turned to her last. 

“Clarice.” 

Nothing more; just her name. Then he took her hand next - not forcefully, but encouragingly - and Starling watched him watch her, as he bent his head to kiss her beneath her knuckles where her fingers rested together, lingering perhaps a little longer than he had with the others.

Starling felt something move within her, then. A paradigm shift, of sorts. 

The cab had pulled up behind her and she could only find it in herself to nod to him - she did not verbally bid him goodnight as she turned to leave. He allowed this small discourtesy. He could tell her intention had not been rudeness. 

He watched her climb into the car with the help of Pierro, and only blinked when he felt a slight weight at his back. Hands on his shoulders and warm breath on the back of his neck. 

“Jack Crawford will ruin that girl, I’m sure of it.”

He didn’t turn around, but he did tilt his head slightly so that her mouth rested closer to his ear, brushing the skin there. “Why do you say that, Rachel?”

“Because she won’t be able to say no to him.” 

“Give her credit.”

“I am,” the woman assured him. “She’s loyal - I give her credit for that. But her sense of duty is stronger than her sense of self-preservation, Hannibal. It’s a common theme with those types. I know you see it. If I do then you certainly can.”

He sighed inwardly, and Rosencrantz felt it in the way his shoulders moved under her delicate touch. “Sometimes I’m shocked to remember that you possess a brain,” he spoke lowly. 

She simply smiled tightly, and found herself wondering how it was that such a seemingly common young woman could ever penetrate the impossibly thick walls that made up the mysterious exterior of Hannibal Lecter. 

“Don’t become too fond,” was all she could think to say, in light of her realization. “I can see you are already. She’s not your type, socially. I can’t imagine how it would ever work.” 

The doctor didn’t grace her with a direct response. Instead, he put up the ice and his tone turned clinical. 

“Let’s go back inside, Rachel.”

He walked away without offering her his arm. Dutifully, she followed. 

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling was on her way upstate, halfway to Harrisburg and packed into an arranged coach with the rest of her class. It was late November, crisp and bright outside. 

At that very same moment, Hannibal Lecter was driving down to the Chesapeake. They may well have passed each other, or passed close to each other, at some point in their journey. 

Starling had been asked to attend an optional class off-campus at the Harrisburg police Bureau. Her passion for education and her desire to continue studying the nuances of saving lives and serving justice kept her warm in the back of the coach. 

Meanwhile, Hannibal Lecter was dumping a body. 

He knew as he drove that, inevitably, Clarice Starling would see the body and so he had put much thought into how exactly he would arrange the man currently wrapped and stuffed in the trunk of his nice car. 

He’d been an art thief. Ironically, an artless and graceless individual. Dr Lecter had first made note of occasional reports of missing stock at the Baltimore museum of art some couple of months ago. It’d been nothing serious; just seemingly ‘misplaced’ pieces in storage that were discussed during the occasional lunches he had with those who worked at the museum. The most significant of these oddly missing pieces of artwork - which, in the grand scheme of all things was still not that significant - had been a small marble sculpture of the Virgin Mary. Dr Lecter, after doing some research, had discovered that said marble sculpture had been a piece imported from Tuscany, sculpted in the late seventeenth century and originally displayed in the Badia Fiorentina. 

He’d done a little more digging, then, since his interest had been piqued. And… oh! What was that he’d found? A strange, unexplainable stream of money trickling into the pockets of a lowly stock manager and part-time cleaner for the museum? And how strange that this same man had been perusing illicit websites on which black market dealers often exchanged stolen artwork… And it seemed the man had recently come upon a flourishing gambling habit. All in the span of the last two months. How very peculiar, indeed. 

Dr Lecter may have, at times, considered himself above the law but he did not consider himself above history, art and common decency. The stealing and selling of art for personal gain and something as low as gambling went, in his opinion, beyond all those things. Punishment had been due, since it seemed the people who owned the museum hadn’t cared enough to look into it and deliver it by their own hands. 

So he’d made quick work of the lowly art thief, and now he whistled merrily as he drove into the Chesapeake to deposit the remains. 

He’d figured out how he’d arrange the body fairly quickly. Wastefulness and theft in the extremes called for one very specific punishment.

Dr Lecter was not a religious man, it was important to remember, but he did appreciate the wonderfully morbid symbolism that religion could muster up at times, and so he figured; what more fitting a homage for a man beset by greed than crucifixion? As the penitent thief was strung up in the bible, so would the modern art thief be. Now, Dr Lecter would have quite liked to have hoisted the man up onto a cross whilst he’d still been alive, as per tradition, but the practicality of such an act was too much of a hassle and evading capture was still his primary concern. It was fine; the symbolism would be enough and the end result would look the same. 

He was sated by the knowledge that Starling would inevitably see his work, and would be knocking on his door promptly like a frantic woodpecker, wishing to converse with him and extract his thoughts.

Ummmm, Clarice Starling. Hm. A small smile as he drove, and his head turned slightly on the headrest. Clarice Starling out of uniform. Clarice Starling in exquisitely fitted maroon. Clarice Starling amongst the decadence of the opera hall; he’d invited her more to observe her in the context of upper class finery, in truth, and it’d been a charming image. To put somebody so firm and resolute in her upbringing in an environment that directly contradicted it had been very interesting indeed. She had not belonged there- not in the slightest. Yet, she had fared well and had adapted alarmingly quickly. She was good at adapting, he was learning. He wondered where else he could put her, so he might see how she changed. 

A shake of his head and he was back in the present. The doctor had chosen a wooded area to do his work. It was just far in enough to the forest that he would not be disturbed but not so out of the way that nobody would find the body. A dogwalker or stray jogger would undoubtedly stumble across it on the upcoming weekend. What a fright that would be!

He backed the car up incredibly slowly, careful not to go too quickly so as not to leave any deep, identifiable tracks behind. Then the trunk was popped open and it was a quick job to get all in place. Dr Lecter was deceptively strong. He stood back to observe his work, gloved hands resting on his hips, and stood on a dried out twig as he did so. The snap sent birds into the air, rustling the barren branches of the winter-ridden trees above him.

And then, not even forty-eight hours later, Jack Crawford found himself stood on that same broken branch, hands on his hips as he stared at the gruesome tableux. Indeed, a frightened dogwalker had called in during the early hours. Whispers of the Chesapeake Ripper swept the Bureau. Jack Crawford was tired. 

A plank of wood had been nailed, horizontally to the trunk of one of the stronger trees in the area. A man, presumably in his mid-to-late thirties, had then been strung up to it. He was nude and trussed up like Jesus. Nails had been hammered through his wrists, though no trail of blood dripped from the mans fingers, so it had been easy to see that the victim had been mounted post-mortem. 

Above all of this, the most peculiar thing about the whole display, to Jack Crawford, had been the adornment resting on the man’s head. A crown, not of thorns, lay atop his temple. Rather, there was a crock of buttercups interwoven with hemlock adorning his crown. 

Even Crawford, a layman of floriography, could see how the childish symbol in place of Christ’s well-known thorny crown was intended to be mocking and belittling. He sighed as he wandered back to the gathering of police cars and vans. He dialed did he needed to do, and then excused himself to make a call.

Clarice Starling picked up immediately, and he smiled at her groggy voice. 

“Starling. Hello?

“Its Crawford.”

“Oh, Mr Crawford.” Her voice was suddenly much more alert. “Something wrong, sir?”

“Yes, Starling. As a matter of fact, there is. Get your notes ready and grab the Ripper file from my office. Make your way up to Baltimore, if you can. We have another body. I’ll fax you the details.”

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling often wondered if maybe the amount of speeding she did would catch up to her some day. She got to Baltimore in record time on that slow Saturday morning, and didn’t even bother buzzing this time as she slipped into the upper-story waiting room and greeted Julie, only slightly breathless. 

“Clarice,” the woman blinked quickly, seemingly a little surprised. “You’re here to talk to Dr Lecter?”

“Yes. I am. Is he in?”

“He ain’t here, honey, I’m afraid.” Starling’s face dropped. “He doesn’t have appointments at this time. It’s the weekend. He’ll be at home.”

“Back tomorrow?” she asked hopefully. Maybe she’d find a hotel. Save some gas.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Starling groaned, audibly, and rubbed at her temple. “It’s sorta urgent. Don’t s’pose you can call him, can you? Let him know I’m here?”

“He won’t pick up from me, honey. Not out of hours.”

Starling thought that maybe she looked utterly insane, for Julie visibly winced at the exasperated expression that had come over her face. Julie’s voice then dropped to a lower timbre, as if there was the possibility that someone could overhear them. 

“Listen… I can give you his home address. If it’s urgent. And you’re with the FBI, you’d be able to find it out anyways, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right.”

“Right. So. I’ll save you a job. But if you turn up and he gets annoyed about it, you tell him Mr Crawford sent you that way. Not me. Leave me out of it, okay?”

“Yes. God damn, woman, you’re a lifesaver,” Starling smiled gratefully, and stepped forwards so Julie could hand her a scrap of paper with his home address written across it. “I mean it. You’re savin’ my ass here.”

Julie smiled back. “Not at all, honey… he’s soft on you anyways. He won’t mind, I’m sure.”

“Right.” Starling swallowed. “I owe you one.” She took a step back, and beamed. 

“Don’t be silly. You go find him, now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then Starling was gone, and was speeding yet again- this time to the very outskirts of Baltimore city. 

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling slowed down as she approached the outskirts of the city. The roads grew thinner and bumpier and the building-to-tree ratio decreased in the favor of nature.

And, as she drove, she found herself suddenly thinking of orchestral music, oddly enough. She thought of the dragging, dulcet tones of violins and the heavy hums of brass instruments. Then she thought of warm, safe cab drives and she thought of Hannibal Lecter stepping forward to open the car door. She thought, then, of the week before; of him standing just that little bit too close as she leaned back on his desk. 

She thought of the professional relationship she shared with her mentors at Quantico, and then she thought of the one she shared with Dr Lecter; and following that thought was the realization that professionalism had left the equation between them a long, long time ago.

It was a Saturday. She’d driven almost two hours to talk to a man about a case that could’ve easily waited a week or could’ve been faxed to him or they could’ve discussed over the phone. On a Saturday. But no- she’d driven a hundred miles that morning. Just like she’d driven hundreds of miles over the past two months, all so she could deal with the man face-to-face.

That wasn’t normal, she realized. Or healthy. Yet, still, Clarice Starling continued to drive. She was on her way to his house, for Christ’s sake. What was normal, really? What was professionalism? 

What was it about him? 

Because there was certainly something. Something she couldn’t put her finger on; something that kept drawing her back to him despite the many inconveniences it served. 

Thinking about it made her head hurt which was why she so often opted not to think about it. And yet, simultaneously she found that each interaction with him left her with a sense of inexplicable clarity. That was always the way with him, she was learning; headache-inducing confusion followed by divine realization. Muddled thoughts then clarity. Dark and then light.

Him, clouded in darkness stood before the tall bookshelf in his office and then him, painted by evening light as he stood and sipped his drink by the window. Him, a dark silhouette through the tinted windows of the cab and then him, catching the light as he bent to press his lips to her knuckles in a courtly gesture of farewell. Him, lamenting to her about the beauty of death and then him, showing her the pleasures of life through art and music. A man of contradictions, then. And her feelings for him reflected that, thus.

The urge to turn the car around arose, suddenly. And then she pushed the urge away. Dark and then light. Muddiness then clarity.

Hannibal Lecter’s house was easy to find. 

Partly because it was the only one on the ‘street’ and partly because it could hardly be called a house. Tucked away reasonably far into a smattering of trees stood an estate that wasn’t all that different from the building in which he’d founded his psychiatry practice, except this one was completely isolated and he certainly didn’t share it with two other businesses. It was all his. All of it- and there was a lot of it. Starling knew that doctors made good money but surely the pay couldn’t be this good, right? 

Maybe I’m getting into the wrong profession, she thought to herself with a rueful smile, and then swiftly turned all of her focus into safely parking her Pinto beside his Bentley, ensuring she didn’t accidentally bump into it and send herself into a world of debt. 

Okay. She’d found the house. She’d parked the car. Next step: knock on the door.

And what a door it was; tall and grand and made of heavy, carved wood. She shouldered her nice bag and knocked thrice on the thick wood after a brief moment taken to steady herself. She waited three whole minutes - a minute for each knock - and then finally the knob turned and he was standing there, backlit by the hallway, head inclined and maroon eyes bright with curiosity and… something else. Surprise, maybe? Pleasure, even? 

“Clarice? How unexpected.”

“Good morning, Dr Lecter.”

“You… have my address.” He blinked, once. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him caught off guard before; it was a strange look on his hardy face. 

He was wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked into charcoal slacks, and a black apron was draped over his forearm, clearly having been removed in haste. His hair wasn’t as slicked back as she was used to seeing it either; the greying roots were a little disturbed around the edges. 

“You weren’t at your office,” she replied slowly, fighting down the smallest of smiles at his casual appearance. 

“That is because it is a Saturday morning, Clarice.”

“Right. Well...” She smiled weakly. “I needed to talk to you about the case. Crawford advised me to come.”

His lips pursed slightly and, despite the vague amusement in his eyes, he maintained a blank and stoic exterior. “I’m rather busy at this moment, Clarice.”

“It was urgent, doctor. I didn’t wanna wait ‘till next Friday… I thought you’d appreciate being one of the first to see this.” And before he could open his mouth to rebuke, she was pulling the file out of her bag and gesturing for him to take it. Yet another small slip in courtesy; and still, he couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed at her. He found it charming. “It’s another Ripper, doctor. This morning. A new one. You said you wanted me to come to you as soon as anythin’ came up so… here I am.”

He stared at the manilla folder in her small hand and did not take it, though he did sigh and step aside. “Very well, Clarice.” A small gesture of his hand; a wave of approval. “Come in. Just for a few minutes, mind.” 

A breath of relief. She kept the folder clutched in her hand as she stepped over the threshold. “Thank you, doctor.” 

“It is my pleasure.” 

Starling hadn’t realized quite how cold she’d been, standing on that doorstep, until she stepped into the regal warmth of Hannibal Lecter’s home. He closed the door after her and the November chill was banished. She took the moment to rub her hands, in turns, up and down her slacks to work some of the blood back into her fingertips. As she did so, she spared a look around. 

Tall ceilings, textured edges and furnishings which were almost baroque in style. Dark colors prevailed; wine reds on the walls and rich rosewood browns for the flooring and accents. Distinctly masculine and dizzyingly timeless, as though time itself had paused in the house some four or five decades ago. It was beautiful, in truth, and she found herself shamelessly admiring it all. And then the smell hit her, amongst all of it… something heady and strong and herbal.

“Are you cooking something?”

He locked the front door behind her. The sound of the key clicking seemed significant to Starling, and she jumped slightly as the metallic sound echoed down the hallway. He stepped up to her, then, gesturing for her to proceed ahead of him into the main body of the home. 

As he followed after her, he spoke. “I am, Clarice, yes. I’m preparing lunch.” He ran his small tongue over his lower lip as he watched her; he observed her in the context of his home and he liked the image it presented. Something purred in his chest. “I’m hosting a meal.”

“The philharmonic again?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at him. 

“Not this time.” 

The first door on the right came out into the front drawing room, which was just as lavishly and thematically decorated as it seemed the rest of his home was. There were two couches set before a tall window which allowed a generous stream of early winter sunlight to illuminate the opposite wall, which was decorated from top to bottom with framed paintings, all hung above a polished marble fireplace which stood overlooking a low coffee table. Starling walked carefully into the large room and set the case file down on the table, but kept her bag on her shoulder. 

Dr Lecter remained in the doorway of the drawing room as he watched her move forward to set her things down. She was incongruous to the setting, but the effect wasn’t at all unpleasant. He wondered if she’d fit in better dressed in a dark gown… a dinner gown, perhaps… something slim and simple… maybe with emeralds on her ears… ummm…

Dr Lecter ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth before speaking again. “I’m entertaining some gentlemen from the Baltimore Museum collection. It’s a small meeting, mind. A purely social one, though I can’t say I’m particularly eager.” 

“Oh. Right,” Starling nodded, as she turned to look at him. The air in the room felt heavy, all of a sudden. She’d only truly just registered that she was standing in the belly of his home, unannounced. And he was looking at her strangely. She shuffled on the spot, suddenly intimidated. He wasn’t particularly tall, of course, but even in the oversized doorway his presence still loomed. 

Muddled. 

“Well, I’ll be outta your hair as soon as I can, doctor. I promise. We’ll just go over this real quick.” 

He stepped forwards, finally, coming into the light airiness of the room. “No worries, Clarice. You still have a half hour until they arrive. They’re often late, too, as artistic folks tend to be.” A conspiratorial wink. 

She smiled slightly, and felt more at ease. He smiled back. 

Clarity. 

The case file, then, pale against the dark table. They both turned their attention to it. “Well. I, uh, could talk through this but maybe it’s better you just take a look for yourself.” 

She sensed the sudden reluctance in his posture as he seated himself carefully before the coffee table on one of the two couches. She paused before she sat beside him, and watched him flick the folder open, placing a finger along the length of his nose as he perused the new images. 

After a moment, he spoke. “What do you think of it, Clarice?”

She settled back into the couch, realizing that even though they were on limited time he’d still make her do the work. Every day is a school day, I guess… 

“It’s… another display, doctor. Another art piece, as I’m sure you’d see it.”

“Indeed,” he hummed. “Tell me about the man.”

“Younger man. Late thirties. His name was Harper Taylor. He was an employee at the Baltimore Museum of Art. Had no criminal record other than an old DUI from over a decade back and some gambling issues. No notable connection to the other victims, aside from a shared subscription to an arts magazine but we think that’s a coincidence.” Dr Lecter noted the use of ‘we’ rather than ‘they’ in references to the BSU. So she figured herself one of them already? Intriguing... 

“He was arranged… um, well he was crucified. Traditionally, too. Ripper did his research,” she quipped dully. “Lacerations to the neck and arms without blood flow suggest post-mortem hauling….” Her brows drew close in discomfort, lips turning up. “They’re running DNA as we speak. It’s not looking good though, doctor. He’s covered his tracks well, as always… They’re also double-checking the skin lacerations but we’re almost certain it’s a Ripper.” 

“How?” 

“Knife pattern looks the same.” A pause, then quieter, “and he was missing some stuff.”

“Some stuff, Clarice?”

Blink. Swallow. “Organs, doctor.”

“Which.”

“Thymus.” She spoke tightly. “Kidneys too.” 

“Nothing else?” 

“Not this time. Not that we know.”  

“I see.” 

“So?”

“Hm?”

“What do you say?” 

The tension snapped and Dr Lecter waved his arms vaguely, gesturing outwards in flippant dismissal. “What is there to say, Clarice? I’ll have to look at this further. More in-depth. I’ll have an opportunity tomorrow morning, I’m sure.”

“Yes, doctor,” she nodded eagerly. “I’ll leave the file with you. And then we’ll go over it next Friday? And I can bring your report back to Mr Crawford.”

“Ummm. Friday seems far too long a wait, Clarice. I’m sure other things will come up before then; too much to cover all at once.” A pause. She watched the microexpressions shift on his noble face. A small smile overcame the tight line his lips were often drawn into. “Tell me, do you like Italian cuisine?” 

“Um.” She blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Well, I’m not too sure. I can’t say I’ve ever tried proper Italian food, doctor.” A small frown. “Why?”

Tsk, tsk, tsk. “A shame,” Dr Lecter hummed, inclining his head slightly as he watched Starling shift uncertainly on his couch. What a pleasant image.

“Tomorrow evening, Clarice, my schedule is clear, I believe. We could discuss it then.” 

“It’s a Sunday tomorrow.” 

A slight turn of his head. “I thought you said you rarely had weekend plans?”

“Well, I don’t, really, but-“

“Perfect, then.” 

“Where do you-”

“Oh, here will be fine, Clarice. You take this home and bring it back to me tomorrow. We can hardly discuss a classified document in a public restaurant, now, can we?” 

Starling felt rather bemused. She sat in silence for a long few contemplative seconds before speaking again. 

“You’ll cook?”

“Of course,” he said, as if the notion were the most normal thing in the world. “Don’t look alarmed, I assure you I’m more than capable. I have many who’ll be able to back me up if you wish to interrogate my social companions on my culinary abilities.” 

“No, no, I believe you,” she quickly insisted. “It’s more the fact that… well, talking murder over a nice dinner doesn’t sound all too standard, doctor.”

“Yes, well, following the standard has gotten behavioural sciences nowhere so far. And, regardless, it seems we have much more pressing issues at hand than the Chesapeake Ripper, Clarice.”

She blinked in surprise. “We do?”

He smiled and leaned forward. “You’ve never eaten proper Italian cuisine.”

Chapter Text

Early Sunday morning. Ardelia Mapp and Clarice Starling sat on the floor of their dorm, forgoing their perfectly good desks in favour of spreading their revision notes out all across the cold hardwood in an organized mess of paper. 

Starling kept time by the clicking of Mapp tapping her pen against the wood.  

Joint revision always seemed to work better for the both of them. Quantico kept their heads full and busy, and it was hard to switch off when you were alone. There’d be long periods of productive silence, and then they’d occasionally check in with one another to ensure they were each still sane. 

“How a’you doing with it?”

“Two questions left,” Starling mumbled, weary, bouncing her pen against her temple.

“Thank fuck for that.” And then Mapp grinned as she sat up from where she’d been laying on her stomach. The girl stretched some of the tension out of her muscles then turned back to Starling, smiling, her body posture relaxed. “Hey. Cee?”

Starling looked up from her notes. “Hm?”

“Me and the forensics boys are going to Jimmie’s late tonight. Wanna tag along? Celebrate finishing up all this shit?” She waved vaguely at the papers spread around.

Starling smiled only for a moment, ready to accept her offer, but then she remembered her plans and the smile dropped instantly. 

“ Actually, I can’t, Dee, sorry. I gotta see Lecter.”

Her brows furrowed. “ Goddamn Lecter.” Then a confused frown. “Wait… Yeah, but we’re going out in the late evening, Cee. You’ll be back by seven right? You usually are when you see that guy.” 

“Ha, uh.” Starling scratched at her neck. “I’ll probably be leaving here about then, actually, Dee.”

A long pause. “What do you mean? That’s late , Clarice.”

“Dr Lecter’s busy in the day.”

“So you’re going to his office at seven?”

“Not his office. And I gotta be there around eight, yeah.”

“Not his office?” Mapp gave her another blank stare. “His house ?”

“Hm.”

“You’re having dinner with him?” 

“Well, no- actually, yeah, just to talk over the case, though. It’s a work thing and… hey , don’t look at me like that, girl, c’mon.”

“Clarice...” 

“What, Dee?”

“Girl…”

“Come on ,” Starling sat up finally and playfully shoved Ardelia, trying to wipe the stern look off of her face. “Don’t make it weird. ‘S just business, Dee, come on.” 

“Oooh, so that’s what they’re calling it these days-“

Another hard shove to the shoulder. Mapp was caught off guard and fell sideways. The papers scattered. 

“Hey- Oh, Clarice Starling you little sh -“ 

Another shove. And then they were fighting, and then laughing, and the revision was forgotten- and so, for the moment, were Starling’s unconventional evening plans.

Chapter Text

Wearing the same dress would be cheap, Starling figured, and additionally she didn’t think a quiet meal at the doctor’s house warranted anything anywhere near as fancy as the maroon gown. After all, it was just business, right? She didn’t want to start giving herself ideas.

She had a black dress left over from past graduation events. A simple, black sleeveless boatneck thing that stopped just above the knee and wasn’t particularly flashy. “Every girl needs a little black dress,” Ardelia had said once, and so Starling had made the purchase. 

It went well with the shoes and bag she owned, and also begged for something to decorate the front; a perfect opportunity for a necklace. She clasped her add-a-beads at her nape and then figured she ought to leave, lest she be late. The doctor hated lateness; he’d said so once, when she’d found herself at his office twenty minutes later than usual after becoming caught in traffic. He considered it rude, he’d said at the time. 

Mapp had harassed her on the way out of their dorm that evening, insisting that she ‘ditch the grunt work’ and tag along with her to Jimmie’s last minute, but Starling had always been the type to stick resolutely to a decision and that certainly wouldn’t end any time soon. Plus, she was deeply intrigued in what the evening might hold. Her interest had officially been piqued; Dr Lecter hadn’t told her anything other than what time he expected her and that he’d like it if she ‘dressed for dinner.’

She drove the whole way barefoot, for she’d forgotten to bring a suitable pair of driving shoes with her and the low heels weren’t cutting it. Starling arrived in Baltimore at quarter to eight and was parked up outside of his house - his manor - at five minutes past. She refused to double check her appearance in her car mirror. It didn’t matter whether or not she looked good. The dinner was business, not a social occasion, and she didn’t like to primp anyway. She’d keep telling herself that until she believed it.

She turned the key, slipped her heels back on and then stepped out.

Outside in the chill for a few moments… walking across the driveway… and then she was on the doorstep. She knocked thrice but did not have to wait three minutes, this time. Dr Lecter opened the door within seconds. 

He stood there, head slightly inclined and eyes calm yet curious. Suddenly unsure, Starling wavered on the front step, eyes flitting over him.

He was wearing a tux, and a nice one at that. Pure black and double-breasted. If Starling had seen anybody else in such a getup, she’d have thought it overly extravagant. With him, however, Starling couldn’t imagine anything different. She wondered if he even owned casual clothing. She almost laughed at the image of him sleeping in a suit, for the notion of Hannibal Lecter wearing a t-shirt was simply outlandish. 

He didn’t seem privy to her improper internal musings. His own eyes traveled her length, and then creased slightly at the corners in a subtle display of approval. He spoke softly- almost imperceptibly. “Good evening, Miss Starling.”

So formal. So it’s going to be like that, huh? She nodded once, swallowed, and smiled. “Doctor Lecter. Good evening.”

“Do come in.” He stepped aside. “Out of the cold, now.”

“Thank you.”

And then she was inside, but this time it was dark and his tall hallway was only lit lowly by the orange glow emanating from the small, overhead bulb. The wine walls and dark woods seemed less charming and more intimidating in the late evening, not unlike Dr Lecter himself. Still, she allowed herself to relax and she feigned ease as he closed the door behind her. Then, his hands were by her shoulders and he was exercising traditional courtesy. “Allow me, Clarice.” 

She’d put on a thin jacket to fend off the chill and she let him slip it off her, then turned to watch him hang it carefully on the coat-tree by the door. He was straight-backed as he did so, slick and dark as oil in candlelight. 

“There’s a half hour or so until the food will be anywhere near done,” he said once he’d turned back around, hands neatly folded behind his back. “Plenty of time for a drink, I think. If you’ll follow me?”

He went first this time, and she followed him past the door to the drawing room and further into the house than she’d been yet. They must’ve been close to the kitchen, because a rich aroma hit her in full force. “God, that smells good.” She’d spoken half-mindedly in a quiet voice, but she saw his shoulders loosen ahead of her and could imagine the smile on his face. 

“And I’m hoping it’ll taste even better, Clarice.”

Through to one of the central rooms.

He’d led her to what she could only describe as a sort of secondary foyer. It wasn’t a particularly grand space but it was tall and somewhat sparsely decorated which gave it the impression of being large. There was no notable furniture in the room other than a small, rectangular table tucked against the outer-facing wall on which Starling saw a pitcher and two glasses. There were also many rectangular objects covered by sheets, which Starling assumed were paintings, as well as a few canvas frames. The windows were shrouded by long curtains that pooled a little at the floor and the old overhead light was golden and dim, responsible for a fluctuating glow, casting shadows on the wine-coloured walls. 

“Would you prefer water? I’m aware you’ll be driving home later this evening.” he asked her, though he was already making his way to the table to pour a glass.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take a drink.” A pause. “I’m sure I’ll be okay by the time I have to leave.”

“A bold statement for an officer of the law.”

She took the drink from him gratefully. “Not an officer yet, doctor. You seem to keep forgetting that.”

“Yes, so it seems, I do.” He raised the glass then. “Here’s to the scarce time you have left as a free woman?” 

“You make the job sound so glamorous,” she spoke softly, but smiled and raised her glass to his nonetheless. 

“Cheers.” 

“Cheers.” 

A small sip, then. Hmm. 

It was delicious. Vermouth with a twist of olive, and more of a kick to it than she’d expected, which she was glad about for she felt terribly tense for some unplaceable reason. The martini-style glass was wonderfully cold and there was condensation around the top. Starling hummed softly as she took another sip, only then realising how dry her mouth had become and that she was overly warm, despite the fairly thin material of her dress. 

There was chamber music playing somewhere in the background and she only registered it as a silence fell over them, both sipping their drinks and observing the other curiously. The music echoed off of the tall walls and seemed dampened- she surmised that it was playing from another room. There were two doors leading out of the foyer, and only one was open. 

“What’s that playing, doctor? That music?” she asked when she noticed the amusement in his gaze, taking note of the way his claret eyes reflected the light. 

“It’s an album by Pierre Boulez, Clarice.” A slight, inquisitive dash of his head. “Not quite to your liking?”

She smiled, sheepish, but still found herself proud to catch him by surprise. “I wouldn’t say that.” He blinked slowly, intrigued. Her smile widened. “I actually… really enjoyed that evening at the orchestra. More than I thought I would.”

“Hmm? It pleases me immensely that you say so,” he answered truthfully, feeling something coil in his chest. “You’ve taken to listening to such music since, then?”

“Yes. I actually went to the store and bought a record the day afterwards.” A small shake of the head. “Delia thought I was going crazy when I showed her what I’d walked out with.”

Her colloquialisms contrasted the subject matter, but he found it charming more than anything. “What record did you purchase, may I ask? If you can recall the name, of course.”

“It was, um…” she frowned and thought for a moment before it came back to her. “Stravisnky? I think?” She was unsure of pronunciations but he nodded in recognition and she assumed she was correct. “I asked the guy at the counter and that’s what he pointed me towards. He said it was a good startin’ point.”

Dr Lecter found himself immensely pleased. “A good nudge, I’ll admit. Though, I have plenty more recommendations if you find yourself willing to… explore further?”

“I’m sure you do,” she hummed, and took another sip. He said nothing, merely tilted his head further and raised one brow. She blinked as the silence extended, then realised he was waiting for a response. “Oh. You mean, like, now?”

“Yes, Clarice. We do have plenty of time, after all.”

“Right.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. “Well, then sure. Why not.”

He set his glass down and turned to walk. She finished her own and fell into step. 

“This is the dining room, yes, but also my unofficial entertainment room.” He spoke softly, for she was walking close beside him and the music was clearer in the next room so he didn’t wish to raise his voice above it. 

Starling had been led into yet another tall, clear space but this was one much larger than the foyer and the front-center of it was dominated by a long dining table, suitable to fit up to fourteen. Towards the back was an instrument set on top of a round carpet, and beside the instrument was a cabinet holding the record player, which Starling could see was spinning, and two box-shelves full of records. 

She spared only a brief glance at the dining table, which appeared to be set up for two, before following after him to the lower end of the room. “This is where me and my guests retire after a meal, most often. They’re a musical bunch, as you know. They enjoy a performance after dinner on the rare and sorry occasion that I allow them into the peace of my house.” 

Starling smiled ruefully at his clipped tone, but her interest was piqued. Her eyes were still on the large instrument set atop the round carpet. “You play piano?” 

He laughed shortly; a rich sound. “I do, Clarice. However, that is a harpsichord.”

“What’s the distinction?” 

“A piano is a percussive instrument. The harpsichord is a stringed instrument.” He moved to the record player and gently lifted the needle. They were thrown into silence; a grand sort of silence that seemed to bounce off of the high ceilings. “You see, piano notes ring out. These don’t. Listen.” 

He sat down, then. Straight-backed like a statue on the music stool. Starling had found in the past that a lot of people looked silly sitting down before an instrument; Dr Lecter did not. A simple press of one of the keys… and the rich note ended the second he lifted his finger. “…And silence. Some dislike it. I find it charming. It’s… tentative. You rely less on the instrument- more so on yourself.” 

Starling nodded and took a step closer to where he was sitting. He turned his head slightly to watch her.

“I’ve always found musicians interesting, doctor. I don’t have a musical bone in my body.” 

His lips turned up slightly, but he said nothing. 

“I tried to learn flute for band in high school,” she elaborated. “Didn’t go well.”

“That’s because you picked the flute of all instruments, Clarice.” He shook his head shortly, then twitched two fingers in a come-hither motion. “Sit. I’d like to prove you wrong.” 

“I’m sure you would,” she said under her breath and then, before she could think too much about it, she sat down beside him, perched on the end of the music bench. He laughed under his breath then twitched his hand again. “Closer, Clarice. Unless you wish to play only the last three notes on the keyboard.” A thought that Starling was not privy to must’ve come upon him, for a strange expression came over his face, followed by a smile. “I don’t bite.” 

She shifted closer until their legs were just about touching and then she stopped. He seemed satisfied and nodded once, then gestured to the expanse of ivory. 

“Good. Now. Play a note. Any note. Feel the way it stops when you stop. Hear the distinct volume; how it doesn’t alter when you press hard or soft.” 

She did so. The keys were smooth when she pressed and the instrument was clearly well cared for. The sound of the harpsichord was loud and clear.

“Yeah, I see.” 

“Yes. Play three notes now. Evenly spaced- one key apart. Start on that key. No-“ he paused to take her hand and move it up, spacing her fingers. She shivered a little. “There.” She pressed down on three. A bright and layered tone rang out. “Perfect. That’s an F major. Now move that shape up one space. Shift everything.” She did so. He nodded. “Perfect. G major.” A smile. “Congratulations, Clarice. Now you can play the harpsichord.” 

She smiled to herself and felt her shoulders relax, despite the warmth that had come upon her suddenly- a heady sort of warmth that she decided to blame on the drink. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “Well, who woulda thought. I’m a prodigy.” 

She saw his head tilt, amused, in her peripheral. “I get the impression that you have the potential to be good at everything you try, Clarice. I’m sure you’d be more than adept if you practiced.” 

“Yeah, well the issue is that I’d need to buy a harpsichord to practice, doctor. I don’t think student loans would cover that.” 

“Hmmm, but wouldn't it be convenient if somebody you knew already owned one, Clarice?”

Starling smiled down at the instrument. The doctor smiled, too. 

“Yeah, it sure would be.” She wet her lips with her tongue then turned to face him, realizing only then how close that actually were. She was sure he could probably feel her breath as she exhaled. “You play something now, doctor.” 

“And what would you suggest I play?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Anything. You like to show off; here’s your opportunity.” 

Ummmm. He suppressed a smile and the urge to shake his head, then turned his shoulders back to face the harpsichord. “Very well. You said you enjoyed Stravinsky?” She nodded, slowly and almost imperceptibly, in his peripheral vision. 

She’d seemed thrown off once he’d turned to her; her pupils had blown and her scent had changed. He was pleased, and a little smug if he were to be truly honest with himself. Dr Lecter spread his hands atop the keyboard, poised like a bird of prey waiting for an opportunity. “Good. I believe I know a few pieces.” 

Chapter Text

There’d still been the last flickering suggestion of light when Clarice Starling had arrived, just about keeping her warm enough as she’d stepped out of the car and walked to his door, but now it was dark beyond the tall windows. 

Starling had found it exceptionally calming, watching how the tall entertainment room had transformed as the sun tucked itself carefully away. The wine walls had deepened and the shadows seemed to rise up them until the last of the sun's light disappeared and then they’d closed in. Despite this, Starling hadn’t felt the chill as late evening had come into full bloom with the candles dotted around the room, just close enough to provide all the warmth that was needed- the doctor beside her. He played the harpsichord with a dexterity that surprised her; she wondered if he’d ever stop surprising her. 

There was perfect calmness for a while, with the only sound being the charming plucking of the harpsichord. 

It was the distant beeping of some sort of cooking alarm that finally interrupted the moment; and then Dr Lecter was forced to lift his hands from the keys and break whichever strange and nameless spell had come upon them in the dim room. He’d then stood and guided Starling to the table, informing her that ‘dinner was to commence shortly.’

The candles, lit and spaced carefully and deliberately atop the long table, made what was otherwise an overbearingly large space feel far smaller and cosier. The flowers helped too; Dr Lecter had set up a small display of flora to separate the two place settings from the rest of the empty expanse. She wondered if he had a smaller dining table somewhere within the more intimate confines of his home, for surely he did not always dine in such a large room when he was alone? 

Or maybe he wasn’t alone. Perhaps he had company on those other evenings? She knew his reputation; he was a socialite- a bachelor, really, by definition. She knew he likely needn’t dine alone if he didn’t wish to… She suspected he had plenty of company whenever he so desired it. 

Starling frowned, and then wasn’t sure why she was frowning. Or perhaps she was, but she didn’t allow the full thought to form in her mind. 

So she turned her attention, instead, to her immediate surroundings. The gentle whispering sound of the trees outside batting against the old double-paned windows… the occasional creak that anybody living in an old house becomes familiar with… the distant clinking sounds of food being plated in the kitchen… and then the whirring sound of wheels paired with footsteps, and Starling watched him enter the room with a serving cart that looked as though a ghost hovered above it due to the steam rising from the hot food, twisting and flickering under the glow of the candles. 

“Now,” he started once he’d wheeled the cart to the table, his voice naturally dropping to a softer timbre in the quiet closeness of the dim room, “I had originally considered a structured meal with full courses, before realizing that perhaps it might’ve come across as overbearing-” a slight tilt of his head “-and also time consuming, for such a meal would last the better part of the evening and I’m sure you’ll wish to drive home at a reasonable hour tonight.”

He was straight-backed as he stood beside her, and Starling had to crane her neck a little to look up at him. “Yes, doctor.” And then for politeness, “but maybe another time.”

A small smile, and the spark of something in his eye. “Hm. Yes. But I’m sure that, for now, you’ll find what I’ve prepared perfectly satisfying.”

And he turned then, and began to plate up. 

He spoke quietly under his breath as he placed the dishes before her, seemingly commentating more to himself than her. “Cavolfiore arrosto alla siciliana,” he said first, placing a small side down. And then, “roasted cauliflower, with cherry tomatoes and basil,” he translated. 

The clink of cutlery as he set the second plate down- the main, this time; “Animella di agnello y corzetti. This is perhaps more in line, I’m sure, with what you were expecting when I announced I was preparing Italian cuisine.” Starling looked down at the plate, eyelids drooping a little as the aroma of well-made food wafted up into her nose. “Corzetti, being a type of Italian pasta. There are anchovies in there, and kale and thyme.”

Something else sat atop the pasta; golden and crispy. “And this?”

Dr Lecter paused for half of a second before speaking. “Sweetbreads. Lamb pancreas and thymus, specifically.”

Starling nodded. He picked up a bottle next.

“I think you’ll like this, Clarice. May I?” And then she waited as he poured a rich, red wine for the pair of them, and then finally seated himself opposite her. It felt strange to watch him do so; thus far, the only time they’d ever sat with one another in such a way was when they were seated at the desk in his office. There was a distinct student-teacher dynamic during those moments, and yet Starling found no such thing was present there in his home. With them both dressed nicely and seated equally over plates of good food, Starling found that the atmosphere was decidedly casual. She found she didn’t mind so much. She admitted to herself, somewhere deep within her psyche, that he looked good dressed in black-tie in the low light, and he almost matched her own attire, and then immediately she figured it safer to turn her gaze down towards the food.

The food! The type that she’d only expect to see in some unreachable, overpriced restaurant. Plated delicately and cooked to perfection. “This looks gorgeous,” she said truthfully. She almost didn’t want to eat it, lest she ruin it. “Where did you learn to cook like this? Were you a chef?”

His lips curled up in humor, and he shook his head just once. “No. My aunt taught me some things. I cook purely recreationally.”

“Your aunt was very good?”

“Oh yes, she was.” And then he nodded towards the streaming plate as he took his cutlery up into his hands. “See for yourself, my dear.” 

“Doctor?” she finally spoke, breaking the surprisingly easy silence that had befallen the dim dining room. The food had been exquisite- so much so that she’d been, for a while, lost to coherent thought. It’d returned to her now; her sense of duty was beginning to creep back in and her intentions for the meeting that evening reoccurred to her. “Did you get a chance to look at the file?” 

And then the mood shifted. 

She’d felt his eyes on her frequently throughout the meal, flitting about her visage curiously like a moth at a lamp, but now his gaze had hardened and it’d dropped down- just for a moment- to his food. She heard his fork scrape the plate before he answered. 

“I did, yes. I have some notes that I’m sure you’ll be eager to read. But not now, Clarice. It would be rude to place papers on the table.”

She spared a glance at the eleven empty seats.  “Well, I mean, it’s not like we wouldn't have the space...”

He tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Starling sighed. 

“I understand, doctor. We can go over them after dinner.” She wrinkled her nose a little, and decided to chase her own tail for the hell of it. “But- we can still discuss it a little? Now, I mean? What are you thinkin’? Jus’ off the top of your head.” 

The doctor breathed out evenly and relaxed back into the comfort of his chair, pursing his lips in thought. “Hm. I’m thinking… a nice mille-feuille for dessert, perhaps. Maybe even served alongside a light lillet. Something delicate, of course.”

A flash of irritation. “Doctor-“

“Unless you’d prefer something stronger, of course, Clarice? Perhaps an Argentine Malbec. I have plenty of selection.” 

She frowned. He smiled. He seemed to be in a strangely light mood- his strange eyes alight with some sort of nameless energy. 

“You’re a funny guy, doctor. Can we talk about Chesapeake Ripper, now? Please?”

“Must we, Clarice?”

“I thought that was why I’m here, is it not?” 

“Partially perhaps. But… like I said, we can come to that later, I’m sure. No hurry. The evening is young. It’s certainly not a topic to divulge over good food, wouldn't you say?”

A short breath and she schooled her irritation. How could she stay mad when he was smiling like that- like he had some great game tucked up his sleeve? “I suppose so,” she conceded. She took another bite of the creamy meat. “It is very good.”

“Thank you.”

A short pause. “So. What then? If not about the case?” 

He sighed again, and tilted his head to the other side, surveying her like a cat. “Sometimes, Clarice, I realize how little I know about you. I’d like to know more, I think. What better opportunity than this?” 

“We can play catch-up and then talk about the case?”

“If you insist.”

“Fine…” she nodded, and then shifted in the chair. He was waiting for her, and she found herself irritated again- but this time at her inability, still, to guess what was going on within his head. “So, you wanna know my favorite song or colour or what?” 

His lips twitched into a smile. “Well, that wasn’t the topic originally at the forefront of my interests, Clarice, when I spoke of learning more about you but, as a starting point, by all means…”

She blinked.

“Don’t keep me waiting. Favorite colour. Go.”

A short sigh and then she answered deliberately shortly. “Blue.”

“Just blue? There are so many.” 

A moment to think. “True blue.”

He hummed in pleasure; almost laughed. “Fitting.”

“Yours?”

A flash within his mind; purple, purple, purple like the eggplant in the garden. Little starfish hands. White snow. Then the snow again, but no longer white. Red, red, red . 

“I haven’t given it thought before,” he said absently. A pause, then, in which he forced himself into the present and refocused his eyes… Clarice Starling in front of him, sitting at the context of his table… pale against the mahogany wood and her black dress… fine brows drawn firm over wide eyes. Hmmm. “The pale gold of tigers-eye, perhaps”

She shook her head then, half-rolling her eyes, unable to suppress her amusement. “That’s exactly the sort of pompous answer I’d expect you to give to that question.” 

All she received was a vague look of amusement, and so she leaned forwards - elbows on the table, which Dr Lecter winced at but did not comment upon purely out of intrigue - and returned her tone to one of a serious timbre. 

“But what were you actually going to ask me, doctor?” 

He stewed for a moment. She watched him spear a piece of corzetti with his fork. When he answered, he did so in a purposefully flippant and conversational tone. 

“I’d like you to tell me about your father, Clarice.”

Starling set her cutlery down hard enough that the plates rattled against their wine glasses. Her smile had fallen. Lecter didn’t so much as flinch, or even look up at her straight away. 

A moment to breathe; to cool the spike of hot anger. “You can really be an ass sometimes, you know? Anyone ever tell you that?”

“A few unfortunate souls, yes.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It‘s a simple request.” 

“It’s not. You know it’s not.” Her lips pulled tight as she levelled with him. “What do you know about him?” 

“Not much. Enough. I had suspicions, however. Just a hunch, mind,” he spoke carefully. “A hunch which I believe you’ve just verified… Those who have experienced loss carry themselves differently.” 

“That’s… a heavy topic for dinner, doctor. Heavier than serial killers, I’d argue,” she pointed out, and he seemed to nod in fair agreement. “I’d rather not talk about my father's death.” 

“Very well.” 

Silence, then. She let it linger and then plucked up her courage once the moment had passed. He’d merely been testing his limits; she knew that- it was insensitive, perhaps, but she was learning such behavior was fundamental to his very nature. 

Elbows back on the table. No longer smiling. Her eyes were bright again, renewed by a mix of anger and challenge, to his utter delight. 

“Can I ask you a question, doctor?”

 A bite to her tone, which he enjoyed thoroughly. 

“Tit for tat. It’s only fair. As long as it doesn’t concern the case.”

“It doesn't.” Her tongue ran over her front few teeth, the sensory input calming her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She knew he wanted to talk seriously; to dig at her brain. She’d dance just out of his reach. She could play games, too. 

A short laugh from him- a rich sound that she didn’t hear often. “I’m not a movie person, particularly, Clarice.”

“I didn’t ask if you were a movie person. I asked what your favorite movie is. Everyone has one.” 

“Do they now?”

“Mhm.”

He thought to himself, and then an amusing thought seemed to strike him. “Bicycle thieves.”

“It’s an old one?”

“Late fourties I believe. An Italian film.”

“Of course it is. You speak Italian?”

“I do.”

She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised- the fluency with which he’d introduced the dishes at the beginning of the meal should’ve clued her in. Still, her interest was piqued and she urged him on with almost childish intrigue. “Say something in Italian.”

His small, pointed tongue darted out to wet his lip. “Hmm, fammi pensare...” And then he leaned forwards to match her posture, traditional table manners be damned. His voice dropped. Starling shivered a little. “Piccolo uccello. L'occhio non vede, il cuore non soffre.” 

Softly. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘we’re going off topic’, Clarice.” And then he blinked and sat back, and the fleeting moment was lost. “We were talking about films, were we not?” 

“Movies, yes.” 

“And what is your favorite movie, Agent Starling?” 

Not much thought needed to go into it- Starling’s wry smile spread into an honest-to-God grin, charming on her flushed face. “Dog Day Afternoon.”

“It sounds garish.”

“It came out this year. Me and Dee saw it at the flicks.”

“Dee?”

“Ardelia.”

“Ah, the roommate.” 

“Yeah. She thought it was okay. I loved it.”

“It’s a comedy?”

She chewed on her cheek and shrugged. “It’s not supposed to be. It’s a crime movie, but there are funny parts. Some pretty sad parts, too.”

“Multifarious,” he said a little dryly. “What is it about?”

“A bank heist,” she answered. “It’s based on a real story.” 

He blinked once. “Fitting for your line of work, I suppose.” 

“Yes, doctor,” she hummed.

Another long silence- the pair of them seemed to fall into many of those. They were never uncomfortable, though. Merely contemplative; time to think before they spoke once more, since every single one of their conversations seemed to hold a certain intensity, even when concerning simple topics such as movies. 

“May I ask another question, Clarice?” 

“Another heavy one?”

“Not particularly,” he said, though he spoke carefully. “I suppose it depends on your answer.”

Starling figured she had little to lose; she could always refuse him again. “Go ahead.” 

“What is…” he set his cutlery down, “…your best memory of childhood?” He had a suspicion he knew her worst; to ask that would be to go in circles and place himself in her bad books again. Testing her was fun but he didn’t wish for conflict. “Your happiest one, I mean to say.”

Starling raised a brow, running her tongue along the backs of her teeth. “Okay,” she nodded, and then wrinkled her nose in thought. “That’s hard.” 

“What’s the first memory that comes to mind? A friend? A conversation? A location?” he prompted. 

It took some thought. Starling recalled, first, the smell of citrus and the view of her father running the clipped blade under the skin of oranges. But she supposed that wasn’t her best memory; just a consistent one. No, her best had occurred earlier in childhood- and she smiled as it came to mind. 

She slipped into the anecdote, almost on autopilot. 

“Well. Where we lived was near a forest, sort of. It was… more of a patch of trees, really. Rural West Virginia.” Her face changed as she began to recall the memories. Dr Lecter read her expressions, rapt as though she were a book. “There was a crick down there. Spent all summer playing in it...” 

“I’m sure you enjoyed many summers as a young girl in rural Virginia, Clarice. What made this one significant?” 

“I made a good friend that summer, doctor.”

“Just that summer?” 

“I didn’t make too many friends as a girl, but this one family came down for the holidays to visit some relatives n’ they had a little boy. My age, ‘course. I got on better with the boys. I liked to climb and run. Me n’ him got real close over those few weeks.” 

“Do you remember his name?”

No pause needed. “Oliver.”

“And this friendship with Oliver is your fondest memory, as opposed to the summer itself?”

“Yeah.” Her lip twitched. She paused- took a bite of food- continued. “Well… sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I showed him that spot in the woods,” she explained. “It was a private spot that I had found. Nobody else knew about it. Not even my daddy. I always went there and played and read an’ all when I wanted to get away.” 

“And you allowed him into that space?”

“I did. I brought him down there and that summer we got busy building a bridge over the crick. Just us two.” She smiled, a little absently. “We built it outta logs and old bits of fencing. Took us days n’ we weren’t allowed tools so we tied it all up together with rope and bits of plant fiber. We finished it the week before the end of the holidays n’ spent a whole day just running across it, pretending to almost fall in and pretending to save each other when we did.” 

“And then he left.”

“Yeah, he did. No phones or nothing, back then. Never saw him again. I wasn’t there anymore by the next summer so I don’t know if he went back.” 

“And your bridge?”

“Damn sturdy,” she said proudly. “Might well still be there now. Was still there when I left.”

“Left because of your father?”

Her lips thinned a little. “That’s right.”

“I see.”

“You gonna psychoanalyze that now, Doctor? Make somethin’ out of it?”

He smiled, genuinely, and shook his head. “No, Clarice. No, I’m not. I don’t believe I need to.”

Her posture relaxed. “Then why did you ask?”

“Curiosity…” He paused as he considered something, then spoke almost as an afterthought- “I myself enjoyed exploring the grounds of my childhood home. The wild forests of Lithuania are quite something, especially to a young boy.” 

Starling took a moment to process. He’d spoken casually, but she sensed that he’d revealed something quite personal- and she’d always gotten the distinct impression that Hannibal Lecter very rarely shared personal anecdotes.  

“Lithuania,” she repeated softly. “I wouldn't have guessed it.” 

“Where would you have guessed?”

“I’m… not sure. You have an American accent, sort of… but there’s something off. I know you can speak Italian but I didn’t think you were from there. I figured you were European but had moved here early.” 

“I moved to France early on. I stayed in Italy for a time, too.”

“Right,” she breathed, eyes softening a little. Hannibal Lecter found himself drawn in, inexplicably. “So you can speak French and Lithuanian as well?”

“Lithuanian, yes, fluently, Clarice. It is my mother tongue after all.” A small, wry smile. “French… not so much. I can speak some. It’s been a while, however.” 

“You’re being modest.”

“Perhaps. I know more than a tourist, I’ll admit that.” 

She didn’t need to ask for proof, this time. She moved swiftly on; too intrigued to busy herself with testing his knowledge. 

“Why did you move out of Lithuania?”

And suddenly his charming smile hardened somewhat. 

“No matter about that.” 

She blinked- and then realization struck her. “It’s the same reason I moved away from my home, isn’t it?”

He bowed his head, and decided he’d let her have something. “A similar reason, I suspect.” 

She returned his solemn nod, then moved swiftly on.

“When did you come here?” 

“I was twenty-four. I earned a scholarship at Johns Hopkins.”

“Right.” He’d said it as if it were something so utterly casual. “Wow. And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here,” he repeated quietly.

“Did you do psychiatry at Johns Hopkins?”

“Not primarily.”

“What, then?” 

“Medicine. Surgery.”

“And the psychiatry came later?” 

“Hmm. I’ve always had a knack for the mind, Clarice. It wasn’t a hard profession for me to pursue.” Then he waved his hand flippantly. “Of course, having a medical degree helped me get my foot in the door, so to speak.” 

“Yeah.” Her smile was lopsided and her tone was bitingly sarcastic. “Some of us had to fight our way up.” 

He opened his mouth as if to say something - the briefest flash of something distorting his features, so quick that Clarice herself missed it - and thought otherwise. Instead, he nodded once slowly and smiled. “And yet here we are, sitting at the same table.”

“In whose lavishly decorated mansion?”

“Touché.” A meaningful pause. “Your time will come, little Starling.”

She wasn’t sure whether to bristle at the moniker, which usually she’d deduct as being demeaning or patronizing. She decided, though, that he meant it purely affectionately. The sudden warmth in her stomach alarmed her, and she only allowed herself to bathe in the foreign feeling for a second before hardening her reserve and closing herself off. It was safer that way. 

“Yes. And catching this guy will help me along. So help me, doctor.” Her front was put swiftly up; a stone wall. “Let’s talk theories, now. Please.”

He closed his eyes briefly and then sighed, nodding. 

“Very well, Clarice.” He pushed his plate away and Starling did the same. The scraping sound of China on wood echoed in the tall room, bringing attention to the open space around them, hidden by the dark shadows that seemed to emanate from the corners and stop just short of the flickering candlelight. Dr Lecter hummed in thought before standing slowly. “Let’s move to the drawing room, hm? A better place to discuss such things.”

Chapter Text

Starling was familiar with the drawing room, of course, for she’d been there just one day previously. 

That’d been during the earlier hours of the day, though, when the tall windows had allowed the daylight to paint the proud fireplace and the many paintings hanging on the far wall. Now, like the rest of the home, the room had been transformed; dimly and softly lit. 

Two couches. They both settled on the one closest to the low coffee table. The doctor had brought his wine along with him from the dining room and he reclined there beside Starling, a fair distance between them, except he had one arm half up on the backrest and the other busy swirling the red liquid in his glass.  

His hand was resting just a few inches from Starling’s nape. His fingers drummed on the cushion occasionally and she heard the sound loud in her ear. She wasn’t aware that he was fighting the sensory urge to touch her hair- or maybe she was. She was good at hiding it, if that were the case. 

Starling was sitting taut with the case file spread over the coffee table before them, slim fingers pressed endearingly to her lips and brows furrowed in contemplation. The victims' sheets were all lined up before them. She went over each one, reciting the facts and figures aloud as though some new thought might spring suddenly to mind.

“Okay. So. Harper Taylor, white-male, early thirties. Found about a mile and a half into the Lewis Complex, roughly an hour from the Chicamacomico River. Strung up. Otherwise outwardly unaffected, except he was sans thymus, liver and pancreas and had puncture wounds in his wrists from being nailed, although any damage was post-mortem,” she listed, peering down at Harper Taylor’s post-mortem report. “He was found unclothed. And as for the odd crown he was found wearing… not thorns but buttercups and hemlock?” 

The doctor tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded and focused on Starling rather than the file. “Are you familiar with floriography?” 

“I don’t make a pastime of it but I know enough to understand,” she said softly, then turned to glance at him. “Hemlock is poisonous?” 

“Yes. And buttercups?”

“A symbol of naivety?” 

“Yes, Clarice, very good. And the hemlock, of course, as an announcer or symbol of death.”

“It seems mocking; the whole thing, I mean. It’s the symbolism and the fact that the man was left nude. The killer did that on purpose, right?” 

“I agree with that observation,” Dr Lecter hummed, 

“The religious imagery intrigued me.”

“Likewise. Go ahead.” 

“Yes, I mean it’s easy enough to grasp, even for a layman,” Starling sighed, and then rubbed wearily at her temple. “I just… I still don’t understand why he takes these different things each time. And why sometimes he doesn’t take anything at all? The public presentation of the victim is always the same in the sense that it’s showy, sure, but the personal trophies are always different. Perhaps the variation is deliberate?” 

“Unpredictability is the key to avoiding the algorithmic methods of a case formulation team, Clarice. Who's to say what else he keeps concealed within the guise of spontaneity.” 

“Everything is very purposeful, though, doctor. It’s not spontaneous at all,” she argued, turning to him again. She felt ever so slightly agitated at his posture; relaxed against the cushions. And his fingers, still drumming behind her head… she bit her tongue. “You see it right? Even the randomness of it is calculated. So there must be a purpose to what he takes.” She turned back to the file, unable to face the intensity of his gaze. “There has to be… Thymus, liver, pancreas…” she listed once more. 

“What have you studied in your classes? These sorts of things have happened before. I’m sure you’ve covered such instances in your lessons?”

“Well, yeah, sure, we’ve seen how this happens in relation to the black market… cult practices… odd, individual cases like Richard Chase…” And then something struck her; just the tiniest of hunches- some little niggling memory from her childhood. Her eyes widened. She gripped onto the feeling. “Doctor?”

“Hm?” 

“What was it we ate tonight? The main course, I mean. You told me when you brought the food in.”

He really looked at her then, long and hard, and held his tongue for just a moment. He knew the danger of answering her question- he knew she’d catch on but, still, he didn’t feel fear. Instead he felt pride swell in his chest, alongside a little bit of healthy apprehension. She was getting closer. Should he add another layer of danger to the game? Should he allow her to continue?

He smiled. “Corzetti. E animella di agnello.”

“In English?”

“Corzetti pasta and lamb offal.” 

“Yes. The second bit. Sweetbreads, yes?”

“Yes, that is the correct culinary term for the cuts of offal. Often referring to lamb or calf.” 

“I know,” she nodded. “I grew up in rural Virginia doctor. I know about meat processing.”

He figured so, and simply nodded. “Yes.”

“Sweetbreads are used in cooking.”

“That is often the case, indeed.” 

She turned quickly back to the case and flicked back over each man; seven found in total, thus far. “It’s the same for these other victims… The, uh, cuts of meat, here. Tongue, sometimes. Mostly organs…” 

Her breathing had elevated slightly; the thrill of the hunt. Doctor Lecter blinked slowly, like a reptile.

“Clarice…”

“Doctor,” she turned back to him. Her eyes, the pale gold of tigers-eye, were wide and her pupils were blown. “You’re thinking the same thing as me, aren’t you?”

“Well, I can’t be sure.” He kept his voice even. “I have many talents but telepathy is one I have yet to master, sadly.”

She sat up straighter in the chair, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. “The whole profile is- is wrong. I think we’ve got it wrong.”

He inclined his head slightly. “The one we’ve worked on for months, Clarice?”

“Yes.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Medical professionals… Practicing surgeons... People with both medical and religious knowledge…” she started, reciting their profile thus far. 

“Collecting trophies,” the doctor added. 

“Yes. That’s what we’ve been working off of… But what if he isn’t collecting trophies, doctor? He isn’t keeping these things, is he?” 

“What would he be doing otherwise, Clarice? Selling them?” 

His tone was that of aloof ignorance, and he did this deliberately. It only riled Starling up further. She twisted fully on the couch, bringing one leg up and facing him directly- her knee brushed his. 

“No, Doctor, this isn’t a black market thing, I don’t think.” She smiled, despite herself. “Doctor. He’s eating them.”

A deep and heavy silence settled over the room. He didn’t look up; his eyes were fixed on her knee. 

She might’ve thought that time had stopped if the flickering of the candles hadn’t been playing the shadows over his face, jerky like a stop-motion film. She heard him exhale, and watched the infinitesimal twitch of his brow. 

“That is interesting, Clarice.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I certainly trust your judgment,” he answered quickly, looking back up to her. “I’m simply considering the possibility, if you’ll give me a moment.”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? The specialized cuts… the anatomical knowledge…” she swallows thickly, bottom lip drawn between her teeth. “Maybe it isn’t some sort of doctor or surgeon we’re looking for. Maybe it’s a butcher? Or even a professional chef? A sick chef with a dark streak, sure.”

“Yes, you may very well be right,” he hummed encouragingly. “I truthfully hadn’t considered that approach.”

“That surprises me. It seems simple now. They’re literally being butchered, in the definitive sense of the word.”

“You doubt me?”

“I doubt that you hadn’t at least considered it. You seem the type to cover all bases: and you know a lot about cooking, clearly.”

More warning alarms sounded in the distant halls of the doctor’s vast mind. He ignored them again, sinking into the pleasure of watching her come so close. 

“I am only human, Clarice.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

His lips exposed his small tidy teeth in a half-smile. “At the very least I’m glad you regard me so highly.” A meaningful pause, and then his tone became somewhat more clinical. He wet his lips quickly with his tongue and sat up a little straighter. “Note this down.” She did so. “You’ll bring up this approach when you take the file back this week, I assume?”

“Certainly, doctor,” she said eagerly. “They’ll be very interested, I’m sure. Crawford will like this, at least.”

“Good, good. I’m sure he will. Don’t let him disregard you.” He seemed a little distant as he spoke, still swirling the wine in one hand and tapping at the couch in the other. 

She spent ten minutes flicking back through the file and highlighting the reports of absent organs, particularly the ones that lined up with their new theory. She made a few quick notes, jotting down the word ‘butcher?’ above the profile page, and then set her pen down when all was down, glancing back at Dr Lecter.

He was watching her quietly. She looked at the hand holding the glass, fixed for just a moment on that strange extra digit. “Doctor?”

“Clarice.” 

Still clinical and clipped. The revelation had weighed heavy on the room and she was sure such an intensely dark idea - something as taboo and outlandish as cannibalism - had perhaps disturbed him somewhat? It’d certainly disturbed her. She felt a little sick, and turned to the coffee table to start tucking some of the gory images away. “What now, doctor?”

“I think we've covered all there is to cover tonight,” he hummed softly, casting his gaze over the sprawled mess of paper. “Unless, of course, there is anything you wish to discuss further. Any other theories? I’m happy to provide some insight.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“It’s best not to overdo these things,” he hummed in agreement, then took a sip of the wine. 

“Yeah, I agree… What time is it?”

He placed the glass down beside the file on the table, and finally drew his arms back towards himself to readjust his clothing. His overbearing presence retreated somewhat. He pulled his sleeve up to check his watch. “It is a quarter past ten.” 

A deep sigh. “I’m driving back. I oughta get going soon.”

“It is quite late,” he agreed, and she thought his tone might’ve sounded solemn, almost. “By all means, Clarice… stay if you don’t wish to drive so far in the dark.”

“I can’t,” she said, her tone strained. “It’s Monday tomorrow, and I have morning lessons. Shooting range. I gotta be back in Quantico.”

A drawn-out silence before he nodded. “Very well.” And then he stood, as gracefully as he did anything. “Allow me to clear up, then, and perhaps fix a final drink. I’ll be sure to take extra long, so you might well have time to change your mind.” A short smile. 

She returned it. “I don’t think I will, doctor.” And then a little quieter: “It’s safer if I go home.”

“Safer? What an intriguing choice of word.” 

She said nothing, watching the way his head tilted, as it so often did when she said something that interested him. She couldn’t bear to sit there in that room alone with the file as he cleared, so she stood too. “I’ll help you clear,” was all she said.

“No, you-“

“I’ll help,” she said firmly. “I don’t like sitting around.”

A pause and then he conceded. “Fine. Very well.”

Clarice Starling felt a little lighter on her feet as they made their way back to the dining room. 

Breakthroughs made her feel accomplished. They made her feel good in her soul, and it showed in the way she carried herself. Dr Lecter chose to walk behind her, admiring her conviction and self-assurance; it showed in the way she squared her strong shoulders and kept her head high, chin tilted upwards, confident, atop that slim neck of hers. Overall, a very pleasant image.

They stopped at the table. 

Hannibal Lecter was a tidy man. He liked to be efficient in all things he did, and that was not limited to cooking and serving a meal.

They only had the four plates to clear, as well as the cutlery and the glass of wine that Starling had abandoned on the table.  

So preoccupied had she been with their conversation, she hadn’t managed to finish it. She stared at the inch of red liquid ruefully and then picked the glass up, in a whimsical sort of toasting motion. “It’d be a shame to waste it. Bottoms up.” 

She went to bring it to her lips, and Dr Lecter grimaced slightly and interrupted her- “Ah, Clarice, no. That’s the type of wine you sip, you realize?”

“There’s only a little left,” she argued, pausing with the glass held near to her mouth. “And I won’t end up finishing it if I sip. I wouldn’t want to waste it,” she added, mocking his accent just a little bit. 

She drank it all in one go before he could protest again. The glass was empty when she brought it down, smiling proudly. 

Dr Lecter simply stood in silence for a long moment, one brow arched. It was times like those that he remembered Clarice Starling was an American, through and through. The silence rang out before he broke it, speaking slowly and managing, somehow, to hide the intense amusement that had filled him.

“Clarice, would you like me to tell you how much money you just drank down without tasting a single drop?”

“No, actually, because it’ll end up bumming me out,” she waved him off.  “It was more than a good days worth of work, I’ll bet.” 

“I believe you may be right.”

“And it wasn’t even a full glass.” 

“It certainly isn’t anymore,” and then he smiled, finally. He approached the table and collected up the plates, setting them on the trolley. He blew out the candles on his side, cupping his hand around them as he did so, and then gestured for her to do the same. “Blow those out. And then take your glass and come.” Then an afterthought- “Would you like a coffee? Cancel out the wine before you leave?” 

A grateful smile. He was stalling, and it was working. “That’d be good thanks.” 

She followed after him to the kitchen and then helped him unload the cart as he moved to the sink and removed his blazer then rolled his sleeves up, running the hot water and letting the basin fill. Something about seeing him doing something so painfully common and mundane amused her slightly- enough for her to laugh under her breath. Clarice Starling figured she may have drank that wine a little too quickly, indeed. 

“I used to watch my mom and dad clean up,” she explained after a moment, when he shot her a strange look, leaning against the kitchen island. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this. The urge had simply struck. “They had a system for it. They’d just work around each other like they could read each other's minds, n’ knew where the other was gonna go.”

Dr Lecter stopped the running water once it reached the top and then gestured for Starling- “could you bring those over?” She picked the plates up and deposited them into the soapy water. Dr Lecter watched her closely. “Yes, a well run kitchen is key to an efficient home.”

“Well run, indeed. Mom was a damn good cook when she tried, even though she didn’t have much to work with,” Starling hummed, then dipped her fingers into the steaming water and absently watched the tips go pink from the heat. 

Another long pause. Dr Lecter, standing behind her, sounded closer than she’d expected when he next spoke. “Hm. I had staff doing the cleaning when I was a boy… although, I still enjoyed helping them. My mother encouraged it; it teaches discipline.” 

He blinked when she turned her head to look back at him with her lips curved up, possessing a playful gracefulness reminiscent of her namesake. “You had staff. Like, paid house staff?” 

“Yes, I did.”

She shook her head and then tore her gaze away. She felt the differences between them very keenly in that moment. 

“I am not so far removed, I assure you,” he added, able to read her thoughts purely from her suddenly closed body language. She heard him collect the cutlery from the cart and then felt him, rather than saw him, as he reached over her and dropped the knives and forks into the water. 

“I’ll have to take your word for it, doc.” That typical little informality that she knew irritated him… except he found it didn’t, then. In fact, it seemed endearing coming from her lips; he was pleased she felt comfortable enough to toy with him. She faced him once more, and smiled. “So. What about that coffee?” 

“Ah, yes. Just a moment.” 

As expected, he did things the traditional way. 

Starling moved back away from the sink and watched him fill a small saucepan with water which he placed atop the stove. As he waited for that, he went back to soaking the dishes. His bare forearms disappeared into the suds. 

Peaceful silence ensued. They were both in a comfortable mood and she was a little light on her feet- enough so to feel tired. Starling leaned back against the kitchen island once more and watched Dr Lecter’s back as he cleaned, and then they both looked up once the water in the saucepan began to boil. He went to move for it, but she stilled him. “No, let me. I wanna do something.”

“You’re a guest, Clarice.”

“Yeah, and I feel useless just standin’ here watching you clean.” A small smile. “I may not be the best cook, doctor, but I can definitely make a coffee.” 

With a slightly rueful expression, he nodded and allowed her to continue. “Very well.” He turned back to the dishes.

There was a silver tin of coffee - strongly smelling and seemingly much richer than the cheap type she was used to back at Quantico - and she added the appropriate amount. She stood over the pot and waited, a little distant behind her eyes, until it was done. 

You can tell a lot about a person by their kitchen, and even more so by their mugs:

The doctor had an open-front ladder shelf full of them. She remembered her father's old graphic mugs with logos from his many trips on them, as well as one with his police badge on and a cheap ‘best dad’ mug. She also thought of Mapp’s grandmothers’ many colourful mugs with flowers and bright, gaudy patterns on them. Jack Crawford always seemed to be drinking out of a Quantico or Washington mug. 

Dr Lecter’s mugs were all rather small and ornate; all white with some measure of seemingly hand-painted detailing atop the rims. Starling pursed her lips, wondering what that meant, and picked one, then carefully poured the coffee in. 

She chewed on her lower lip, then turned to look over her shoulder. Dr Lecter was already looking at her, and she figured he’d been watching her. Their eyes met, and she jolted internally. She blinked first. 

“Are you a black coffee guy, doctor?” 

“On the rare occasion that I choose to drink it, yes.” He spoke quietly.

“Right. Do you have any milk and sugar?” 

He smiled, as if he’d expected the question. “Of course.” 

There was a high cupboard to her left. Dr Lecter wiped his hands dry and then came to stand close, just behind her, and reached up past her head. She took a breath, suddenly hyper-aware of him and the calm quietness of the kitchen, and also became fully aware for the first time of the fact that they were quite alone in the large house. He heard her swallow, though she tried to do so discreetly. He opened the cupboard and pulled a pot of sugar out. 

He could smell her, more so than he’d been able to at any other point so far; her scent seemed heightened in the intimacy of his own home. She smelled of his food and wine, mixed with her own determined perfume. Hm. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly as he placed the sugar down, not privy to his thoughts. He didn’t move back to the sink immediately, however. In fact, he remained standing just where he was, still not much more than a breath away. Starling exhaled, and attempted light humour despite the fact that she felt, suddenly, rather warm. “You don’t need to supervise me, doctor, I can make coffee just fine, you can go back to washin’ up.” 

She’d been half-joking but he’d heard the quiver in her voice. Charming .

“The dishes are done, Clarice.” Clear mirth painted his tone; his mouth by her ear. “Am I distracting you?” 

“Yes, actually,” she breathed, and then simply couldn’t handle the vulnerability of the position, so she turned around, the small of her back resting against the edge of the counter. Their feet almost touched. 

He tilted his head a little, like a lizard or some other curious animal that’d spotted something interesting. Suddenly Starling wasn’t smiling so much anymore; her brows set and a litany of realizations came upon her, like dominoes toppling one by one. 

“You keep doing this, doctor-“ 

“Hmm?” He cut her off quite smoothly. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

There was something in his expression that suggested the desire to step forward; a sort of teetering expectation that Starling recognised with some alarm. She brought her hand up, hovering just before his chest, maintaining what distance there was left between them. He was always toeing the line. 

There’d been remnant coffee grounds on Starling’s fingers. Some of them fell onto his tie. 

She wasn’t certain where to look. She chose to brave it, and held eye contact. “Dr Lecter...” 

“Clarice,” he echoed slowly before he carefully brought his hand up and placed it gently atop hers, urging her to lower her wary hand back to her side. She didn’t resist him, for a reason she couldn't quite explain, not even to herself. 

“I can make a drink just fine,” she repeated quietly. 

Her skin still felt warm, perhaps from where she’d been dipping her hands in the hot water earlier? But that didn’t explain the warmth that'd also settled on her cheeks. “Go ahead, Clarice.” He still sounded lightly amused. “Don’t mind me.” 

Starling’s head was swimming a little, as it had been all evening, but now emotional confusion had been thrown into the mix. He was deliberately intimidating her. He was seeing how far he could push over the line, as he often did. He was testing her; gauging her reactions, true to his nature as a psychiatrist. He was… he… smelled really good. And he was looking at her like a cat ready to pounce; and that thought alone alarmed her so she finally dropped her gaze to his chest and focused, instead, on the two stray coffee grounds still brown against his pitch black tie. She found her voice, somehow. 

“I need to-”

“-I really think you ought to stay tonight, Clarice.” 

Ah, there it was. The issue at hand. It had presented itself; the reason for this turn in tone and his imposing closeness. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But contrastingly, I do. I think you ought to stay,” he repeated. “Better yet, I’d like it if you stayed. It would please me very much if you stayed.”  

Her jaw tightened. She felt a little something within her thump; it was a strange tugging sensation that she couldn’t quite put a name to. She wasn’t sure whether or not the sensation was in Dr Lecter’s favour or not. 

She was firmer this time, still. “I can’t.” Then she stood up a little straighter and raised her chin in an attempt to regain her poise, but all it did was serve to bring their faces closer. “I have classes, remember, doctor.”

“I can get you there,” he said simply, his voice infuriatingly even and low. 

The phrasing was not lost on her but she ignored it nonetheless. She shook her head firmly, and insisted resolutely, “I can’t stay here. You really shouldn’t ask me to.”

“I have a guest room. Multiple guest rooms, in fact. It is no stress, you realize. It’s a big house. You wouldn't even have to see me.” His breath was warm on her face.

“That’s not what I meant. You know it.” 

A small smile. “I know, Clarice. I was simply choosing to ignore the fact. Please, humour me.” 

She bowed her head slightly, and brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of her nose; a headache was forming.

There’d been coffee remnants on her fingers, and a smudge of brown had wiped onto her face as she’d attempted to knead her headache away- just the smallest of smudges, high on her cheekbone. Dr Lecter’s eyes fixed onto it. He was reminded of the moment, not all too long ago, in his office wherein they’d been standing in a similar fashion to the way they were then, and some of her hair had fallen forth and he’d wanted to push it away. He hadn’t given in to his urge to touch her, then. 

Somehow, Starling could sense his desire this time, and felt oddly resigned, although somewhat confused. “Doctor?” 

“You have coffee on your face,” He hummed in explanation, finding no real conviction or warning in her tone- more questioning than anything. 

He wiped at the mark with his thumb; barely even a touch. 

Her nerves still lit up, though, and she shivered a little, both under his touch and the very pointed expression on his face when his eyes returned to hers. She was trying so hard to stay firm and resolute. 

“Doctor, I don’t think this is the brightest idea you’ve ever had.” 

“This?” 

She gestured between them. “This shouldn’t happen.”

“What do you think is happening right now, Clarice? Please, enlighten me.”

She opened her mouth to answer truthfully, but couldn’t quite form the words. Her head bowed slightly. Hannibal Lecter was greeted with the rare sight of Clarice Starling standing down. “Something that shouldn’t be.” 

He sighed a little. “Tell me to stop, then, Clarice, and I will. Simple.” 

“Doctor...”

“Say stop. Or don’t. You decide.”

He was testing her, and himself. Testing the strength of his urge to taste. He was a creature of indulgence; always had been. When he poured good wine he liked to bring it close to his face and smell it, then sip carefully and savor it. He’d never been one to deny himself, and didn’t often find himself in a position where he needed to. He found, in that moment, that he wanted to… sip Clarice Starling.

No. More than that. He wanted to savor. Yes, he’d like that… but, still, sipping was the most agreeable option. He was just curious. Just a little taste? Ummmm?

Her hand was back on his chest as he drew ever closer, but she wasn’t pushing at him. She wasn’t grasping or pulling either; her palm was merely resting there. The illusion of denial with no real desire behind it. He was warm and solid under her hand. Undeniably human. Starling blinked and felt her own humanity keenly; her heart was pumping and her pupils were blown. She could feel his beating, too, albeit much slower. Dr Lecter found her indelibly charming. 

Just the tiniest of samples would suffice. His eyes dropped a little- his head threatened to dip. 

A moment that wavered… 

…And then, to his dismay, it was her who turned her face firmly away after the moment stretched just too long. Her hand finally went to push at him, growing insistent when he hardly moved. 

“No?” he asked, tone low and steady. 

“No,” Starling insisted quietly. 

Dr Lecter hesitated for just a moment more and then stepped back properly, finally. Starling shook her head, blinking quickly. She breathed deeply, as if she’d been holding it for those last few, tense minutes.

Though Dr Lecter enjoyed a challenge, he recognised that her charming uncertainty had turned into blatant discomfort, and he was not so discourteous a man as to ignore a clear rejection.

“A shame,” was all he hummed into the quiet space between them, though his tone was lightly teasing and it seemed he was trying to clear away some of the tension. 

When Starling looked back up at him, she found that his slight, barely-there smile was back on his face. She didn’t share his humour. She wanted to slap his smile away. Or- or wipe it off in some other way, or- Starling shook her head. “Do you want me to start listing reasons why this is a bad idea, doctor?” Her voice strengthened a little further. She found her legs. “We might be here for a while.”

His smile persisted, despite it all. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t, Clarice. I believe I get the idea.

“Good.” Pause. “I’m not staying here tonight,” she spoke firmly and resolutely. 

“So you’ve said.”

“Which means I should really go now.”

Ah, finally. The smile was gone; replaced by a look of concern on his handsome face; the same one she recognised from their second meeting. “Can I not arrange you a lift, Clarice, at the very least?”

“I need my car,” she countered. 

“I can have somebody drive it down to you tomorrow morning.” 

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “I’m fine to drive. It’s for the best, I think, if I just go now. I need to-“ a pause- “clear my head.” 

“Very well.” 

She swallowed thickly. He stepped back once more, and this time it was far enough that she felt she could breathe a little easier. Things became clearer, all of a sudden. She chewed the inside of her cheek. 

“I'm sorry for…” and then she trailed off, perhaps realizing that really she didn’t owe him an apology at all. He was glad she refrained. “It's been a good evening. The food was very good, doctor.” 

“And the company was likewise, Clarice.” 

“I…” a grimace. “I think…”

“I apologize,” he said softly, sparing her from stumbling over her words. His head inclined slightly, that smile once again finding its way back onto his face. It was never gone for long. “I suffered a rare lapse in judgment. Take the moment and store it for future amusement. It does not happen often.” 

She nodded once, and could tell he was attempting to lighten her suddenly somber mood, but her lips remained pressed into a thin line. “We don’t… we shouldn’t mention this, okay?”

He blinked, but otherwise his expression betrayed nothing. “If you wish. I will not mention it,” he hummed. “Not where it isn’t relevant, at least.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. She figured it was the best she was going to get, though. She simply nodded, but could not find it in herself to say anything. He spoke next, with a sense of finality. 

“I’ll finish tidying up, after I've seen you out.” He spared a glance towards the mug she’d left; still steaming. “Perhaps it is best if you leave the coffee, too?”

“It’s safer,” she agreed quickly. 

“Safer.” That charming little word again. A simple nod, then he retrieved his blazer and rolled his sleeves down. 

Once dressed back up, the lethality of Hannibal Lecter in casual-wear receded. He looked less human- less intimidating - when clothed immaculately in sharp suits. It was easier to regain emotional distance that way. He turned and walked, and she followed. 

He went to fetch her jacket, but she hurried forward and slipped it on herself. She couldn’t have him touching her again. Safer. 

He allowed this lapse, yet still insisted on the simple courtesy of opening the door. She stepped outside. 

“Drive safely, Clarice.”

“Yes,” she said simply. Turning to walk to the car, Starling felt that she was making too hasty an exit. She faltered and looked back over her shoulder. 

“Doctor?”

He’d half closed the door. “Hm?”

“The food was very good.” 

“So you’ve said.”

“I’m saying it again.”

He simply smiled, and she found it in herself to smile too. “And, uh…” she gestured to her bag, within which the case file was tucked, “thanks for the help.” 

“It was all you. I simply sat and listened, and prodded where need be. We’ll talk about it on Friday.”

She swallowed, nodded and turned. 

Clarice Starling should not have been on the roads that late evening. Disoriented as she was, both from the latent effects of wine and the emotional tumult within her head. 

Dr Lecter, who often did not regret much, would perhaps always feel a sense of guilt for allowing her - unsteady and mentally absent - to climb into her little death-trap pinto and drive away. It was a miracle she made it home safe, he’d thought. And then he’d realized he never once had found himself concerned over the safety of somebody to whom he was not related or indebted to. 

Chapter Text

Quantico Academy is surrounded by almost four-hundred acres of nameless Virginian forest. Usually thick and fiery with a grand assortment of colorful foliage, the trees cloaking the Academy are now mostly bare. The chill of winter has set in securely.

There is a recreational area up on a crest within this forest, consisting of not much more than some park benches surrounded comfortably by thick underbrush, yet not so tucked away that anybody sitting there couldn’t still see the Academy. A lot of students often retired to the spot for a quick smoke and some gossip in between lessons, away from the prying eyes and ears of the instructors. 

Starling had always liked to sit up there whilst waiting for Ardelia to finish her afternoon classes.

She was sitting there then, quiet and retrospective, looking up through the gnarled bare branches at the graying sky. Her thoughts had been wandering lazily into dangerous territory as she waited. 

Such thoughts, predictably, concerned Hannibal Lecter. 

She wasn’t sure she could face the doctor, that upcoming Friday. Not after what’d happened; after the strange and unsettling dance they’d found themselves involved in. Yes, it’d been nothing more than the suggestion of something, but it’d been enough. Enough to fundamentally change the inherent nature of their rapport. Starling couldn’t bear to sit there opposite him knowing what she knew, now. 

So she’d skipped. The ultimate discourtesy; she hadn’t even called ahead to inform him. 

Mapp had found her on the Friday afternoon after bursting into their shared dorm with an armful of laundry, under the impression that Starling would’ve been halfway to Baltimore. 

Mapp had paused, blinked, then frowned down at the sight of Clarice Starling wrapped up in blankets on her bed, eyes puffy and fixed dejectedly at the wall. 

“Cee? What happened? Ain’t you meant to be at your doctors?”

A grimace was the immediate response. “I’m taking a week out, Dee.” 

“Oh, girl...” Mapp had frowned, and then thought back; the dinner the previous Sunday? She’d asked Starling how it had gone at the time, but the girl had changed the topic swiftly... Mapp had forgotten to chase her up on it, for she’d been swamped with coursework, and an unease settled in the woman’s stomach. Starling had seemed off all week. Mapp cursed herself for not realizing why sooner. 

She’d dropped the laundry unceremoniously on the floor and sat heavily down on the bed, opposite Starling, her dark eyes firm under her furrowed brows. “Clarice.” Mapp took Starling’s hands in her own. “Be real with me now, hon. Something happened. Did he make a pass on you?” Her voice was low and even, but anyone would’ve been able to hear the underlying warning in it. “I thought he was one of the good ones? You said he was good, babe.” 

“No, no,” Clarice shook her head quickly and pulled her hands away, but held her gaze. “No. It was… nothing, actually. It was mutual. Just an accident.” 

“Shit, Cee.” A shake of her head, and then Mapp flopped back onto the bed. She continued to peer up at Starling, who only seemed to deflate further. “You gonna tell me any more? Give me somethin’ to work with?”

Starling swallowed thickly, and shrugged under her cocoon of blankets. “Ain’t much to say, Delia. Shit jus’ happened. We were talkin’ a lot. It was nice.” Pause. Swallow. “Then I dunno, things were different. Too much wine, I think. Whatever.”

“Well, first things first, Clarice, I know for a fact that you drove back last Sunday n’ I don’t even wanna start gettin’ into the issue of you drinkin’ goddamn wine whilst drivin’ that hunk of scrap metal, but that’s an argument for another day,” she started, and Starling thought Mapp sounded remarkably like her grandmother. “But… you know what? I don’t believe you- you’re sensible even when you drink, I’m tellin’ you. If somethin’ happened then it was his fault. He’s older, right? You said he was older?” 

Starling nodded once.

“Well there you go. He should know better. So what, there’s something weird there now? He shouldn’t’a made a pass in the first place.”

“Dee, he didn’t make a pass-“

“Hell, Cee, he shouldn’t’a even invited you over in the first place. That’s a pass as far as I’m concerned. What happened to it just being a meeting at his office, huh? Crawford would skin him alive if he knew this was happenin’, you know that?” There was a long silence before Starling nodded. She did know. “Good. So don’t be blamin’ yourself for anythin’, girl.” Mapp sat up again, just as quickly as she’d laid down. “Men. Fuck ‘em. They’re all the same.”

“Fuck ‘em?” Starling echoed, able to smile despite the emotional state she was in.

Mapp waved her off. “Bad choice of words, Clarice. Don’t fuck ‘em, in this instance.” 

Starling was still smiling, but it’d turned into something a little sadder and more wistful. “Honest, Dee, it was just as much me. We both… we… I dunno. Nothing happened, really. I mean, he didn’t touch me or anything. We jus’…  just’ take my word for it,  okay?” 

She was stubborn. Ardelia Mapp knew that. She also knew that a despondent Clarice Starling was almost impossible to argue with, so she didn’t even try. Instead, Mapp turned fully to face the girl and found her hands again within the bundle of blankets, gripping them firmly.

“Fine. Whatever you say, Cee. But what’s done is done, n’ we can’t change it, yeah?” Mapp waited. Starling nodded after a pause. “Good. Now, listen, Taking a day out is a good idea, either way. You need a break from all that Chesapeake Ripper stuff. Fuck, maybe stop seein’ Lecter altogether. You’ve done enough- tell Jack you’re focusin’ on exams and don’t have time for his little side project. Graduation isn’t too far off.” 

Mapp felt Starling stiffen, and saw the displeasure on her face at the suggestion. “Maybe… there’s just so much left to do with the profile- I think we’re getting somewhere with it and-“ 

“You have upcoming exams to focus on, girl,” Mapp reminded her, trying a different angle. “Poor life decisions involvin’ creepo psychiatrists can come later. After exams. You can only do this shit once, right? And I can’t have you failing or getting a recycle, ‘cause then who am I gonna share a duplex with when we move up to Arlington, hm? Knowin’ my luck, I’d end up sharing with fuckin’ Gracie Pitman.”

Finally, Starling cracked a smile. Mapp considered it a job well done, and figured she’d let Starling off the hook for the time being. 

They’d spent the rest of the evening watching bad movies and chatting shit about just about everyone they could think of. Though, they’d both made a conscious effort not to mention Dr Lecter.  

Starling had been glad. Despite what Mapp had said, she couldn’t find it in herself to be upset with him, and she wasn’t sure she could’ve listened to Mapp drag his name through the mud any longer. 

That was the problem, she supposed. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel angry about what’d happened, mainly because nothing had happened. Though Starling was loathe to admit it, it was that sort of unspoken absence of a scandal that was grinding her gears so insistently, and Starling silently acknowledged that she’d probably have been less conflicted about the situation with Dr Lecter if he had touched her in some overt way, because then she would’ve had something clear and concrete to point her anger towards.

Instead, she just felt sort of empty. It was a hollow emptiness that sucked and clawed at her stomach like hunger pangs. Hannibal Lecter was an incredibly hard man to deflect, Starling considered. She knew that it was partly her fault for accepting his offer of dinner - taking things out of the professional context of his office had been her first mistake - but what Mapp didn’t realise was that it was so difficult to say no to a man dressed so immaculately whilst asking her so sincerely; and additionally, she now had that new image of him with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, clearing up the exquisite home-cooked dinner then making her coffee, standing just behind her… 

Starling caved in. She had to admit it- she was deeply, irrevocably intrigued by him... And not just him; she was attracted to everything he surrounded himself with, too. She never would’ve let him get so close if they’d simply stuck to strict, analytical conversations at his desk, with that case file firmly between them… but it was the combination of everything else that’d broken down her resolve. 

Laying in the warmth on the chaise lounge… looking through his drawings… the opera… expensive clothes… little compliments… weeks of in-depth discussions… intelligent conversations… the instruments and music and good food and wine… and whatever cologne he used and… something else. 

There was something else. Something about him that set him apart- something uncanny that she couldn’t quite place her finger on. He was different- fundamentally different in a way that made him intoxicating, like an exotic fruit. She could still taste that wine on her tongue. Could still smell coffee grounds. 

Starling had rolled over that night, facing away from Mapp’s bed, and had stared at the wall for a long time before succumbing to a fitful sleep in the very early hours of the morning. She’d had to actively fight to keep certain scenarios and exchanges out of her mind. 

For the first time in her personal history, Clarice Starling had hoped that the screaming lambs would’ve haunted her dreams that night. It had seemed, somehow, less scary than the alternative. 

Starling had made it through the night, of course, and she found that she felt a little better now that she was outside and not curled up in her bed. Maybe it was sitting out in the crisp air that helped ground her. She heard the bell finally ring across the courtyard, echoing off the tall trees, mercifully snapping her back into the present. 

Starling stood quickly and shielded her eyes with her hand. It was dewy and had been raining early that morning, and the midday sun reflected harshly off of the wet facades of the Academy. Squinting, she could make out a group of students exiting the block closest to her. One of the figures stopped, turned in her direction and waved. Starling jogged down the crest and then walked with Ardelia back to the dormitories. 

“There’s a motor show up in Washington this week, girl. They were talkin’ about it in class. You interested?”

They were standing in the elevator. Starling seemed tense. Meanwhile, Ardelia leaned lazily on the handrail, bag hanging loose on her shoulder. Starling scratched behind her ear and shrugged. “Not really feeling it, Dee.”

“Cmon,” Mapp nudged, frowning slightly. “I know you got all Thursday afternoon off. Come with. You got no excuse.” 

Starling hadn’t left the Academy site much over the previous week, other than to do a couple of grocery runs. Otherwise, she’d either been in classes, out running or curled up in her bed, staring at the wall. She distantly recognised her behaviour as moping, and felt slightly disappointed in herself for the uncharacteristic petulance. 

‘Uncharacteristic’ seemed to be the word of the week. 

Ardelia had noticed Starling’s persisting dull mood too, and was starting to grow even more worried. The girl, riddled with concern, stared a hole into the side of Starling’s head, the intensity of her scrutiny particularly unbearable in the quiet closeness of the elevator. Starling breathed deeply, caught Mapp’s eyes and then finally nodded, if only to wipe the look of pity off of her friend's face. 

“I- fine. Fine. I’ll come.”

Mapp instantly lit up and punched Starling squarely in the shoulder as she whooped, grinning in celebration, and Starling cracked a small smile, all whilst rubbing at her now-dead arm. “I’m only doing it to please you, Dee, don’t get too excited.”

“Tell yourself that, babe. You’ll enjoy it once you’re there,” she beamed, then paused for a moment as a thought occurred to her. “Hitch a ride with me, though. If the folks runnin’ the show see you drivin’ in with your rusty ass Pinto they’ll turn you right back around, hon.” 

Starling shot a look sideways just as the elevator doors slid open. “Come on, it ain’t that bad. It’s practical.”

“Practically fallin’ apart, yeah.”

Starling shook her head but had no true comeback, and so the conversation turned swiftly to upcoming exams. 

Starling knew from experience that Mapp was a righteous upholder and maintainer of promises, and she resigned herself to the knowledge that she was roped into the trip off-campus on Thursday whether she liked it or not. She was glad, really, if she were to be honest with herself. Starling would’ve spent Thursday afternoon either in the gym or in their dorm, left alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts had not been agreeable that week. 

She’d decided that she’d embrace the opportunity to get out for a little while, even if it was just to look at cars.

Chapter Text

There is a restaurant in central Baltimore. It is fairly nondescript from the outside and seemingly quite small as it is crammed between a long line of other dining establishments and isn’t particularly flashy in its decor, only boasting a small sign above the door in elegant script with a couple of tables outside and tinted windows keeping the interior a mystery from the average curious passerby. 

Once inside, however, you find that the restaurant itself is actually situated beneath the building, accessed via a grand set of stairs, and that in actuality it is quite large and incredibly elegant. The restaurant, being so discreet and high-brow, is one only frequented by wealthy Baltimore locals willing to dish out extortionate amounts of money on foreign wines and unique dishes. 

It would be fair to assume, then, that Hannibal Lecter enjoyed this restaurant, and in fact he usually did and had previously dined there, however that evening he simply couldn’t wait to leave. 

The restaurant had been fully booked out that evening by Thomas Arnault and the entire Baltimore Philharmonic company, including the sponsors. Thus, Dr Lecter had been forced to attend. Of course, he wasn’t explicitly required to go, however it was in his best interests that he did for it is common knowledge that an outgoing, charitable person is far less likely to be suspected for multiple-murder than a social recluse. 

Hannibal Lecter was usually good at maintaining appearances at such events, but even his social facade had begun to slip by the end of the meal, no matter that it was such a nice restaurant serving such wonderful food.

He found Thomas Arnault and the rest of the company incredibly tiresome, and Dr Lecter maintained the opinion that large meals were much better suited to be held at private homes rather than public dining establishments where mass-ordering was such a hassle. Additionally, the company had insisted on taking group photos for the society pages which had only proved to cause even more hassle. The only redemption for the evening was the fact that Rachel DuBerry had also attended. He’d spent much of it sitting with her, talking only with her, and in that same vein he also ended up leaving with her.

Rachel DuBerry had originally been intending to call her driver to pick her up and take her home, however the driver had informed her that it would take forty minutes for him to get there due to weekend traffic and by the end of the exhausting meal she’d found herself unwilling to have to linger in the restaurant with the company for any longer than necessary. Instead, she decided to take up Dr Lecter’s offer of a lift back to his house so her driver could meet her there instead, where she could wait and relax in peace and avoid any further unwanted social interaction. 

Both quite burnt out, they spent the short drive back to Dr Lecter’s home in comfortable silence. 

It was only once they’d pulled up and shed their coats at the door that they spoke to one another again.

“You know, Hannibal, darling,” Rachel started, her weariness clear in her tone, “if I didn’t value my independence so much I’d probably just kill Thomas myself and be done with it all.”

They’d retreated to the drawing room and Rachel seated herself down on one of the couches, relaxing back and closing her eyes. Dr Lecter went to stoke the fire, smiling to himself. “I don’t think you have the heart for that sort of thing, Rachel.”

“Are you saying I’m cowardly?”

“No, certainly not. Just not the type to willingly get your hands dirty,” he hummed. Then he smiled over at her, eyes flitting down to her expensive attire. “Or your clothes, for that matter.” 

“I suppose you are right.” 

Dr Lecter kept the joke running. “Why not hire a hitman, Rachel? You have the money, after all.”

“That is a very good point, Hannibal,” she hummed, opening her eyes once more if only to admire Dr Lecter straightening up, now backlit by the glow of growing flames. “Perhaps I’ll look into it. Make some calls,” she joked. And then her tone turned bitter again. “After all, I’m not sure I can do another one of those dinners. He’s just…” she paused, waving around her hand as she struggled to find the right word, “insufferable.”

“Everyone is insufferable to you, Rachel,” the doctor said in good humor, popping his cuff links and watching as she pulled off her gloves and set them politely on the coffee table. He discarded his dinner jacket next, laying it neatly across the arm of the couch she was reclined on. He’d gone all black that evening. Black blazer, black button up, no tie. It was a more casual look than the one he usually sported; a subtle sign of his overall disinterest in the meal. 

“Hmm, for the most part,” Rachel responded, watching him as she removed her earrings and set them atop her gloves. “Though, I do have my exceptions.” A small, pointed smile; restricted but nonetheless clear in its meaning. 

“Could it be that you’re talking about me?” Dr Lecter said with faux surprise and scepticism. “But did you not call me that exact thing not all too long ago?” A small tilt of the head as he pretended to struggle to recall. “What was it you said about me, again? Ummmm, ‘insufferable chattering’ I believe it was?”

“Yes, I called your chattering insufferable. Not you. You’re smart enough to acknowledge the distinction, darling.” He smiled in response and started to approach her, now sans blazer and tidy cuffs, and Rachel watched him with bright eyes. “In fact, you’re quite remarkably pleasant when you keep your mouth shut.” Her head tipped back the closer he got so as to maintain eye contact. 

Rachel DuBerry, though certainly not in any way a person fond of commitment and far from a woman in love, still felt a little thrill go through her under the attention of his gaze. He always had been a handsome man, usually so distinctly put together, but Rachel found that he looked exceptionally devastating when he was in such a state of undress. He’d run a hand through his hair, dislodging its tight neatness, and his shirt had untucked a little when he’d pulled the blazer off. The inherent submissive femininity in watching him approach her from her reclined position was most pleasing to DuBerry, traditional woman that she was. 

“When I keep my mouth shut, you say?”

He wasted no time in bringing his knee up onto the couch as he set himself over her, one hand steadying himself on the backrest and the other planted by her arm. She felt the cushions dip, and watched as he held himself just above her, covering her but not quite making any contact with her body. Yet. 

His free hand moved to her leg, sliding the hem of her dress up. Skin on skin, just about; it was their only point of contact, and he kept his touch so soft. He leaned further forward. She leaned back. They’d done this dance before- fairly frequently, now. They were efficient in their little games, very familiar with what the other liked. Dr Lecter’s head dipped- not to her mouth but to her neck. Rachel sighed at the contact and the sensation, one of her hands coming up to slip around his neck and scratch encouragingly at the base of his hairline as he tongued at her skin.

He laughed at the way she instantly submitted - warm puffs of breath against her pulse - and then pulled back to remark, “You see? I was under the impression that you rather enjoyed my mouth, Rachel.”

“Now, don’t be crass, Hannibal,” she hummed. “You know what I mean.” He nodded once and then continued in his earlier journey, working down to her collar and coaxing the thin straps down her shoulders. She went to help him undress her but then remembered herself, pushing him away. “Wait. Hold on, darling. Let me get these awful things off first. My feet are sore enough.”

He glanced down, seeing that she still had her heels on; a rather brutal pair of stilettos. “Allow me.”

“Fine.” And she watched as he slipped them off, setting them on the floor by the couch before crawling back up the length of her. She glanced quickly towards the clock. “Quick now, Hannibal. My driver will be here fairly soon.”

“Quick isn’t usually my speciality, Rachel,” he tutted, not at all stressed as he knew her ride home would wait as long as she needed him to. Dr Lecter was already busy under the hem of her dress, fingers slipping under elastic as he removed the thin boundary between them. There was no point bothering with silly things like the full removal of clothes and extended foreplay. They were past such extravagances now. Their sex was a mutually enjoyable activity when the fancy struck, and nothing more.

It was dark in the room- the only light was from the fire and she couldn’t see much as he stopped to loosen his clothes. Rachel DuBerry could only hear the metallic sound of a buckle and the delicious hum of a zipper. “If it is quick you want,” Hannibal muttered, “then you ought to go back to that ex-husband of yours.”

Rachel smiled, and then couldn’t help herself and laughed, too- she didn’t laugh very often but when she did it was a rich sound. An enjoyable sound- the first of many that evening, in fact. 

Her driver did have to end up waiting. Hannibal tipped him extra for the inconvenience as Rachel climbed into the back, too worn out to argue.

It was only the next morning that Dr Lecter discovered Rachel had left her shoes. He amused himself as he made breakfast with thoughts of how exactly she’d comfortably gotten home shoeless and how weary she really must’ve been, but then his good spirits were wiped when he remembered he had morning patients.

As it was, Dr Lecter had found himself somewhat less enthused by his work in recent times. Being a man so well-versed in the ways of the human mind, he often found the treatment of his patients to be a great mental exercise and an extraordinarily intriguing first-hand look into abnormal human behaviour, but as of late his interest in his psychiatry had waned. He knew it was because of Clarice Starling, of course, though he did his best not to admit that. Her visits had become the highlight of his week, and as such all of his other appointments now seemed dim in comparison.

Dr Lecter acknowledged that his particular disinterest in going to work that morning was probably because the little bird had skipped out on him that Friday just gone, with not even a poor excuse to explain away her absence. He’d waited patiently at his desk at their regularly agreed time, and her knock had simply never come. 

He realised that she’d probably been startled by the events that’d occurred at his home, after they’d finished dinner and had retired to clean and fix up a coffee. He had been rather forthcoming, Dr Lecter supposed, a little sheepishly, although it’d been no secret that the two of them worked excellently well together and they both knew there was an attraction there. Although, said attraction had gone unspoken- neither of them had addressed the odd chemistry they shared… Perhaps she hadn’t even realised it? Or fully acknowledged it? Perhaps she’d been trying to ignore it?

Whatever the reason, she’d left him high and dry and it had irked the doctor considerably. He didn’t often find himself thrown off, and it was a highly uncomfortable experience. It was part of the reason, actually, that he’d attended that dinner with the company and also the reason he found himself sleeping with Rachel DuBerry a little more readily.

In truth, he’d not been so interested in seeing Rachel since Clarice Starling had wormed her way so thoroughly into his thoughts. The fancy simply hadn’t struck him; the desire wasn’t there. Rachel hadn’t confronted Dr Lecter about this - it wasn’t rare for them to not see one another for periods of time - but she had voiced her pleasure last night at him taking the initiative. 

It’d been a good release; he’d admit that much. Although, it hadn’t done much to rid his thoughts of Clarice Starling. She was ever-present, it seemed; even at those most inappropriate of times.

Sitting there in his office that afternoon, then, he was focusing more on staring at Rachel DuBerry’s black stilettos tucked under his desk and thinking about young, avoidant FBI agents than he was the patient rambling to him.

The patient was, of course, Benjamin Raspail and the doctor didn’t mind zoning out, for Raspail never really had anything interesting to say anyway. 

He was whining on about Jame Gumb, the young man he’d recommended to him as a patient- the one that Clarice Starling had caught him with the second time she’d visited his office. Gumb was an interesting case psychologically, but Raspail had been raving on about his personal romantic affairs for the better half of the session, and Dr Lecter had a vague headache due to exhaustion and tension from the long previous evening. 

He wasn’t sure exactly when his patience had finally. All he knew was that he’d moved too quickly for Raspail to really register it, and then Rachel’s outrageously tall stiletto heel was sticking out of Raspail’s chest, twitching as his heart fought to beat. 

“Looks like a straw down a doodlebug hole, doesn’t it?”  

But, naturally, it was too late for Raspail to answer. 

Julie had taken a half day off, for she had an appointment out of town. Dr Lecter had gladly given her the time, for he only really employed her out of convenience rather than necessity, anyway. Not having to worry about prying eyes made hauling Raspail’s body to his car and cleaning up the blood much easier. By the time he was done, everything was spotless. 

Dr Lecter felt, perhaps, a little conflicted as to how exactly he would move forward, especially since Raspail was probably the only victim so far that could be solidly tied to him, but he certainly wasn’t anxious about that fact. Raspail liked to keep his little therapy sessions very private and so Dr Lecter was sure nobody would instantly turn a suspicious eye to him. Perhaps he’d hide Raspail’s body, instead of making a scene of things... A missing persons case was far more manageable than a blatant murder... It wasn’t unlike Raspail to go running off, anyway… the flautist had a reputation for disappearing with dangerous men and engaging in risque affairs. Yes. Yes, he’d do that. He had room in the basement now, after all, since the Princeton student was gone.

Dr Lecter cleaned the stiletto but not as thoroughly as he usually would, amused by the idea of giving Rachel her shoes back with cold, hard evidence of his transgression still detectable on them, were a forensics team to theoretically swab them. He didn’t linger around at her house, eager to get home and get Raspail out of the trunk of his car. He felt refreshed and unbothered once everything was all done and he’d thoroughly showered, especially knowing now that he wouldn’t have to sit through any more of Raspail’s sessions or listen to his offensively awful flute-playing. 

He wondered who they’d recruit in his place at the orchestra. He wondered if anyone would be terribly sad that he was gone. He wondered what Clarice Starling would make of it all. 

Chapter Text

Ardelia Mapp was by far the more social one out of the two of them, and had somehow managed to hitch a ride to the car show with an Australian boy from one of her gym classes. 

Nate Horne was large in stature and quite intimidating from a distance but, sitting in the back of his shiny Oldsmobile Cutlass, Starling learned quickly that he was very soft-spoken and made for pleasant company. Beside Starling sat one of Horne’s friends, an African-American boy named Cody Langley, whom she’d met once or twice before but never in any sort of social capacity. They both mutually joked over being demoted to back-seat passengers in favor of Mapp and Horne’s desire to gossip like teenage girls for the entire drive. 

Starling hadn’t been feeling sociable that morning, but she found that Langley was nice and easy to talk to, and by the time they’d arrived in Washington she was in notably better spirits. 

The car show was larger than she’d anticipated, being held at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill. They arrived just after two in the afternoon and it was already very busy by the time they found a space to park ten minutes from the hotel.

Nate Horne had arranged to meet two other girls and one boy from the academy; nobody that Starling knew but Mapp seemed to be familiar with them all. 

The group, now notably larger than it had been when Starling had left Quantico, spent almost an hour walking together through the hotel parking lot, which at that point was crammed with all manner of gorgeous old automobiles, from the sleek and snakelike to heavy, muscular hunks of polished metal and glass. Starling milled for a long while; although the outing was purely to please Mapp, she couldn’t deny that the dormant car-junkie within her was tickled a little at the display. 

There was an older man standing proudly next to an old 30s Panhard et Levassor and Starling talked idly with him about sleeve-valve engines for about twenty minutes whilst everybody else wandered through the throng. 

The group started to split up around late afternoon, as the three men and one of the girls wanted to grab some lunch at a bar across the road and weren’t overly interested in the automobiles past cursory inspections. In their absence, Starling, Mapp and one of the girls, who Starling had since learned was named Helen Lowery, decided to check out the car auction commencing inside the hotel.

Most of the vehicles on auction were too flashy and certainly miles out of Starling’s budget. She hadn’t gone to the show with even the remote notion of purchasing anything… yet, that being said, a brand-new black Ford LTD II that was up for grabs had admittedly caught her eye. It was the cheapest vehicle on offer but was still an extremely attractive prospect in comparison to her Pinto, which Starling wouldn’t dare vocally admit. 

Mapp came up behind Starling who was still distracted by the Ford, her fingers idly fiddling with the pocket of her tweed coat. Mapp smiled at the thoughtful furrow in her brow. It was an expression that Starling only ever wore when she was considering something seriously. 

“I know that look, hon. You gonna go for it?”

Her voice was quiet and withdrawn, even as she replied with a humored smile. “Girl, you think I got the money for this?”

“You’ve been stockpilin’ cash like the apocalypse is comin’, Starling, you gotta spend some of it at one point. A new car seems like a fair n’ sensible reason, no?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe.”

“Well… listen,” Mapp said, her tone changing. “You think good n’ hard. Me n’ Helen wanna go circle back ‘cause she saw somethin’ she liked out in the front, if you wanna come with? Get some fresh air n’ clear your head?”

Starling smiled and finally turned, spotting the other girl, Helen, some way away, waiting by the lobby door. Mapp and the girl had been throwing looks at each other all day. Starling smiled and shook her head. 

“No. You two go have fun, I’ll be fine. Don’t want me third wheelin ’, do you?”

Mapp just grinned - a sheepish ‘you got me ’ sort of expression - and thanked Starling. “Listen, I’ll meet you at Nate’s car at nine if we don’t see each other again, that good?”

“Perfect.”

“Right…” A small pause. “The boys are coming back over from the bar, now. You won’t be alone for long, hon.”

It was at around eight - nearly four hours after they’d parted - that Starling finally called Mapp. 

“Dee?”

“You okay, girl?” 

Mapp appeared to be somewhere loud. She was shouting a little into the phone. Starling suspected she and Helen were at the bar.

“I’m all good. Listen, you and Helen have fun, okay? Cody is gonna get us a cab back later. We’re gonna go grab some food.”

It’d been an impromptu decision. The boy had approached her with a friendly disposition, noting that she’d been left alone. The two of them had gotten to talking a little more, and when he’d asked Starling if she wanted to get some food with him after just two hours of pleasant conversation and wandering around, she'd found herself quite unable to say no. 

She’d thought of Dr Hannibal Lecter, and how complicated and long-winded everything with him seemed to be. And then she’d looked back at Cody Langley with his young face and his ill-fitting clothes and his smart, boyish mouth and figured why the hell not. 

Mapp laughed on the other end of the phone. “It’s about time. Go wild, Cee. Just be safe.”

“Of course. I won’t be out late. I’ll be back at the dorm tonight, that’s for sure.”

“Put a sock on the door handle if you need to. I might be going back to Helen’s place, but I don’t wanna walk in on anything if I do decide to come back. I can go shower or somethin’.”

Starling chewed her cheek, fighting a grin. “Oh, Dee, come on now. Don’t be gettin’ ideas, girl, he ain’t staying. It’s just food and a lift.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Listen, no judgment here.”

“Get your mind out the gutter.” A small pause. “Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll seeya, Clarice.”

In the end, Starling stayed out later than she’d planned- 

Washington wasn’t short on nice places to eat, and Cody had taken her further into the city than they’d originally planned in order to find a cozy, affordable restaurant that was just common enough to not need pre-bookings. He’d paid for both of their drinks.

He hadn’t touched her at all, except to take her arm when they’d stepped out afterwards, and then they’d cabbed straight back to the dormitories at Quantico. The conversation on the way back had been pleasant; they’d both discussed classes and other little mundane pieces of easy, harmless gossip. 

Starling kissed Cody before they’d parted ways, but it’d been very polite and fleeting- more friendly than anything, in truth. 

Starling suspected he realized she wasn’t really romantically interested in him; she’d been warily distant all night. This didn’t anger Cody. He just nodded, gracefully accepted the brief embrace, said goodnight and then was gone, acknowledging his loss and taking it on the chin. It’d been a nice evening either way. Starling appreciated his pacificty and civility immensely. 

Cody Langley was nice and boring; it’d been just what she’d needed; a mundane date with a boy to cleanse her palate and remind her what normalcy was. 

Starling slept well that night. No dreams. The slight buzz from the couple of cocktails Cody had bought her kept her head clear and calm.

“Did you and Helen have a good time?” Starling asked once the bleariness had worn off the next morning. Mapp had come clanging into their room, still in her clothes from yesterday, flopping carelessly down onto her bed and thus waking Starling up prematurely. 

Mapp scanned the dorm room, noting that nothing seemed amiss and that Starling’s clothes had been neatly folded and put away. She nodded, and then joked, “yeah, I did- at least one of us got some.”

They’d laughed for a bit and had gone to lessons, after that. Starling finished midday, as she always did on Fridays. 

Fridays. It was Friday. He was expecting her. 

She hadn’t spoken to Ardelia about Hannibal Lecter since their last discussion, what with it being something of a taboo subject. She’d also avoided Crawford all week, but he similarly hadn’t chased her up since Behavioral had been busy with a new case that’d sprung up a couple of days previously. 

All of that business - everything to do with the Chesapeake Ripper - had been set aside for the moment, pushed to the back of her conscience, but now it was bubbling back up. Starling knew she wouldn’t be able to truly relax until she confronted Dr Lecter again... but the thought of doing so didn’t exactly fill her with glee. It’d be a little awkward, naturally. But could she afford to stand him up again? Two Fridays in a row? If she did, would she ever work up the courage to talk to him again- to see him again? Could she stand that? Why couldn't she stand that? 

Starling had only thought about it for a half hour, before deciding that she wasn’t a coward and the mature thing to do was to confront the situation and set things straight, if only so she could sleep easily that night.

Soon enough she was patting her car on the hood and swinging into the drivers seat, thinking of the slick Ford LTD II as the ratty old Pinto trundled its way up to Baltimore. 

Starling had no plan. Just the case file and a sinking feeling in her gut. Her intuition had served her well so far, and she found trust and confidence in it then. 

Chapter Text

“Go ahead.” 

Clarice Starling hesitated outside of the doctor’s door for only a few seconds before slipping inside, the feeling of Julie’s eyes on her back driving her forth.

She had to school herself as Dr Lecter looked up slowly from his desk, sleek hair catching the light as he did so, looking like some sort of panther lazily lifting its heavy head from a meal. 

He seemed to lock in on her, hardly moving as he registered her presence. His expression was infuriatingly inscrutable, although there was the slightest twitch in his eyebrow as he blinked, the red pinpoints of his eyes tracking her. 

Starling’s initial realisation was that he hadn’t been expecting her to come. She was momentarily pleased that, for once, she seemed to have caught him off guard. 

“Clarice,” was all he said at first, in that voice of his, straightening up politely and pushing his papers aside so as to give her his full attention. His tone, contrastingly, was vaguely mocking. “What a pleasant surprise this is.”

She gave him a deadpan look as she continued to stand there, teetering on the threshold of his office with her hand still on the handle, the door a firm support behind her. “Do you have a moment, doctor?”

He considered making a joke about vampires and permissions to enter, but refrained. Clarice Starling probably wouldn’t share his humour in that moment, judging from the thinness of her lips, the tension in her jaw and the animal alertness in her keen eyes. Instead, he nodded and waved her forward.

“Of course.” She closed the door softly behind herself and moved over to his desk, slowly and almost cautiously as if he might spring out of his seat. “A drink, Clarice?” he asked as she lowered herself down carefully. She seemed relieved at the offer, and even more relieved when he stood up and walked away to fulfil it, putting some momentary distance between them.

“Just water, please.”

This time, he truly couldn’t help himself. He spoke with his back to her whilst filling up the glass. “Yes. Because anything stronger wouldn’t be safe, would it?”

Starling sighed, closing her eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather her strength. It was going to be a long session, she could already tell. 

He sat back down opposite her once he was done, and she took the glass of wonderfully cold water gratefully, aware he was watching her as she sipped. The biting chill seemed to clear her head a little. After a moment, he asked simply, “how have you been, Clarice?”

“Busy,” she replied instantly. He slightly raised a brow, sceptical. Her gaze was averted momentarily, and then she replied more honestly. “Distracted.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “I imagine you have been.”

“I’m sorry for skipping last Friday, doctor.”

He nodded once. “I can hardly expect you to make it every week, busy student that you are.” His tone bordered on sardonic. It seemed as though they were both avoiding mentioning the elephant in the room. For that, she was grateful. “Although, a call would have been appreciated, Clarice. Even if just to Julie rather than myself.”

“I apologise.” 

He let her sit with it for a long moment, before saying calmly, “you are forgiven.” 

“Lucky me,” she dared to quip, a little bit of her humour returning to her now that tentative apologies had been exchanged.

He simply sighed. “Though, I suppose you could say we’re equal now. We’re both allowed one slip, hm?” Then softer, “I certainly had mine, last Sunday evening. Now you’ve had yours.” 

Ah. Alas, there was the elephant. 

“Yeah… well,” Starling swallowed thickly, her voice a little bit steely, though she managed a smile. “What was it you said, doctor? Quid pro quo?”

“Precisely…”

He exhaled evenly and tapped at his desk, sitting back into his seat and tilting his head as he finally allowed himself to truly look her over, having been deprived of her presence for the previous week. He noted first the weight beneath her eyes and the slight roughness to her lips where she’d clearly been chewing at them, as well as the skittish movement of her eyes which were often otherwise firm and sure. 

He pursed his lips before speaking once more.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, Clarice. Forgive me for the observation, but it’s difficult not to notice. You’re a little antsy.”

“It’s like I said, doctor. Distracted.”

“Hmm.” He blinked, unconvinced, and dropped his gaze. She hadn’t set her bag down yet, fiddling with the strap still weighing on her shoulder. He nodded towards it. “Do you have something for me in there? Or is it just a prop, and you merely came today to apologise...”

She seemed to realise that she’d been stalling, and shook her head to clear it before nodding and reaching into her bag. “Um, no. I mean, yes, actually I do. Have somethin’, I mean.” She fished out the case file. She attempted a lighthearted tone as she placed it on the desk. “This old thing.”

“That old thing,” he echoed, with less conviction, not looking at it yet but rather keeping his gaze firmly on her. She squirmed a little. “Becoming rather familiar now, isn’t it. Well. I suppose we ought to look over it. Although, there have been no recent developments, have there not?”

“None. It seems the Ripper is havin’ a dry spell, doctor. Lucky us.”

“Regardless, perhaps the time away will have prompted some new avenues of thought, hmm? Distance can be awfully clarifying. I trust you wrote down what we discussed last time we met, so that we might at least have somewhere to begin?”

Starling frowned, and felt her personal matrix crack a little. “I- ah, started it. I made some notes, I mean. I never followed it up properly, though.” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, blanching a little for it wasn’t often at all that she forgot about things. “Goddamn. That was important.”

“I remember the details,” the doctor waved her off, if anything a little thrown off, as well as endeared, by her sudden display of self-flagellation and her uncharacteristic forgetfulness. “You’ve been distracted, Clarice, as you said- it was just as much my responsibility as it was yours.”

She looked back up, still frowning. “Yes, but-“

“It was… abnormal dietary habits we discussed, was it not, Clarice? We needed to reevaluate our theories regarding motive and adjust the profile somewhat.”

She grimaced a little, recalling the unpleasant subject matter now, but still nodded. “Yes.”

“Excellent. See? I remember, and I’m sure you do too. It shouldn’t be hard to regain our flow. It gives us something to do, at the very least. We do have an hour and a half, after all, and a lot of time to make up for.” He pulled forth a pad of paper from his desk and set it between them, then handed her a pen. “Let’s evaluate, shall we?” 

It was easy enough to bypass the heaviness in the room once they had a set task to focus on, and Starling felt some of her tension leave her as they scribbled down notes and bounced old ideas back off of one another and pulled pages from the file to reference, and eventually managed to plan out a coherent report which Starling promised she would type up properly sometime next week when she had a free period. 

Knowing that Crawford would want to see them, Dr Lecter quickly made to note down some of his own individual thoughts separately, so that Starling could bring them back and hand them over with the file on Monday morning. It felt similar, actually, to their first few meetings; back when they’d still been getting to know one another and still had that facade of professionalism to keep things in check. Starling settled in and found the strength to watch the doctor for a moment as he wrote, his fine brows set firmly in idle concentration and his mouth, straight and unmoving. 

It was after only a short while that Starling, sitting in the chair as she waited patiently for him to finish, found her gaze wandering away from him. The only sound in the room was that of the pen scratching against paper, and her eyes began to dance around the desk curiously before landing on something she hadn’t noticed before. 

There was a slim newspaper half-poking out from under a paperweight on the far corner of the desk. Starling pursed her lips curiously, and leaned across to pull it out from under the weight, figuring that flicking through the tabloid whilst the doctor worked was harmless enough. She moved slowly, glancing at him as she did so, giving him plenty of time to object. He didn’t seem to mind, though, for he made no move to stop her. Merely flicked his eyes up, inclined his head slightly, and looked back down at the file. 

When Starling pulled the newspaper out, she found that it was already open on the Baltimore society pages. Dr Lecter’s brow twitched and, though he continued with his writing, she could assume that he was watching her in his peripheral vision. 

She scanned through, finding the literary content of the article dull for the most part, yet there was something that certainly piqued her interest when she reached it; there was one image that took up the entire bottom-left page of the society spread, displaying a large group of around twenty-five people. At the end of the group stood Dr Lecter himself and a woman; from what she could see, he had his arm wrapped loosely around the woman’s waist and likewise the woman’s hand rested on his arm. The dim lighting had rendered the location impossible to decipher, but their faces were fairly legible, pale skin floating above the dark mass of their clothing which had become muddied due to the poor print quality. Starling’s brow furrowed in recognition, and she peered closer at the photograph. The arch of the woman’s cheekbones was unmistakable. “Is that Miss DuBerry?”

Dr Lecter hummed as he set his pen down and glanced at the image Starling was assessing. His lips twitched up slightly. “Ummm. Yes. It is.” 

“Oh.” 

“She delivered this to me last time I saw her,” he remarked, sitting up straight finally. His tone was light and charming. “The tabloids do like to make an article out of nothing. It amused her, and she thought it might amuse me.” He sighed a little, then, his tidy brows lowering over his eyes. “I dare say they got my bad side… yet Rachel, of course, looks just fine as always… some of us are more photogenic than others, it seems.” His eyes flicked up, focusing hard on her face. He noted a sort of withdrawal in her expression, and found his curiosity piqued. “What draws your interest, Agent Starling?” 

“I’m not asking as Agent Starling,” she said quickly, recognising the prying curiosity in his tone. “Just Clarice,” she added with a small, dismissive shrug. “I’m curious.” 

“Clarice, then,” he corrected. “Curious about what?”

“You… the…” she trailed off with a grimace, not quite able to find her words nor the strength to meet his eyes. Another shrug. “I don’t know, actually. Never mind. I was jus’ looking.” She quickly set down the paper, attempting to brush the topic quickly aside.

Dr Lecter knew, though, and he wouldn’t let it slide so quickly. He could read her expression, no matter how guarded she attempted to keep it. He found himself quite amused, if nothing else, and raised a placating hand. “Rachel is a social friend of mine, Clarice. You know this, you’ve met her… you’ve met most of those people, actually, if I recall.” 

“A social friend, doctor?” 

“Yes, I do have them- friends, despite how I may occasionally… lament upon their little imperfections.” 

“Right,” she hummed quietly, an edge to her tone. 

“You don’t believe me, Clarice?” His eyes were glinting in that way that told Starling he was deeply amused by her. 

“No, I believe you,” Starling insisted. “You definitely seem friendly,” she added, glancing once again at the society page. The edge in her tone persisted, whether she knew it or not. 

Dr Lecter’s smile persisted, though he wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or offended at Starling’s sudden, uncharacteristic display of discomfort and rumination; he leaned forward, that smile still in place, yet it seemed almost sinister and he’d dropped his tone, addressing her directly. “You realise it’s very rude to speculate about these things, Clarice? Why should the specifics of my friendship with Rachel DuBerry be a cause of concern for you?” 

“Doctor, I… I didn’t mean anything, I-” she started to speak, then felt something rise up within her and instead just frowned and shook her head. His tone was goading- he could sense her discomfort and knew all too well where it was coming from, and the feeling of someone knowing you so entirely without you wanting them to was an incredibly uncomfortable experience for Clarice Starling. It didn’t help that, in that moment, she didn’t entirely know herself. 

He saw her expression close off, like a wall building itself. Her spine straightened and her voice became flat and removed. “It doesn’t matter. I know I shouldn’t be prying. I was just trying to pass the time.” And then she stood up. “I should get going, anyway.”

“So soon?” 

“It’s been a long, busy week, doctor. Lots of work. I still have some to catch-up to do, you know.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes.”

“Not so much work that you weren’t able to make time for a vehicle auction across state, though, Clarice? Hm?” 

She blinked, then. Felt her stomach drop a little. Felt an electric crackle in her fingers and her temples. Felt her ears grow warm. “How do you…” but his slight smile and bright eyes betrayed nothing, and she knew he wouldn’t tell her even if she asked. Still, the idea that he might’ve been keeping tabs on her caused a sudden rush of indignance and anger to crawl up her spine, and she had to fight hard to keep her tone and expression neutral.

“You know what, doctor? I don’t even wanna know. I’m sorry, I really should go, I think. I should’ve called in and just… cancelled. Or not come.” She settled her bag more firmly on her shoulder and went to turn away. 

“Clarice.” 

“Maybe next week, doctor. I’m tired. I’ve had mock exams. I’m not in the mood and… clearly you’re not, either.”

“Clariiice.” He stood too, slowly, amused, his smile spreading. “I was joking.” He spread out his palms in a gesture of harmlessness. A turn of his head, even as he watched her turn firmly and walk across his office to the door. 

He called after her once more, not raising his voice but speaking clearly and cuttingly through the air nonetheless. “Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Officer Starling.” 

She paused, then, and cast him a hard look over her shoulder. Her tone was biting. “I’m not jealous, doctor.” A pause “I think you’re just seein’ what you wanna see.” 

He chuckled, at that. “Oh, I can assure you, Clarice, that that is not the case. No, not quite. Simply, you ought to learn how to conceal your emotions better,” he countered. “You’re a closed book, usually, dear, but every now and then… well…” 

She turned back to him fully, then, her brows furrowed even deeper and her distaste now quite apparent on her face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He slowly rounded the desk, approaching her very slowly. “To answer that truthfully would be discourteous and perhaps unprofessional.” 

She scoffed. “Unprofessional?” She shifted her bag, her lips thin. “That ship has long sailed.” 

“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” He was still amused. The more amused he grew, the more frustrated Starling got. “I fear we’re both to blame, equally.” 

She felt a distinct spike in her stomach. She blinked, and in that momentary blackness the smell of coffee and freshly washed dishes came to her, as did the image of wine and a dimly lit kitchen and the sound of wind rattling old window-panes. Starling swallowed, thickly. 

“Doctor. I made a mistake. I did something I shouldn’t have. We did something we shouldn’t have. Our- our correspondence should’ve just stayed in this office. The lines got blurred and clearly we’re unable to move on from that and be- be professional,” she paused, just to steady herself, then said evenly, “so I’m taking initiative and I’m leaving.”

“You don’t want to leave, though, Clarice.” 

Her posture tightened, but she remained silent and seething for a long beat.

“What I want to do and what I should do are usually two very different things, doctor.” She didn’t turn back this time as she began to retreat, but her muscles were stiff and her stride was unconfident. He followed after her. “Leaving this where it is something I should do.”

“Ah, ah,” the doctor chimed from behind her. “But you’ve forgotten your case file, Clarice.” She paused, and looked back to watch him gesture back to the desk. Sure enough, her file and the notes had been abandoned there. “You can’t leave that unfinished, can you? You of all people can’t walk away from a job. Much less one as interesting as this.”

“Sure I can. I’ll just tell Crawford that-“

“Tell Jack what, hm?” he pushed. “The truth? I fear he may not like that. He’ll like it about as much as he’ll like his promising protege abandoning the project he gave her, I’m sure.” 

“Well, what other options do I have?”

And then the humour left him, suddenly, and his tone turned far more serious; the smile dropped away and he fixed her with a pointed look.

“So many. More than you know, Clarice,” he said, somewhat cryptically. “You came here for a reason today. And it wasn’t to chase me up on that case. Any simple fool can deduce that fact.” 

She shrank a little. “Yes, I did. But I made a mistake.”

“No,” he insisted a little harshly. “You’ve been told you’ve made a mistake, Clarice. Be that by a friend or your own inner conscience, I do not know, but it matters not.” 

“There’s no difference.”

“Of course there is,” he insisted. Silence followed. “Your problem, Clarice, is guilt. You’re so weighed down by it. I wonder why that is?” It was a rhetorical question. He didn’t know much about her past but he knew enough. More than he should, probably. “Hmmmm? Pesky Protestant guilt, I should think.”

“Guilt is a good thing, doctor,” Clarice said without much conviction. “Stops you doing stupid shit.” 

“It’s good in small doses,” he countered, ignoring her vulgarity; in fact, he found himself a little charmed by it. “And harmful when it exceeds that. Particularly when it is unnecessary guilt.” Another pointed look. “Guilt has no place in my office. No place between us.”

“That’s the whole problem, doctor. There should not be an us.” 

“And why not?” He then asked, so simply and curiously as if he were asking nothing more than how her day had been. “Aside from guilt, give me one substantial, good reason.” 

“Crawford sent me here to do a job. A professional job that I’m meant to be taking seriously.”

“No, he sent you to do an errand. And you’re doing that errand very well. Didn’t he himself say that? And did we not make our most significant leap in this case when I invited you to my home and you allowed yourself to let your guard down? To think clearly, unclouded?” He gestured back to the desk, where the new sheets of notes sat, the ink still drying. 

“Yes, but-“ she tried, faltering under the hard surface of his focused gaze. Her voice dropped a note, quiet now. “-but if - when - I get distracted-“

“You won’t,” he said clearly and without room for argument. “I think you know you won’t. You’re not someone who’s distracted easily, are you, Clarice? No, no matter how many tempting variables there are, you’ve always put your work first, and you always will.” She looked to her feet, and knew he was right. “No, I think it’s something else stopping you. Something more deep-rooted than that. Something fundamental.”

“I’ll tell you what, doctor,” she started, turning to face him fully, then. “I’ll leave and come back once you decide to stop psychoanalysing me.”

He laughed, lightly. “You may well ask me to stop breathing, Clarice. That would likely be easier, and far more realistic.” He stepped forward, almost testingly, then continued to approach when she didn’t move back. “But in that same vein, I’ll ask something in return from you.”

She looked at him, hard and plain, and almost uttered the words quid pro quo, knowing then that nothing between them would ever be one-way. It was always an exchange. 

“I’ll stop analysing you when you stop letting guilt cloud your conscience.” 

She let that ruminate, and slowly felt the strength and fight leave her, and with it went her resolve. He watched her deflate; watched her jaw loosen. When she spoke after a long stretch of silence, her voice was strangely weak. 

“I don’t know how.” 

He felt the whimsy leave him; he felt the thrill of conversation simmer away in the wake of this rare display of weakness from the usually-cocksure Clarice Starling; oftentimes he derived so much pleasure from the distress of others - he fed on it like a bat - but in that moment he felt no triumph. 

Instead, Dr Lecter suddenly felt almost… almost… no, certainly not pity - pity had no place at all within him - but rather he felt… accountable? Responsible, maybe? 

Yes, that was it. A strange sense of responsibility came over him. His posture loosened a little, and he dared to step forward. 

She didn’t step back or flinch, but her brows did furrow a little and her lips turned down at the corners anxiously. 

“Then let me help you, Clarice.” 

Long silence followed. Stretching and twisting like something alive and wriggling. The hardness behind Starling's eyes faded slowly like water spilling away, and her chest rose and fell as though finishing a run. Her image was of pure conflict, stirring within Dr Lecter both hope and uncertainty. 

Their position, then, standing close, wasn’t too unlike that of the way they’d found themselves just a week prior, in Dr Lecter’s kitchen, having a somewhat similar conversation about denial and guilt. Without realising it, lest he pulled away, Dr. Lecter realised he may have found himself again nearing to touch her in some way. Of course, the indecision and vague distress in Starling’s face was enough to ward him off, and, knowing that touching her in any way would probably unnerve her, he retreated. 

He stepped back just enough so that she felt she could breathe easily again, and when she remained silent and distant, he turned and wandered back into the depths of his office. She watched him go, swallowing, as he made his way to his desk and then stood with his back to her and ran his eyes over the vast bookshelf that made up the far wall of the room, as if he had forgotten she was there and was now utterly engrossed in the books. He almost blended in with the hundreds of dark hardcovers- he wore almost entirely black that afternoon.  He was letting her have some semblance of privacy by turning around and feigning interest in something else, and for that she was grateful. 

Finally, after about a minute of ruminating and battling with herself, she spoke. 

“Doctor?”

He turned to face her at her request, his attention now shared again and his expression neutral.

Her posture was rigid. She seemed to hesitate before speaking, but when she did so her tone was firm and sure and laced with resignation. 

“I like you more than I should,” she finally said bluntly. He blinked once and stood stock still. “I’m not… completely sure why. But I do.”

He replied simply, “it is a shared sentiment,” otherwise betraying nothing. 

“But I am here to do a job. And my priority will always be that job,” she then went on to insist. “I’ve worked too hard and too long for it not to be.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he nodded once. “The solving of this case will not be impacted by whatever may or may not happen between us, rest assured. They are not mutually exclusive events. I am good at separating my social life from my professional affairs, and I’m sure you are too.” A small smile followed, less penetrating than the ones he’d been giving her so far that afternoon; it was almost a sad smile for a reason Clarice could not place. “What happens with us regarding our meetings after the case is solved - if the case is solved - however, is out of our control and jurisdiction and is not something to think about until that time comes.” 

She nodded, swallowing. “Yes. Agreed.” 

He nodded. Smiled. “Clarice… guilt is such a terrible thing. And it is, additionally, entirely self-crafted. It hurts me to see somebody as fiery and carefree as you weighed down by it, you realise that? Do you realise how much you lose when you abide so strictly by self-imposed morals and the trappings of your own guilt?” He blinked once; tilted his head. “I’m fond of you. You’re fond of me. It’s that simple. All of the other little complications are of your own invention, and of no real consequence.” 

Another lengthy silence persisted, then. Although, the angry tension was gone and rather was now filled by a far lighter sort of atmosphere. Starling felt a weight had lifted from her chest. She supposed that might’ve been that very guilt leaving her. She figured that Dr Lecter was often right about a lot of things; the negative impacts of the guilt regarding the chemistry between them being one of them. 

She thought about her low mood for the past week and hoped that the coming weeks would be lighter, assuming she was able to get over herself... 

“You said you’d like to help me, doctor?” She asked; and though it was phrased as a question, Dr Lecter recognised it more as a request- as a plea, almost. 

“Yes,” he replied simply, and silently celebrated when her gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. He let the moment hang between them for a few long seconds before moving on. “Clarice, I’d quite like to show you something.” Then he added, “it isn’t related to the case.”

Starling felt that typical flash of alarm, then remembered what he’d said just mere seconds ago and promptly squashed it down. She managed to maintain a small smile, tilting her head a little. Her tone was vaguely teasing when she replied, “should I be scared, doctor?”

“Certainly not,” he shook his dark head. “I think it would be enjoyable.” Then he added, “for both of us.” 

Starling felt something inside her slip. 

“What is it?”

He smiled, softly. 

Chapter Text

He went to her, this time.

It was a Sunday morning, crisp but not too chilly, just on the cusp of noon. Starling had no lessons until late morning the following day, and Dr Lecter had assured her their trip wouldn’t keep her out late. 

She didn’t mind; even if she’d had an early start on Monday she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to turn him down. The totality with which he had piqued her interest was a truth she chose not to dwell on. 

Starling had expected Dr Lecter’s driver again, and so was caught momentarily off guard when she saw it was Dr Lecter himself behind the wheel, easing the car into the lay-by outside her dormitory. 

He stepped out smoothly, dark and sleek in a simple day suit, and straightened up without looking at her. When he finally did, his eyes dropped only fleetingly to her attire before returning, appraisingly, to her face. Starling squirmed a little.

It was strange, seeing him there- an exotic presence against the banal brick and asphalt of the student blocks. Like seeing a leopard in a kennel run.

“I hate to be predictable, doctor, but my options were limited,” she said, under the weight of his scrutiny. 

Starling had never before felt so keenly the trappings of her wardrobe, as she’d never needed anything particularly nice. She’d just about managed today, keeping it simple yet smart with a button-up blouse and wool slacks; the nicest she owned. 

It was the sort of thing she often wore to his office, easy and uncomplicated, though the effect was slightly different, this time, due to the changes Starling had made to the rest of her appearance. Usually she always chose to wear her hair down, straightened and tidy, except for when she was training, in which case it was thrown back into a tie. 

This morning she had decided to put it up, pinning it in such a way that only a few choice tendrils remained free, falling to frame her face and soften her edges. It didn’t look perfect; Starling honestly had no clue what she was doing when it came to hair, and she had gone off inhibition alone, but overall she was pleased with the effect.

Because of this choice, Dr Lecter noted that he could now appreciate the unobstructed crisp line of her light, open collar against her pink skin and, by extension, the pleasant expanse of her long neck. It was an engaging vision; he was indeed nothing less than charmed. 

“I think you look just fine,” Dr Lecter said in earnest, and Starling had to avert her gaze in the wake of the compliment. “Though I ought to amend your lack of options, Clarice.”

“You’ve spoiled me enough, doctor. Too much, even.”

“Ah, it is a noble cause,” he said, “but, Clarice, you look lovely. I’m glad you’ve agreed to humour me.” 

The compliment was sincere, as was Starling’s answering smile. “Thank you, doctor.”

He turned a little then, his posture indicating that he wished to move to the car. “Are you ready?“

She nodded easily and knew by now to let him open the door for her, sliding in and accepting his courtesy for what it was. He made his way to the driver’s side and she watched him turn the key as he settled in.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re actually going today, doctor?”

“Now, that would spoil the surprise.”

“Not even a hint?” she pushed, her lips curling up a little at the corners. “For all I know you could have unsavoury intentions.” 

He simply looked at her, one brow raised, and smiled silently. Then, still without a word, he buckled himself in and they were driving away.

Starling settled back into the leather seat, humoured by his insistence on keeping things secret. She knew that whatever it was he had in store for her it was sure to, at the very least, be interesting.

The Walters Art Museum in Baltimore is unimpressive and fairly unattractive from the outside, though it no doubt has one of the richest and most thorough collections of artwork - particularly in regard to medieval and Renaissance Europe - on the East Coast.   

Dr Lecter considers it a small haven; a refuge amongst what is otherwise an overwhelmingly and stiflingly American city. It is busy, but not bustling, this early on a Sunday. Dr Lecter faces no difficulty finding a place to park, and they encounter no queue upon entry. 

There was a small wooden stand at the entrance with leaflets on, including a map and some cursory information on the popular artworks, which Starling eyed for only a moment. Dr Lecter noticed this, and said with wry humour, “you won’t be needing that.”

“Why?” She asked, turning to him and matching the up-curve of his mouth with her own humoured smile, “because I have you?”

“Why else,” he replied, and then led her forth into the gallery. 

They’d spoken a little on the drive up but it’d been otherwise quiet and contemplative, with only Dr Lecter’s classical music to fill the silences, turned low enough that she could hear his breathing. He seemed a little light that morning, and she wondered if he’d possibly been looking forward to their outing even more than herself.

She wondered only for a moment why exactly he’d taken her here, of all places, and then remembered that episode so long ago where he’d pointed out the art in his book to her - when they’d been discoursing in his office over depictions of violence - and Starling realised she was probably here for an education. 

He didn’t lecture her at all, however, as they walked quietly side-by-side through the first and second floors of the museum. Starling had never bothered with art galleries and the like; it’s not that she was dismissive of art, but rather she’d just never had the time to explore something she had so little knowledge about, and so little interest in otherwise. 

Yet, she found herself quite taken by the Egyptian and Greek artefacts, the Roman trinkets, and the painted faces of people long gone. 

It was the third floor where Dr Lecter seemed to perk up. She’d gathered that he could appreciate almost all styles of art; he seemed to find medieval art amusing, Romanesque and Gothic art perhaps somewhat droll, but it was the Renaissance that really seemed to hold the good Doctor’s keenest attention. 

They’d been wandering apart thus far but he returned close to her side when they stepped into that sanctum of swaddled gods; Madonna and her child repeated in every conceivable iteration, broken up only by the occasional sharp stab of death - Jesus hanging on his cross or some other expertly rendered scene of sacrifice and despair.  

Starling stopped in front of a cabinet that sat directly under a painting of the Annunciation; under the watch of Gabriel and Mary, she leaned in to observe the painted clay plates propped up on display. Dr Lecter stood just behind her, to her side, and inclined his head as he watched her face in the reflection of the glass.

“Do you know what the scene is?” he asked, seeing that she was fixed on the largest plate in the centre. 

Starling shook her head. 

“Are you familiar with Samson and the Philistines?"

Recognition, then. “Not beyond the basic story.” 

“That’s all you need here,” he hummed. The plate was rich in its colours, and on it was painted the scene of the judge’s victory. “Samson, of course, being a symbol of judgment and redemption. His killing the Philistines was, within the story, a triumph of good over evil. A little forward or simplistic maybe, but it is, in all, a positive depiction. And yet…” he gestured. The bodies beneath Sampson’s feet were all writhing and tangled up, with crude streams of blood erupting from their various wounds. 

“There’s still suffering present.” 

“Yes. But it’s entirely symbolic. Do you see, first, the suffering, or the redemption?”

She understood his point, and he felt he didn’t need to explain further. She was well aware of his theory that their killer displayed the bodies as a sort of triumphant tableau; that he likely viewed his murders as a sort of victory for some cause he had. 

After a long beat, Starling asked, “why are they always nude?” 

It was maybe a silly question, or at least a juvenile one, and utterly unrelated- but she was curious and she figured Dr Lecter was forward enough that he wouldn’t tease.

“It’s nothing more complicated than appreciation of the human form. The body can be an interesting subject beyond mere voyeurism,” he seemed to hum. “There’s no underlying sexuality here, yet the nudity is still appreciative. It shows strength. Look at their proud postures, each muscle defined to signify strength. And their victims' nudity similarly lets you see the extent of their suffering. No clothing to sugarcoat it.” He looked down at her. “It wasn’t uncommon for artists to dissect the dead- to use cadavers, for the sake of studying anatomy, you know. Most artists were, in a way, early biologists too. We’re much more conservative about these things now.” 

“I’m no stranger to it,” Starling said thinly, thinking of the bow hunter on his metal slab, and the countless other bodies she’d seen photographed since beginning her studies. 

“No, you’re not. We’re alike in that sense, our careers demand it.” 

They moved on after that, and Dr Lecter continued to point to paintings and make comments on things he deemed relevant, and Starling in turn asked questions and he answered them calmly and willingly. 

The next time she stopped walking was before a fairly large depiction of Adam and Eve. The plaque said it was painted by Pietro Mera. 

“There’s no serpent,” Starling noticed. 

Dr Lecter stopped and pursed his lips. The painting was composed in such a way that the eye was immediately drawn to Eve’s figure; such was the way the light caught only on the curve of her breast, framing it like a small pale moon, with Adam and the apple in shadow. It suggested quite sharply a different angle of temptation. 

“In some depictions there was never a snake,” Dr Lecter explained. “It’s a slight against women, admittedly. The idea that Eve urged him without influence from the serpent. That it was the cruel and sensuous temptation of woman that caused Adam to lead us astray.” 

“Always the woman’s fault. No matter that the man gave in.” 

“Umm. As is often the way of history.”

She stared at it for a moment, and then got very close and stared for a little longer. 

Dr Lecter inclined his head, watched her, and then asked, “what are you thinking?”

Starling was having one of those moments in which you find yourself becoming suddenly conscious of what exactly it is you’re looking at in a museum; when it registers in your mind that an artefact or a sculpture or a painting really is just that- a human creation from a great deal of time ago, and that the figures depicted really were once flesh-and-blood people. 

She explained this, and Dr Lecter found it rather charming.

“This painting,” she said, glancing at the plaque, “was painted before this country was founded. And now it’s jus’ hanging here in this corner in some building.”

Dr Lecter laughed a little, and then said very earnestly, “How I would so love to take you to Europe." 

“And I’d love to go,” she said, realising it very suddenly. So fixed had she been on her goals, that travelling never occurred to her as a possibility. She suddenly had the sense that she was missing out on a great deal. “Maybe when all of this blows over, and I’ve graduated.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, Clarice.” 

Dr Lecter suggested that they might like to leave once they’d come to the end of the Renaissance hall. Starling found this strange, as she knew there was one whole other floor of artwork left- now quite invested, she asked if they could see that first and then call it for the day. 

Dr Lecter nodded easily, and showed no indication that he was against the idea, but Starling thought it was strange that he’d been willing to miss it in the first place.

She realised why when she saw him falter before one of the paintings. 

The top and final floor of the museum was dedicated to Asian art - primarily Japanese and Korean - and Dr Lecter had paused underneath a tall woodblock print of a woman scantily draped in a thin bathrobe, painted by Goyo who is well known for his depictions of beautiful women. 

“A favourite?” Starling asked after a moment of quiet, his face utterly unreadable. 

“I don’t tend to walk through this room when I visit,” Dr Lecter explained. “It reminds me of someone.” 

“Someone you know?”

“Knew, rather.”

“Oh,” she said softly, and dared to ask, “tell me about her?”

“Another time,” he said, and Starling knew then to drop it. 

When they were back in the car, Starling expected Dr Lecter to give her some final spiel about the day and then drive her off neatly back home, and so she was a little surprised when he turned to her and asked, “are you hungry, Clarice?”

She blinked, and then realised that she hadn’t, in fact, eaten at all that day; she’d skipped breakfast in the wake of her anticipation. 

“I could eat.” 

“Hm. Any preferences?” 

A small smile. “I’m sure you already have somewhere in mind. By now I know to trust your judgement on food.”

His chest shook in a short, silent laugh, and he turned back to the wheel. It was all the confirmation she needed. 

He had to ring a bell to enter, and the man who answered the door had a look on his face that told Starling not everybody was permitted entry, even if there was the space. 

Dr Lecter had taken her to Martick’s restaurant in downtown Baltimore, only a five-minute drive from the museum.  

The rather austere gentleman who’d greeted them met Dr Lecter with a look of sudden familiarity; his entire disposition changed and he waved them in warmly. Inside, it was utterly charming but exceedingly quirky. A sort of mish-mash of styles so much so that it bordered on gaudy, but there was some sort of air to the restaurant that just made it work. 

Snakeskin wallpaper met windows with bright stained-glass patterning. Next to the unassuming paintings on the walls were also mounted hubcaps, bowling balls and a slightly unnerving display of plastic dolls hanging from wires. The door they’d entered through was a bright green, though none of the other decor echoed this colour choice. 

In contrast, the tables were elegantly set with white cloths draped over them and cutlery and wine glasses set out ready. It was fairly quiet for a Sunday lunchtime but Starling had the sense that the restaurant was often bursting at the seams. It had, in short, a great deal of character. The type of place that she was sure hosted a revolving crew of artists, painters, poets and musicians.

“This doesn’t strike me as your usual establishment,” Starling said, raising her voice only slightly over the background croon of some instrumental piece playing over a speaker. 

“Why do you say that?” Dr Lecter asked, as he narrowly avoided an elbow to the head from a waiter zipping past with three plates balanced on one hand. She looked at him, brow raised, and saw humour on his face. 

“I thought you were all about quiet meals somewhere with high ceilings and a wine list longer than the menu, Dr Lecter,” she went on once they’d been seated. “Classical music and the like.”

The waiter had directed them to a small corner table set for two. There was a window beside them but the blind was drawn to maintain the dim personality of the restaurant, and for light there were a couple of lit candles between them. Starling very firmly ignored the implications. 

“That, I can certainly appreciate. I can also appreciate character. And Morris Martick is a good man. You’ll be hard pressed to find a bouillabaisse as well made anywhere else this side of the Atlantic Ocean,” then he gestured to the menu. “Please.”

“So,” she picked up the menu and flicked it open. “What’s this part of our trip got to do with the case?” 

His lips were pursed as he scanned his options. He waited a second before answering her. “Hm? Oh, absolutely nothing at all.” Then he pointed to the starters section.  “If you’re after something lighter, I recommend the pâté. Or, for something closer to home, the sweet potato soup is very popular.”

At times, Dr Lecter could be incorrigible. Starling felt she knew him a little better now, and was able to recognise it almost as a sense of play. He had a sharp and sardonic sense of humour, and though it’d frustrated her at first - and still often did - she also felt a little taken by it.

She watched him for a moment, the left side of his face kissed by a soft light from where the sun seeped through the blind and the right side was contrastingly lit by the candles. The clashing shadows made his features seem both sharp and soft all at once. It also made the slightest twitch of his eyebrow much more obvious, and she knew then that he was aware of her eyes on him. 

She breathed deeply and looked back down at the menu, and had to try hard not to look back up when she felt him watching her.

The waiter came swiftly once they’d made their choices, having that sixth sense that all good service people have. Dr Lecter ordered for both of them; Martick’s was a dedicated French restaurant, and so naturally all of the food options were in French. Dr Lecter ordered in the language flawlessly, and then they were alone again. 

“You never did tell me how you ended up in France,” Starling pointed out, after a moment. “You told me you moved from Lithuania, to France, and then came to study here.” 

He looked at her for a long beat, long enough that she had to blink when her eye started to twitch. He was weighing something, and then he suddenly looked to the tablecloth. It was, in Starling’s memory, the first time she’d ever seen him drop his gaze before her. 

“…The war displaced many people, Clarice. I was, in a way, lucky to have been given the opportunity I was.” 

“Oh,” she felt her stomach tighten. “I… won’t ask you about that.”

“You could, you know,” he said with a strange expression on his dual-lit face. “I would probably tell you about it.”

The admission held more weight than Starling could ever know.

“Maybe sometime. Not here, though. Not today. I apologise for bringing it up.”

“Please don’t. I appreciate your candour. It’s one of the things I like a great deal about you.”  

That tightening of her stomach again, but for a different reason, this time. 

“I…” she began to speak, but the waiter arrived with their food. He set it down before them and was gone again quickly. Starling had wanted to say something, but it felt clunky now that she’d been interrupted. Instead, she just said, “me too.”

Dr Lecter smiled, and lifted his glass to hers. The sound of the clink remained with her, even after they’d left and he’d dropped her back home, parting with a courteous press of his lips to her knuckles on the doorstep. 

Later that night, lying in bed, Clarice Starling could see why Jack Crawford might’ve felt the need to warn her about Hannibal Lecter. 

The depth at which she found herself preoccupied with thoughts of him was worrying, and possibly a problem. This acknowledgement came with no desire or plan to amend the issue.

Clarice Starling looked forward, emphatically, to their meeting next Friday.

Chapter Text

A quiet Anglican Church in West Virginia, unassuming and distinctly American in its architecture. It is very early morning. The shifting light through the tall, thin glass bathes the white floor and walls of the nave all awash with blue whilst the stark, ugly cross at the altar looms over the scene. 

For weeks, the rector of Falls Church Anglican had been arriving exceptionally early in the morning, as the church had begun celebrating an early mass. A considerable portion of the parish had, for various reasons, become unavailable on Sundays. Not wanting anybody to be at a disadvantage in their faith, the rector had begun to offer a quiet daily Eucharist at dawn each Thursday. 

He’d been somewhat shocked that morning, arriving with the sun, to find somebody already seated in the pew right at the very front, on the left of the aisle. Even more strange was that the doors had been locked all night.  

The rector had called out to the figure once, and then twice more when they’d not so much as twitched. Were they asleep? Or just deep in prayer? But how had they gotten in? And why so early?

He felt it then- a dread without reason, sudden and complete, as he drew nearer to the still figure. 

His dread was well-founded, too, for it was that morning that the rector of Falls Church Anglican, West Virginia, discovered the body of Benjamin Raspail. 

Jack Crawford had been in the middle of preparing a breakfast for himself and Bella when he’d gotten the call, and had to abandon four perfectly good eggs to make it to the Church before the press beat him.

There was no question as to who’d killed Raspail. The second Crawford saw the body, it became glaringly obvious. Raspail was slumped there, jaw slack, dressed to the nines in perfectly fitted white-tie and a tailcoat. His flute sat on the pew beside him.  Analysts would later find it spotless and tuned to absolute perfection.

Besides the deathly pallor of Raspail’s skin, he looked otherwise perfectly fine and untouched. It was the removal of the suit and the subsequent discovery of the neat puncture wound in his chest - as well as two tidy incisions where his thymus and pancreas once resided - that cemented his damning fate. 

Under the shadow of that great looming cross - surrounded by the ugly, clinical white of the Anglican Church - Jack Crawford started to truly and personally hate the Chesapeake Ripper. 

He had, naturally, an incredible understanding of serial murderers. It was his job, it was required of him. He knew that, oftentimes, they were disturbed people and had their little personal reasons for doing these things, and as such Crawford was able to detach himself from things like genuine hatred.

He knew that every single serial murderer was fallible. Every single one of them had some small, pitiable screw loose that eventually led to sloppy work- they’d be spotted, they’d get cocky, or they’d touch something they hadn’t meant to, or they’d stop caring about getting caught, or a lucky would-be victim would get away.

But not the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Well, not yet, thought Crawford. 

Clarice Starling had both forearms on the metal bannister in the recreation room. When she shifted, the outline of her skin left a print of condensation. She was still a little out of breath; Thursday afternoons were for field training, and the Quantico gym instructor would put you through the wringer any time and day of the week without remorse. Starling was sweaty and probably stunk a little, but so did everybody else. 

There were a dozen or so students gathered, and all heads were turned to the television. It was rapt attention when Starling saw an overhead helicopter shot of Virginia pop up, and then her stomach dropped when the headline flashed across the bottom. 

Virginia Authorities Investigate Murder of Baltimore Philharmonic Member

Starling, not entirely aware of herself, stood up straight and pushed to the front of the group of gathered students. She received a few displeased looks and a couple of people grumbled, but none of it registered as Starling was so consumingly fixed on the screen. 

The headline was infuriatingly vague. Vague enough that Starling could feel panic rising. There was only one thought in her head; he’s dead.

He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. Ripper’s got him. It was all her mind could form.

Starling was at the point where she thought she might throw up, when finally the reporter started to speak. The only thing Starling fully processed was the name he spoke aloud- 

“-Benjamin Raspail-“ 

A flood of relief; the most glorious relief she’d ever felt and it was like a balm on her stomach for a blissful few seconds, but then it very swiftly turned sour again.

Starling was still young. She had yet to learn fully the risks of jumping to conclusions in her line of work- of allowing feelings to cloud her judgment. 

She didn’t stay to see the full report. The first thirty seconds of the reporter’s recount were enough for her to gather that this was something to do with the Chesapeake Ripper. Starling was across the building in about five minutes, and at Jack Crawford’s door in six. 

She knocked, a little furiously, until a woman in a neighbouring office poked her head and told Starling that he was still out, and wouldn’t be back until late. 

Crawford had been something of a steadying island during the course of the past few months, for Starling. He was this pillar of objectivity, a sort of figurehead for her education, and the Ripper felt like more of an assignment and less like a reality when she spoke with Crawford about her thoughts and findings.

His absence unnerved her. She felt twitchy, she needed to do something. 

Starling’s next stop was her dormitory. Ardelia was a little startled when she came barrelling through, still in her gym gear, eyes straight on her backpack hanging on her bedpost, the ripper file in hand. 

Ardelia connected the dots quickly - she’d seen the news report, everybody had. 

“I’m gonna talk to Lecter.”

“Nope,” Ardelia was up and in front of the door in seconds. “No you’re not.” Starling’s attempt to side-step her was thwarted. “None of that, now.”

“Dee, I need to.”

“Why? Huh? What’s he gonna help except grill you? Or distract you with fancy food or some other bulls-“

“He knew Raspail.” That gave Ardelia pause. “Personally.” 

“He knew him? They were friends?”

“Yes,” Starling said hastily, then backtracked. “Well, he didn’t seem to like him all that much but they knew each other and that’s enough. I met him too, once.” She winced, as if she were only just realising it, and adjusted her backpack. “Damn. I gotta go.”

“No, no, no. Girl. You’re gonna see him tomorrow, anyway. It’s a- what, it’s a Thursday, he's working, right?

“Yes-“

“So he’ll be with people. Just wait, let the details flatten out before you go rushin’ up there. It’s too late, anyway, and you’re not good to drive. Far as we know it might not even be anythin’ to do with that,” Ardelia said, nodding to the file still clutched in Starling’s hand. 

“I can’t just sit around, Dee. I’m all itchy.”

“Then don’t,” Ardelia said. “Let’s go out.”

“Really not in the mood, girl.”

“You’ll get in the mood. Come on. We’ll go for a few drinks. Nothin’ crazy. Get your mind off things. The big dogs will do their job, ‘n you can catch up tomorrow.”

Ardelia Mapp, Starling’s guardian voice of reason in all things- god forbid the day she didn’t have her. 

“Do I have a choice?”

“Absolutely not. Get your coat on.”

Chapter Text

Clarice Starling looked worse for wear when she turned up at Dr Lecter’s practice on Friday afternoon. She’d made an attempt to cover it up, but no amount of ironing or primping would hide the bone-deep weight from the ever-insightful doctor. 

“You’ve brought the week in with you, Clarice. It clings to your shoulders,” he‘d hummed as she’d passed him in the doorway. He hadn’t stepped back when she’d entered; she’d passed by close to him and had felt his scrutiny like it were a physical thing.

She smiled weakly at him, now, and Dr Lecter watched the corners of her lips rise and immediately fall like some pitiful bird with a broken wing. 

She’d gone straight for the chaise by the window, forgoing the stiff formality of the chair today. Dr Lecter himself sat behind his desk, and steepled his long fingers as he watched her fish the case file from her bag. 

“Doctor, forgive me,” Starling said once she had the manila folder in her hands. “I haven’t asked how you are yet.”

Dr Lecter watched her, so heavy in her posture - he assumed weariness or frustration - but still had found it within herself to pave her expression with genuine concern. Dr Lecter, though a self-serving creature not at all ruled by sympathy, for a moment almost felt bad. He had the urge to alleviate Starling’s worry if only so he might see her smile; and it wasn’t an urge he’d ever experienced before. 

His fingers drummed a pattern on the desk. He said, with just the correct amount of calculated hesitation, “I’m just fine, Clarice.”

“I know you weren’t close,” she continued, “but it’s still somebody you knew.” 

Dr Lecter felt a very small twitch deep within him. That instinctive muscular wince that all creatures get when faced with a threat- the nerve signal which urges the body to bolt into a run when it senses danger close. He sat with it for a second, observed it, turned the feeling over in his head, felt the edges of it like it were some tactile thing, and then returned to the present to see Clarice Starling watching him with those big, intelligent eyes- in that moment, full of trust. 

“I didn’t like Raspail, no.” Dr Lecter said after this long, contemplative silence. Starling mistook his hesitation for low-level grief. “But it doesn’t bring me pleasure to see him dead.”

“It’s close to home,” Starling added softly. “Scary.”

“Yes, it is.” Dr Lecter seemed a little distant.

Clarice Starling wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing; she wondered if he also felt how close the threat was. She wondered if the ever-stoic Dr Lecter was nervous. 

Dr Lecter wondered if she’d ever know just how insightful she really was.

After a long moment, Starling said very quietly, “Better him than you, though, doctor.” 

It was one of those thoughts that she wouldn’t dare ordinarily vocalise, but something about being in his office loosened her tongue. Dr Lecter watched her brow cinch at her own confession, and he smiled inwardly. Lots to unpack there. Later. 

He looked, again, at the file in her hands. He decided he’d spare her, for now. 

His voice turned firmer, and he sat back in the chair and stopped drumming his fingers. “Tell me what Jack found. I’ve only seen what they’ve put in the paper.”

“Right,” Starling nodded, and opened the file. This she could do. She read aloud the preliminary notes. 

“Raspail, Benjamin René, White male, forty-six. March twenty-second, he failed to appear for a performance in Baltimore,” Starling paused. “I didn’t know that… Yesterday, March twenty-fifth, his body was discovered seated in a pew in the Falls Church Anglican, Virginia, dressed in white tie and a tail coat.”

What wasn’t listed, of course, was that Raspail’s disappearance had coincided with his scheduled therapy appointment. This was because Benjamin Raspail’s ongoing therapy was a fact that remained only between himself and Dr Lecter. Raspail's incessant need for privacy and his intense stigma of therapy was very fortunate for Dr Lecter. Not so fortunate for the late Raspail.

“We’re awaiting an autopsy and a toxicology report, but so far they’ve found he was pierced through the heart with some sort of blunt object- assumed to be the cause of death- and there are posthumous incisions in his abdomen. We believe something's been taken. The thymus and pancreas, definitely. Possibly more, we won’t know until a full autopsy has been done. They believe he’d been dead for some time. Three days to a week possibly, but his body had been kept well. Decomposition was delayed. His condition upon being found was near-perfect.”

Starling glanced up. Dr Lecter’s lips were pursed in thought, and his gaze lay on his own hands as he listened. She went on-

“The keeping of his body and the staging is incredibly deliberate. Suggests the Ripper had this specific date planned- investigators are looking at moon cycles and the like.” She paused, chewed on her lip, and seemed to hesitate for a moment. “In a church, of all places, too. Crawford thinks it’s a performance- confession and punishment all in one. That’s what he wrote. He also believes this means the Ripper has a permanent base nearby. That kind of preservation of a full body takes knowledge and a private space. A lot of equipment, too, and the room to keep it. Somewhere you can buy such things and it does not cause suspicion. There’s a lot of big cities nearby, with big medical facilities. This follows an assumption that the Ripper is well-off. Financially, I mean. He has the money for all of this.”

“I’m interested in what Crawford said,” Dr Lecter said after a long beat. His lip twitched, and Starling wondered if that wasn’t something Dr Lecter said very often. “Confession is interesting. That was Jack’s own thought? Hm. But who does he confess to, and to what is he confessing? How does the sinner choose his audience- who is his confessor?”

Starling thought for a moment, and thumbed the edge of the file. “Us, doctor,” she said finally. “It’s all for us. Part of the performance.” She sighed, adjusted in her seat, and then her tone turned factual again as she read from the file. “Serial killers, or these types in general, are commonly religious fanatics.” 

“So you think he’s a religious fanatic.” 

“It’s the second religious allegory so far.”

“But?”

“…I don’t. I don’t think it has anything to do with religion. Just the imagery,” she said with a fractional turn of her head, followed by a small shrug. “But, who knows? Heads are turning to a different approach, now. This link to religion, and possible cycles. I think that’s what he wants. It’s like the profile changes each time he kills, and I think that's very purposeful. I think some officers believe if you’re crazy you can’t be insightful too, but I think that’s not true at all. I think you can be nuts, and still be perfectly capable of outsmarting someone sane.”

“Which begs the question of what constitutes insanity and sanity.”

“That old chestnut,” Starling spoke into the side of her thumb as she chewed at her nail; brows knotted in frustration. Her eyes scanned the page of the file. Dr Lecter decided he wouldn’t needle her on that avenue of psychiatry today- her mind was elsewhere. 

“Focusing on the disparities can muddy things, and distract, Clarice. Location, different displays, the individual themselves, all of these are extraneous variables. If you focus on the differences, of course the subject will appear different. It’s easier to narrow in on the similarities, these will tell you more than anything else will.”

“Similarities,” Starling echoed, and then pulled a pen out and flipped to the blank notes page. She began to list, “organs not always taken, but when they are it’s always sweetbreads, or typically culinary cuts. There's the precision and skill of the work. Always meticulous. Always men of a certain age, so far. Nobody under thirty-one.”

Dr Lecter hummed, and thought about the young Princeton student, undiscovered. 

“You said you thought the victims themselves were incidental,” Clarice continued, “that it doesn’t matter who it is- it’s about convenience. You think that our killer only cares about displays, and picks the subject at random?”

“We can only assume.”

She thought about Crawford. “Assumptions can be dangerous.” 

“The mind chews what it cannot swallow.”

Starling’s little sigh was especially toothsome, and she continued to read instead of entertaining him. “All serial killers, to our knowledge, target people for specific reasons. They don’t have to know them, necessarily, but there are always linking features. Age, gender, race, career. For the Ripper we have…” she turned a page, “…that they were all well-off. All men. All white. All adults. Not necessarily rich but comfortable, most with families. That’s uncommon, serial killers often target people who won’t be missed. And… every victim so far has had some sort of…” she waved her hand, trying to find the word, “some kind of… of stain or smudge on their record. Some kind of scandal or unsavoury dealing, that is. It’s common, of course, nobody is perfect. But it could be worth looking into.”

“Elaborate on that last part.”

“What if it’s a case of displeasure? Maybe he picks people who displease him,” she suggests. “People he sees as expendable, or less worthy of life. Maybe his tastes have nothing to do with gender or age or race. It’s a case of his personal morals.”

Starling had perked up now, Dr Lecter noticed. She’d been decidedly glum when she’d entered, but he’d helped her intellectualise the horror; in breaking it down as she does in class, it becomes easier to bear. It was intensely enjoyable for him to watch the cogs turn in her head.

“Perhaps. It’s very insightful, in fact. However,” he started, “we are in Baltimore. There are many people who are comfortable, and many people with less than pristine records. Many, many white men above thirty. So how do you narrow it down? How do you get eyes on so many people? It’s quite like trying to catch one specific spider by chasing a million flies.”

“There’s the issue. We haven’t figured that part out yet,” Starling hummed. Again, Dr Lecter noticed her continued use of we. “It’s giving Crawford grey hairs.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that. God forbid Jack’s heart give out,” Dr Lecter said. She smiled at his dull tone.

He stood, then, suddenly, and Starling watched him move to the low cupboard in the far corner, with a kettle and neat stack of mugs atop. “Would you like a drink?” 

A small gesture of hospitality, just to break up the moment and give them both a moment to think. Starling nodded, and then watched his hands work for the next couple of minutes, the calm stillness of his office a much-needed balm on her strained mind.

After a period of relative silence, Dr Lecter said, “You’re more disturbed by this one than I can remember you being by the others, Clarice. It’s galvanised you.”

“I, uh,” she started to speak, but lost the words and spent a moment focusing on the expanse of his back as he made the drinks, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. “I suppose I am. They… played the report on the television in the common room, at Quantico. They didn’t say Raspail’s name at first. Just that someone in Baltimore had been killed. They mentioned the philharmonic.” 

Dr Lecter turned his head and watched her keenly, and savoured when she said, “I thought it might’ve been you for a second.” 

“And how did you react?”

“I felt panicked.”

He poured the drinks. “And then when you discovered who it really was?”

“Relief,” she said, and cringed at her own admission as she said it. “Then guilt for feeling relief.”

“But the relief was still present for a time?” 

“It’s still there now.”

He nodded, and then picked up the drinks. He looked at her all the while he carried the mugs over to the chaise, and only broke eye contact when he leaned down to place them on the small table, and take a seat beside her. He enjoyed letting her sit with what she’d just admitted, and noted that she avoided looking at him as he sat down.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly as she leaned forward and took the mug, holding it firmly in both hands and looking hard into the reflection of the liquid.

“Tell me.”

Her fingers began to turn pink from the heat. “The church… it reminded me of something.”

“Yes?”

Starling struggled. The steam rising from the coffee made her skin tingle. She paused to lift it to her mouth, took a small sip, then set it down and sat back again. Her head dropped to the back of the chaise, eyes to the ceiling.

“The last time I saw my father was… it was a church like that one. Small town. A little ugly. The white walls an’ the dark wood. Hardly anybody there to see him,” she breathed. Dr Lecter’s nostrils flared but he remained otherwise utterly still and silent. “Somethin’ about knowing that sad little church, with nobody around, was that man’s final resting place stung a little. Made me remember my father. Makes it feel personal.”

Starling's hair was a wide fan on the back of the chaise, a spill over the material, and it caught the light like the Madonna’s halo. Dr Lecter’s arm rested along the back cushion, his fingers curled at the very edge of her hair. He extended a forefinger and swept it over the fine, auburn strands. He wasn’t entirely sure she noticed, certainly not when he asked, “how did your father die, Clarice?”

She swallowed hard, he saw it in the way her throat bobbed; he fixated on that particular motion and stored it away somewhere. Another finger in her hair now, curling in what would usually be a comforting motion for anybody else. He was sure she could feel it, but she seemed to be too far within her own mind to tell him to stop, assuming it bothered her. 

“My father was shot,” she said finally, as blunt and simple as the bullet that killed him. 

“I see. And how old were you?”

“I was nine years old.”

Dr Lecter thought briefly of Mischa, and himself at nine. 

“What did your father do? Why was he shot?”

Starling closed her eyes. “He was a town marshal. One night he surprised two burglars, addicts, coming out of the back of the drugstore. They shot him.”

“I see. And this has a lot to do with where you are now. And what you’re doing.” 

“You’re the psychiatrist, Dr Lecter. You tell me.” He did not think the exasperation in her tone was frustration at him, explicitly. He smiled.

“I think,” he started, “that you are bounds stronger than you could ever know. I think your experiences have forged this moral matrix within you, this desire to do good, and I think a lot of it stems from wishing to please your father. And I do believe you’re well aware of that, and it’s not something you need me to tell you. I think you’re unbearably firm in your ideals, almost to a fault.” And then, he said with a distant and detached sort of amusement, “I also think there’s far more to your story. And I don’t think you’re going to tell me all of it now.” 

Starling finally turned her head on the chaise and she looked long and hard at him. She believed it possible that he was enjoying taking a small sip of her suffering. She supposed psychiatrists were like that. She wondered how long and how desperately he’d been wanting her to talk about this; Starling wasn’t entirely sure why she’d granted him the satisfaction, but it had felt right and she regretted nothing. 

He didn’t move his hand, even as she glanced almost accusingly at it, but he did still his fingers. She wouldn’t admit that she missed the soothing, distant tug of him twining her hair. His hand was close to her cheek now that she’d turned her head. She blinked, looked at his long fingers a moment more, and then her gaze found him again.

Her eyes were wide and a little dewy, alert like a deer’s. It was entirely possible, he thought, that she might be looking right into his head 

“I don’t think so either,” she finally said, very quietly. 

“But you will do,” he seemed to hum, “eventually.” 

“Yes. Yes, I think I might.”  

“Thank you, Clarice.” 

Suddenly he stood. It felt like cold water to Starling. “I want to give you something,” he said, and was already making way to the great expanse of books along the back wall. She sat a little straighter, and watched him scan the spines. His forefinger paused, and then nudged free a fairly small book. 

She rose and went over to him, and he held the book up. “Selected poems,” she read aloud, not particularly impassioned.

“Of Giovanni Pascoli. Translated,” he finished for her. “Do you care much for poetry, Clarice?”

“No,” she answered frankly, and then clarified, “only because I’ve had no reason to.”

She didn’t need to tell Dr Lecter that she didn’t have the time nor the resources growing up to give any level of interest to something so, in her mind, flowery and pointless. Not her own words, mind you. But a sentiment deeply ingrained, and Starling had a sneaking suspicion Dr Lecter could sense this, and perhaps it was why he only smiled and nodded. 

“Have a read,” he told her. “Even of the short biography. I think, Clarice, you might find something in common with Pascoli.” A slight tilt of the head, and when he next spoke his intentions behind the gift became clear. “Misery loves company. Grief can be processed in many ways, first and foremost in finding it elsewhere, in other people. Sometimes prose can be too pointed, or too specific to one person's experiences. The abstraction of poetry gives you room to find your own meaning within it. Sometimes, Clarice, you can store pieces of people, or memories, in little snippets of poetry.” And then he recited, seemingly to himself, in a lilting hum, “you who feel the hurricane at your sides, pay heed to his little hand.”

He placed the little poetry book in her hands. Starling looked at it, and thought this was possibly the most saccharine she’d seen Dr Lecter be so far; his talk of poetry and grief and gifts unnerved her, and she thought of his hand in her hair and his eyes on her neck, and felt out of her depth.

Maybe he realised this, for his expression was less impassioned when she looked back up at him, and he quickly shook his head and then returned to his desk. When he next spoke, his voice was even and low once more.

“Clarice, I’m going to tweak our profile. I may rewrite it entirely. Considering what we’ve discussed today, and this latest update, I’m going to include a bulletin on whom exactly I believe the bureau should focus on. It will be with Crawford by Monday. Tell him this, should he ask. Otherwise, I think we should call it, today.” 

“I agree.”

At his door, she turned. She felt strongly as though there was something she needed to say, but was having difficulty figuring out how to say it. 

He was closer than she anticipated, though neither of them stepped back. 

“I’m very flattered you were so concerned about me,” Dr Lecter said with the smallest of smiles, harking back to their discussion at the beginning of the session. “Ready to kick down the stoic Jack Crawford’s door for me.” 

“The academy hasn’t quite stamped the ‘act before you think’ instinct out of me yet.” 

“And I pray they never do. Instincts are our most basic and important resource.” His lips curled up further. “God forbid I ever find myself in trouble, and you’re not there to act. What would I do?” 

“Don’t poke fun at me, Dr Lecter.”

“Take it as a compliment, Clarice. I wouldn’t tease anybody who I didn’t think was intelligent enough to keep up.” 

Clarice Starling only smiled because she sensed he was telling the honest truth. 

“Thank you,” she finally said.

She looked down at the little book, still in her hands. It wasn’t so much about the book itself, but the gesture. It was an acknowledgement from him. She’d, for whatever reason, chosen in the moment to bare a very vulnerable part of herself. Instead of pushing his advantage, he’d given her something he believed might help her. It was, in his own way, an announcement that she was free and secure to tell him these things. She’d never told anybody about her father, besides Ardelia. And she had the feeling that Dr Lecter, similarly, didn’t endeavour to help people who weren’t explicitly paying him for the trouble.

“You’re very welcome.” And then her reverie was broken by Dr Lecter taking her hand in his own. He lifted her hand to meet where he bent his head, and there followed the briefest touch of his lips to her knuckles. The whole motion was too quick for Starling to do much besides let him, but she felt oddly bereft when he let go and straightened up.

He stepped back, hand on the doorknob. “Goodbye Clarice.” 

“Goodbye, doctor.” 

When the door closed and he turned back around, Dr Lecter looked long and hard at the case file Starling had forgotten, sitting there on the chaise, catching the sun.