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Clarice looks up at the vaulted ceiling as she enters the room. It's perfect for the warm climate, and beautiful, and... high.
"Oops," Hannibal says, catching her by the elbow as she unbalances. He sounds amused.
Grateful though she is for not having fallen on her ass, she angles her head back to look at him. This means she must rest it on his shoulder, but given everything that's happened between Chesapeake and Buenos Aires, that sort of casual familiarity with Dr. Lecter no longer concerns her. "I'm not clumsy," she informs him pointedly.
"I know," he assures her. "It's the drugs."
"I know it's the drugs," she grumbles. "How much longer?" They've been arguing about it; Clarice doesn't think she needs them any more, but Hannibal has always been so cautious, and he's the only qualified physician here, so for the time being she's agreed to defer to his judgment. Still, her patience has its limits.
Hannibal steers her into the magnificent sitting room, appointed perfectly to his tastes - dark hues, understated elegance - and finds her a chair. "Not much longer now," he promises. "Clarice, there are some people I'd like you to meet."
She smooths down her dress - Givenchy tonight. She thinks she looks all right in it. "Who are they?"
"Just some old friends of mine," he says, and comes around her chair to sit down at one end of an 19th century sofa. He glances toward the far door and absently adjusts his tie.
It's the most nervous she's ever seen him. Clarice is fuzzy on some things, yes, but never him. "They're not just your friends, are they, Doctor?"
He looks over at her, his maroon eyes narrowed slightly with pleasure and pride. "No," he confirms. "They're more like... family."
The door at the far end of the room opens to admit a beautiful woman, somewhere in her early twenties. She first peeks around the edge of the door, smiling brightly. "I couldn't wait any more," she says, and walks into the room. Her clothing is designer, her haircut youthful and sophisticated; she's self-assured in a way most people her age aren't. Clarice finds her intimidating on some level, though she's looking at Clarice now with a welcoming warmth. She folds her hands in front of her like a schoolgirl.
Hannibal stands and walks over to stand at her side. "Clarice Starling, allow me to introduce Miss Abigail Hobbs."
Abigail holds out her hand. "Hello, Clarice. I'm so glad you're finally here. We've all read so much about you in the papers, and Hannibal's filled in what he can."
Clarice reaches up and shakes her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Hobbs, and please forgive me for not getting up."
"Not at all," Abigail assures her happily. "I know the feeling."
Clarice is trying to be subtle about glancing around her. "I'm sorry, you said 'we'."
Hannibal takes a step back, and Abigail follows his lead. Behind them, a man is approaching; caught mid-stride by Clarice's gaze, he stops in his tracks. His eyes are the first thing to catch Clarice's attention, because they are examining her eyes like a boy examines a frog in the pond. If she were capable of feeling fear or anxiety right now, she's sure her hair would raise.
The man behind Abigail is slender with a head of dark curls, and he's dressed in simple white linen. It skims his body in a perfectly tailored sort of way, and Clarice is instantly convinced that fact is Hannibal's doing. This man doesn't seem like the sort who cares much about his appearance, but that's because he doesn't have to; he's nearly angelic in his features.
"Clarice, meet Will Graham. Like you, he was once a member of the FBI."
Will is still looking at her, as though he can read her life story written across her irises. It's a difference of day and night since the last time she saw him. "I took one of your courses at Quantico, Mr. Graham," Clarice tells him. "At the time I thought you were brilliant but troubled, and I suppose you being here means I was right."
"You're no rube any more, Starling." His quiet, serious voice penetrates her peaceful drug haze, and she feels something stir.
Hannibal turns from their company and goes to sit on the couch. "Will," he says. "Would you do me the favor of not dissecting anyone until tomorrow?"
Seating herself beside Hannibal, Abigail laughs softly. "He's just mad he's not the baby any more."
Will shoots her a look, and he's like a different person; his razor-sharp intensity is gone, replaced by a comfortable annoyed expression. "I'm twenty years older than you are."
"More like fifteen," she fires back. "Plus I was here before you, and I've seen you naked, so your authority is lost on me."
Will rolls his eyes and comes over to Clarice's chair. She means to flinch when he kneels down by her feet, but it doesn't translate from thought to action; after a moment she's not sure why she wanted to do it in the first place. He's only looking at her, silent and steady. Still, she must admit some curiosity. "I want to ask you something, but we don't know each other. I don't want to be rude."
"Go ahead," he says, with a bitter half-smile. "I'd be very surprised if you could surprise me."
Clarice cocks her head, examining him with the skills she has - not like his profiling abilities, certainly, but still up to the Bureau's standard. "When did he get to you? Was it after you tried to catch him, or before?"
Will stares at her for a second before he coughs, covering a laugh. When he looks back up at her, there's something new in his eyes. "Well, Starling... you surprised me."
Hannibal stands and claps his hands softly. "There'll be plenty of time for all the backstory," he says. "I suggest we discuss it over dinner. I don't know about all of you, but... I'm ravenous."
Abigail takes his arm with the grace of a woman twice her age, and they head off together into the house. Will stands, hesitates, then offers Clarice his hand.
She takes it, and once she's on her feet, she threads her arm into his in a way that would be wholly inappropriate to two FBI agents in the field. She raises an eyebrow at him.
Will's blank expression slowly crumples into a vague sort of annoyance. He looks away from her, down at his feet.
Together they follow Hannibal and Abigail, headed for the kitchen.