@blessedxsilence​

The Goldberg Variations echoed throughout the confines of his kitchen as he delicately handled the evenings meal. He had prepared the dining room well in advance of his company. A few candles lite just for the desired effect.

The aroma of the meal soothed him so. Much as Clarice. Eased his mind. As much as she tested it. He took his time as he always did with his meals. Preparation to the fullest.

Within the hour, the meal was prepared and ready. Placed upon the table with his preference covering. The smell of ginger and dates still fresh in the air. He made fast work of his clothes, changing into a suit and tie. His finest. Always for her.

The tone of Will’s lectures had changed since his return from Baltimore State Hospital, but not only had their tone changed, he had changed. He wasn’t quick to assume the mannerisms of those around him, nor was he quick to weigh in on anything before questioning himself again and again. He shifted, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he waited outside Jack Crawford’s office, his back to the room. He was nervous, concerned on the possibility of a reprimand, worried of the fraction of a possibility though he knew he’d stayed well within bounds. 

The voices of the room were muffled through the door, but there was one he didn’t recognize entirely. It would have been easy for him to just...turn and look, but there was something in standing statuesque outside the door that comforted him. It let him block away all notion of this being something akin to a high school student being sent to the principal's office.

                  His eyes didn’t catch hers for more than a second at a time, the subconscious nervousness ever present in the continuous mannerisms of lowered chin & askance gaze. But her eyes were piercing, bright & stern. There was a steadiness in them, a hardness unbecoming of such a tender appearance. Surface level, Clarice Starling was a small, petite thing who was bright & charming, but beyond the rumors which prevailed of a hardened interior & a rough mouth, Will Graham could see more than the woman let on. He didn’t need that curiously unique gift of his to witness her in a grander scale, notate the intricacies of a carefully fashioned personage through the expertly & fervently charted path through the hierarchy of expectation.

                  She was powerful in the same way she was delicate, the lions heart in the casing of a lamb shining through in a watchful gaze. She beat at the glass ceiling like a moth seeking an escape into the light, one which always hung just out of reach yet it taunted with it’s luminescence. Though the world had progressed in great & wondrous strides since the Hoover days, the FBI was still very much a mans world. Straight-laced men, the kind who were cocksure & let their egos rule them, wearing confidence & masculinity as proudly as their badge. The profiler felt for her in that regard - he, too, didn’t fit that mold. It was no wonder, then, that Lecter had taken a liking to Starling during the Jame Gum case; the doctor did so love his eccentricities.

                  Eyes the color of the shallow ocean at high noon flicked towards the woman's own, half hidden behind Graham’s glasses, but only half seeing. His vision had been impaired since the final confrontation with the Great Red Dragon, & his visage bared the remains of his failures. Mended now but never quite whole. He hadn’t expected to return to the FBI after suffering yet another life changing event, the echoes of barely compartmentalized trauma still whispering at his ears when he fell into that place behind closed eyelids. Yet here he was, teaching again. Was it teaching? Or would he once again be dragged into something he hadn’t bargained for?

                  Time would only tell, but the woman who stood before his desk seemed shrewd enough. Will felt a headache coming on & fought the compulsion to reach into his pocket for a fix of self-medication, one which had long since stopped working. Instead his hand came up to rub at the crease between his eyebrows, the hollow of one eye. Tired. He was so tired.   ❝ So, Jack sent you… ❞   The words came easier than expected, more direct. It felt the best course of action, simpler to get down to business. He didn’t continue with pleasantries - never actually began them, either. Will Graham wasn’t one for subtilty when verbal cues were implemented. He had a sharp mouth on him, too. Perhaps that’s another reason why he liked Starling.   ❝ Are you really looking for advice, Agent Starling? Or a consultation? ❞   He assumed it was the latter - people still liked to pick his brain, use him for his insight. That was what he was good for, much as he hated thinking about this stuff anymore.

“Just sit here. You’ll be able to see the whole time. I promise.” Dean chuckles, rolling his eyes, in a spot under the bleachers where you can barely see the action of the football game being played out under the bright friday night lights. He didn’t care for sports and he didn’t care for the white picket fence, everyone in the town rooting for the team, homecoming parade, apple pie lifestyle.

Hannibal’s hand moved across the sheet of paper and sketched in the outline of Brunelleschi’s dome. He closed his eyes for a moment, made out the shape of the brick roof and the octagonal ribs with his mind’s eyes and resumed his sketch.

He had been working on this view of Florence from San Miniato for a little over a month. He had begun with the Arno and then had started adding the houses, the Palazzo Vecchio, and some of the streets that could be seen from atop that hill. Little by little, he had worked his way from the foreground to the background and now all that was left was the Duomo. Once that was done, the sketch would be finished.