violentwavesofemotion:

“Come this evening–I am eager for stars,”

— Renée Vivien, tr. by Jeanette H. Foster, from “A Woman Appeared To Me,”

continued from x / @dubitavero​

        Clarice makes a mental note that she should check on the soup she left in the microwave before Scully fell asleep. 

       “Don’t even bother with that bull, Dana. This is what friends do.”

       She plops onto the bed and places the backside of her hand against Scully’s forehead. A slight frown ensues, but she’s thankful it’s Friday afternoon; otherwise, she’s sure Scully would force her out of the way and head to work, sickness and all.

       “You want me to start you a movie or anything? I’m gonna go warm some soup.”

[ @grahamcrackin ] 

That name leaves Starling’s mouth, and suddenly all of Will’s thought processes grind to a screeching halt. He’d gone back to pretending to look over the file, but now he’s looking at her again, all of his stranger-danger anxiety replaced with his attention well and truly caught.

“Um. What?” Excuse him, but what the fuck! Jack didn’t so much as hint at consulting Lecter, because of course he didn’t. So much as suggesting as such would have spooked Will off the case for good, and for good reason. 

He feels like he’s going to be sick, stomach roiling as every mixed emotion and buried after-image hits him all at once in no particular order. 

A needle in his arm as he seizes out in Lecter’s office. 
The pair of them laughing together.
One hand clutched against his abdomen in an attempt to keep his insides inside as the other fails to stop the blood spurting from Abigail Hobbs’ slashed throat, dying on Lecter’s kitchen floor.
His face pressed into Lecter’s chest as he drifts to sleep curled against him in his bed.
The sound of electric buzzing and bone splintering as a saw rips through his forehead.

Will manages to claw his way out of the hellscape of a montage, forcing himself to breathe through it. Ironically using the very same techniques Hannibal taught him to bring himself down from panic attacks. 

“Why?” His hand clutches the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turn white. What the hell is Jack up to? Lecter bested Crawford, himself, and everyone else at the FBI without so much as a second thought, how’s a fresh-faced newbie meant to stand a chance, even with the disgusting asshole locked away. 

“Every other word’s complete bullshit,” that came out a little more venomous than he meant it to, but he continues. “Not only is it a waste of time, but I promise you don’t want Hannibal Lecter in your head.”

       Will’s visceral reaction causes Starling to sharpen her gaze, out of both curiosity and suspicion. Curiosity about why in the world Will seems so surprised that Lecter is associated with the case; ensuing suspicion towards her superior, Crawford. ( This is becoming a trend. )

       As a result, she momentarily struggles to acquire the right words with which to respond, unsure how she managed to upset her new partner within five minutes of meeting him. Her first response is to set down her stack of papers as if an excuse to move a few inches away from him, idly re-stacking them. ( Will’s whitened knuckles call her attention. )

        “ I—- these are my orders, sir.”

       The body of knowledge surrounding Dr. Lecter is not unfamiliar to Clarice, but she’s not afraid of much ( yet ), and she’s not about to let this new man, who somehow thinks he can impose his past onto her, change protocol—- or stifle her progress.

       Not gonna happen, buddy.

       This train of thought causes a hardness to keep Starling’s features in place despite the fact that a tinge of sympathy courses through her ribcage. ( This, of course, does not show. She assumes that pity is the last thing Will would want. ) 

       “ With all due respect, I appreciate your sentiment, but Dr. Lecter is our only hope to catch this killer. His wealth of knowledge of these—-” Fuckers, sonsabitches, motherfuckers, deplorable fuckwits… “-—perverse people, is the first place we need to draw from.” A brief pause ensues. “I thought I’d let you know before I begin the visits.” 

semi-plotted starter for @grahamcrackin. 

        “ I don’t know what Crawford briefed you with, if anything,” Starling begins, handing over an inch-thick pile of papers fastened with a binder clip. “But this is what we’re working with, sir.”

        She has her own copy of the file and puts it up between her arm and torso in order to extend her hand in a proper greeting. She inwardly congratulates herself for staring straight into Will’s eyes instead of his scars. 

       “ I’m Clarice Starling. Thank you for coming here to help with the case. I’m a trainee here and, as you know, Crawford is unable to oversee things at the moment.” A brief pause ensues and she turns to look at the bulletin board across the room, which gives a mind-map of the case. “ S’you can see, we’ve done a bit of work, but it came to a halt ‘soon as Crawford left.” 

resistinstinct:

     ^{“ why are you here , clarice ? ”}

^{@forjusttice ( s.c. )}

  “ With all due respect, Dr. Du Maurier, I think you know the answer to your question.” 

        After a beat, Starling straightens her shoulders and concedes: “Jack Crawford sent me here—- since I’m studying the case. Y’know which one,” she adds with her Southern drawl, arching a knowing brow. It’s as though she doesn’t trust the four walls surrounding them.

“ Whadd’ya need to know, doctor?”

for @empathicdesign​​, continued from here. 

        The initial lack of eye contact alerts Clarice to refrain from further questioning. She has no right to press upon sores — if applicable — that she does not know exist, or existed. Furthermore, Will stands as her superior. She’s but a trainee and she clenches her jaw at the thought, keeping her eyes on the papers between her inexpert hands. The childish side of her reigns and she becomes defensive when she hears his question. Of course she doesn’t want a break; she wouldn’t be here if she were weak enough to take one.

        ( Taking care of herself has never been her best talent. She doesn’t see much before she hits her pillow at the end of the day like a ton of bricks. ) 

       Her pulse slows a bit after a moment, and she lessens the acridity of her voice. She knows it was a simple question, not laden with the skepticism that so many other men have heaped upon her. The FBI is written under her fingernails from having to scratch relentlessly at so many walls blocking her—-  so many walls that never blocked her co-workers. 

        “ If I wanted a break, I’d say so,” she casually remarks, meeting his eyes and lining her own with assertiveness. This is out of habit more than anything else. “B’sides, I wanna spend a few more minutes looking over this file here. Just…wonder why he’d go from a medical doctor to a psychiatrist.” Her brows are furrowed by now and she speaks as though to herself. 

      “Seems odd to move from operating on people to listening to their personal problems.”