There's a very nervous-looking man seated at the bar, clad in a slightly wrinkled suit that tries too hard to give the impression of quality, with a dark brown overcoat on top. There's a small suitcase at his feet and a glass of scotch in his hands, and every so often he'll turn on his stool to scan the room before facing forward once again.
He
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Chilton clutches the glass to keep his hands from shaking, unable to bring himself to do more than glance in Lecter's direction.
"I... think you might be mistaken." A slightly wavering laugh to accompany a desperate man's attempt at denial.
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Hannibal smiles slightly and moves over, sitting next to him.
"How've you been?"
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He tries not to flinch, but it's no use. "Well," he manages to choke out, keeping his eyes fixed on something behind the bar. "I've been well, Dr. Lecter... and-- yourself?"
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And she frowns, suddenly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Nobody ever did figure out what happened to Dr. Fuckface.
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When faced with the prospect of Dr. Lecter or humiliation, he would most definitely take humiliation. Which is why he slides off his bar stool and approaches her table, flashing his most winning smile. "Well, well. Miss Starling, is it?" Even now he can't keep that tone out of his voice.
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Clarice turns the frown upside-down, but it still has the same pressed-thin quality to it.
"Dr. Chilton," she says, though she's more wary and puzzled than strained.
When is he from?
"I didn't expect I'd see you again."
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Chilton's smile only lasts so long, replaced by a mixture of annoyance and fear. "I should be halfway across the world right now," he mutters. "I'm sure you must have, ah... heard about Dr. Lecter's escape? I thought it would be best if I, well, left until he was caught again."
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