The Jack Daniel’s sitting between them is on its last leg, and if it were up to Clarice, they’d have three more lined up by this point. She’s not sure why Will decided to open up at this precise moment, and his superior status in the Bureau rings loudly in her ears. She hopes that he trusts her fidelity with regard to his personal information, so she doesn’t want to push the envelope by talking too much. ( She almost laughs at the thought, imagining Crawford’s disbelief at the notion of Clarice Starling keeping that tongue of hers on a leash. )
She settles for another kickback of the alcohol and leans forward so that her elbows rest on her knees. A thick layer of hesitancy lies on her lips when she speaks, as she doesn’t know where the line begins and ends with Will.
“Do you–”
No, no. Reword that.
Her mind swims with tens of other questions to ask, but she forces focus upon herself. If anything, she will not allow pity – even its shadow – to line her words. Only curiosity.
“How often do you feel it?”