The doctor hardly minded being watched; it was obvious that her searching gaze didn’t cause any discomfort. Her eyes were trained on his face, his expression, as though the female expected to be able to read him like a crime scene, even though they were simply making idle conversation at a dinner party. She must be suspicious of anyone she met.
Would she find something, if she were to look close enough?
It was clear that the FBI agent was hesitant about the handshake he was offering, and Hannibal had been about to retreat his fingers as she did allow the brief touch, in the end.
She didn’t want to be at this gathering at all.
Hannibal tilted his head to the side a little at her words, implying that he was interested in hearing more. It wasn’t as much the teasing tone of her voice as the many things she allowed him to know with this statement that caught his attention. Jack Crawford was of the opinion that she was in need of therapy. Her attitude about this connoted that the cases didn’t cause her mental trouble, yet there had to be something, to make Uncle Jack voice such a thought.
The man gave a curious, subtly amused smile in return.
“That surely is an interesting wording. Perhaps the work I do does not as much put people in their assumed lines as it helps them to discern where their line lies, to begin with. I can guide, though I cannot prevent unappreciated behavior.”
Jack wouldn’t enjoy hearing this in the slightest.
“However, if you believe it may prove beneficial for yourself to speak to me in a professional setting, then you surely are welcome at my office.”
The almost wolflike smile that crossed Clarissa’s face could be intimidating to most anyone. It was predatory, and almost dangerous, but at the same time very restrained. “Jack often worries, Dr. Lecter, despite the insistence of those he worries about that we are quite alright.” She took a sip off the wine in her hand, enjoying the fruity combination on her palate and the burn as it worked it’s way down her throat.
“I am trained to be able to tell when a sociopath is lying, and I hunt serial killers for a living. My most recent case that has been occupying my time is a man who hunts young women, keeps them captive for a month, butchers them, and then leaves them for me to find.” Clarissa was definitely not so good at proper dinner party conversation. She was not very good at socializing at all. “My thoughts are often not...tasty.” Beside her, she could feel Mr. Armani Suit stiffen, his eyes on her face. He had never asked what she did with the FBI, and Clarissa had never offered up the information. He was means to an end to her, an annoying mouth piece that warmed her bed on occasion. She felt no need to disclose more with him than necessary.
“I have plenty of sleepless nights, I perhaps drink a bit more than necessary, but it is not uncommon for someone that does what I do.” It was something Clarissa had told herself so many times that even she had started to believe it. She could not remember the last time she had a solid night of sleep, and did not drain a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 in a sitting. She had convinced herself, by now, that it was totally normal. She managed to hold enough of a face together in front of her superiors that, perhaps, they had no idea the depth of her depravity.
“I’m sure you have just as many sleepless nights as I do, Doctor. When I’m done with them, I send them to you after all.” She gave him a knowing look over the top of her glass as she took another sip of her wine.
2087
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
areudirty
