[ They killed him. ] ✕✕ 

fbihound continued from here.

        throughout the years of dedication it took to acquire
    the title of fbi trainee, never had one mentioned getting
    away from the practice. it’s not curious that one such
    as will graham would proffer equivocal words, but
    starling thinks (hopes ) that it is a byproduct of dr.
    lecter’s cruelties. the good doctor is incarcerated.
    he wouldn’t do starling the same. would he?

        “ i don’t think i’ll be getting away any time soon.”

[ the-alana-bloom ]

forjusttice​ liked this for a starter!

           ❝ – agent starling! agent starling! CLARICE! you’re
          leaving a paper trail,  ❞ she laughed as she picked up the
          papers and walked up to the young agent. ❝ need some
          help? ❞

                       [ They killed him. ] ✕✕ 

                       Just  as  limber  frame  bends  to  retrieve  fallen  pieces  of  paper
    paper  from the questionable floor of the Bureau,  Alana Bloom’s familiar voice
    echoes  and the  faintest hint  of  a  smile crosses  Starling’s  angular  features.
    She  grants  the  shorter  woman  a  nod  and  follows  with  a  huff  of  breath.

                           “Thanks. Guess I was distracted.
                   What are you doing here after hours, Dr. Bloom?”
                   Always a stickler for formalities.

Input.

[ fbihound ]

       this last week has not been kind to will graham. he didn’t sleep well. he
       doesn’t really sleep well at all anymore, but even the alcohol didn’t help
       this time. it’s just him and the dogs and the boat motors, and none of his
       normal vices help. 

       take a drink. pick up the wrench. try to stop his hands from shaking. fail
       at that. scratch behind one of the dog’s ears for a while. realize his hands
       are still shaking. take another drink. don’t look in the mirror as he washes
       his hands. try not to think about years ago. try not to think at all.

       he’s considering breaking something when he hears the dogs boof quietly
       –the warning noise that someone approaches. maybe if he broke some-
       -thing he’d feel better. he’s pretty sure that any visitor coming for him, at
       this point, isn’t going to be someone he wants to see. at least he’s been up
       for a while, and so he’s fully clothed. he gets the shotgun and leans it up
       against the wall beside the door. he only answers at the knock.

       he’d seen plenty of trainees in his day as a professor, to be able to spot that
       fresh hunger now. she looks mostly calm. young and green, no experience,
       no idea how this will go. still faithful yet, that the fbi will keep her under their
       wing, that they won’t string her up to bleed. in contrast, his voice scratchy
       from misuse, the gravel in it from years of exhaustion:

                              “ is there something i can help you with? ”

        Her mind will not  attempt to refrain from detecting something  akin  to bitterness
    nestled within other’s spoken syllables, try to pinpoint something behind this man’s
    tired eyes  that is not  being said. Starling  mentions naught of  the subject, though;
    instead  focuses on the task yet to be dealt with at  hand and proffers a  sharp nod
    of head. Once.

        Don’t fidget, keep calm. What harm is there in a few questions? None? None.
    Is that a dog?

        Curious eyes  resist the  temptation to flicker about the home, then, scan the
    man’s clothing, scrutinize  the various canines  lounging, standing, and  looking
    at her. ( At least they don’t talk back. ) She inwardly pats herself on the back for
    maintaining  her  composure  and  a  ghost of  a twitch of  lips is  rid of in  a hot
    second.

“ Will Graham.” Not quite a question, but a short-lived ascent of tone rounds off
    the ex-agent’s  name anyway. “My name is Clarice Starling.”  Back to  customary,
    solemn timbre now. She keeps a tense hold on the papers in her right hand as the
    left  slips  a  temporary  badge from the inner pocket  of her outdated ( black  and
    brown and blue… ) windbreaker.

“ I’ve been assigned to a special case and I’d like
                                          to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.” 

        Badge of embarrassment, be it only in front of The
                  Good Doctor, is tucked inside of her pocket.

[ alighttwixttruthandintellect ]

_{Working as long as she did with the little Starling, Alana’s become awfully accustomed to her mannerisms. (She picks up uncannily easily, but now she knows them better than her own palms.) So when Clarice’s eyebrows lower, when they abandon their casual post, Alana knows this is problematic.}

_{She can’t blame her. Lecter’s caused a downward spiral in both their lives. Alana’s has just been more sustained.}

_{“I figured it was only a matter of time, but to copycat someone like Dr. Lecter–” she is always so careful not to call him ‘Hannibal’ now, “–would require an amassed sophistication. Really, this person’s– copycat-ing Lecter’s copycat-ing of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, I think. It’s more complicated than it’s worth.”}

_{Some kind of Inception bullshit she isn’t in the mood for.}

_{(Maybe it’s the whole eating people thing in discussion. It always makes her a little foggy.)}

_{“Well. I think it would be best if we went to get a cup of coffee and discuss,” Alana, all five feet of this little creature, is slipping out from behind her desk. Immaculate as always– a giraffe-print blouse, white and red, wrapped around her frame, a high-waisted red skirt neatly off-set by a thin black belt, “because I have an idea that this topic is too tense to corral into my office, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen you, so I’m demanding a minute to actually enjoy your company.”}

                       [ They killed him. ] ✕✕ 

         To decline an offer stemming from a seemingly good-natured heart forces
    a ‘No, no. Really. It’s fine.’ down throat and instead coaxes forth a half-smile and
    slight crinkle of sinew surrounding eyes.

         “Sure.”

        In any case, the pinpoints of maroon still glisten with the uncovered ( still bloodied,
    were it a physical wound ) gash from mention of the old acquaintance. Where is he now?
    Does he still serve the rude? A recluse, now, perhaps? A phantom in an opera house?
    A savant in the hills of Italy? Dead?

                    She should drop it, drop it dropitdropitdropit. The past is the past.
                    The present is the present. Alana Bloom. Coffee. Okay.

         “Yeah—just gotta grab my things.”

        Voiced action is followed through and once appropriate files are gathered underarm
    and once shirt is straightened and once hair is ran through ( a comb or two by way of lithe
    fingers ) a clearing of throat ensues. The taller agent — if minutely so — stands beside Bloom.

        “You lead. I don’t know of any coffee places around here. … Never have time.”

[ alighttwixttruthandintellect ]

_{There’s a special sort of good cheer that is mostly reserved for Clarice and Clarice alone. Perhaps promising young women remind her of a time when she, herself, was young and promising. That’s left behind long ago– this Doctor Bloom is fragile but capable. Her students call her a steel marshmallow, sometimes.} 

_{“Definitely a copycat. Pretty sure it’s not alleged, because he wouldn’t be stupid enough back into the area,” She turns a cluster of files toward the Special Agent, pushes them forward, “–Guess whose copycat.”}

_{Who would know a Lecter copycat better than the woman the Bureau jokingly refers to as the ‘leading expert on Hannibal in the field’?}

_{(In spite of the fact that Crawford often disclaimers most cases with ‘Doctor Bloom and cannibalism are not to be in the same discussion’, but has anyone ever tried stopping Alana when she has her mind set? It’s impossible.)}

_{“Please make it clear to Jack that once he knows the particulars yes, I am remaining on the case.”} 

                       [ They killed him. ] ✕✕ 

        Reappearance of the man who sent her life into a downward spiral coaxes forth
    a sharpening of jaw and lowering of brows — unknowingly raised, casual pleasantry
    with old acquaintance causing such.

        The urge to balk at the file, at Jack Crawford for not telling Starling what she is
    getting herself into, is downed along with any snide comments.

                         ( Her father’s resonant voice speaks within her, then.
              If you can’t play without squawling, Clarice, go on to the house. ) 

        “Yeah, yeah.” A murmur under breath — far from rude, for attention is honed in
    towards the given file. “I, uh.” Okay, Billy. Now we’ve got a sonuvabitch who thinks
    he has someone worth copying. You know what? Fuck you, Jame Gumb. And fuck
    you, too, Jack Crawford.

        “I’ll let Crawford know when I get back.” Sharp eyes glance slightly downward
    to figure adjacent. “I think I’ll need to dig for Lecter’s file. … The copycat might have
    got a hold of released information concerning what he said to me.”
    Even though she remembers it all.

[ alighttwixttruthandintellect ]

_{forjusttice liked for a starter!}

_{“Clarice,” Alana says, and her head tilts upward to glance at the other, bright blue eyes quite vivid, a smile very clear on her face. She has a special place in her heart for her female students, and an even more significant one for Starling, who she’s worked with before (perhaps a little more carefully than others, perhaps because she’s protective of the ones Jack sees as promising), “to what do I owe the pleasure?”}

                       [ They killed him. ] ✕✕ 

       Minute detail of height ( this one oft surrounded by those of towering altitude; such trivial
    facts merging together after innumerable neck-aching encounters ) is rarely stored in alcoves
    of mind, so when Starling sees an old colleague of noteworthy — pocket-sized! — stature, a
    comment is budged behind tongue and rid of for underlying fear of coming off as rude. ( Now
    you’re being rude, and I hate rude people, a familiar voice echoes. )

        “Alana.” A pleasant smile, left corner of thin lips slightly tilting upward.
    “I was sent by Crawford to take a look at an alleged copycat. … Don’t know
    of anything else. He wouldn’t tell me much.”