SUBLIME, Hannibal Lecter

͙⁺˚*･ ( 10. the date )

'I'D RATHER LIE THAN TELL YOU I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU'

Sloane firmly believed she was above the typical teenage dramas.
As it turns out, she was very wrong.

She was in her room, surrounded by a sea of clothes that seemed to have declared war on her carpet. The closet was empty, except for a pair of mismatched socks. 'Why do I even have socks with the Penguins of Madagascar on them?' she wondered, along with a belt she didn't remember owning and a cowboy hat Brian Zeller had given her for Christmas during their Secret Santa exchange.

He had claimed that "every self-respecting psychopath needs a bit of style."

"So," Beverly Katz, sitting on the bed with a bag of chips in hand and her feet propped up on a skull-shaped pillow, crunched loudly. "According to my scientific calculations, this is the twelfth shirt you've tried on. And no, black on black doesn't count as an alternative outfit. Plus, you're going to the opera. Not a rock concert."

Sloane shot her a murderous look, holding up two nearly identical shades of gray dresses. "It's not my fault Hannibal's a perfectionist! What the hell do you wear to the opera with a man who looks like he stepped out of a Renaissance painting?!"

"Well, personally, I'd go for a bulletproof dress," Beverly replied, shrugging. "But since you're totally into him, I'd say you can skip the paranoia part."

"I'm not into him," Sloane hissed, grabbing what she thought was a navy blue dress, only to realize it was the lining of a pillow. "It's just... a cultural evening. Between colleagues."

Beverly burst out laughing, almost choking on a chip. "Colleagues. Sure. And Will Graham hosts candlelit dinners for corpses. Come on, Sloane, even Jack bet you'd kiss him before his next dinner invitation."

"Jack Crawford bet on me?!" Sloane flopped onto the bed, covering her face with her hands. "Why do I even tell you things?"

Beverly pulled her hands away, handing her a tight red dress that looked like it belonged in a 60s spy's wardrobe. "Because we're friends. And because, unlike you, I know what to do in these situations. In all the years we've known each other, I don't think I've ever seen you this worked up. Try this on."

"It's fire-engine red," Sloane observed, raising an eyebrow.

"Exactly. The message it sends is: 'Yes, I can analyze a corpse at 3 a.m., but I can also break your heart with a single glance,'" Beverly winked. "It always works. I wore it on a date with a medical examiner, and now he's married to a man."

Sloane sighed but slipped into the dress anyway. The mirror reflected a woman she didn't recognize; her hair was neatly styled after an epic battle with the hairdryer, her lips slightly red ('Sloane, it's just lipstick, not blood!' Beverly had insisted), and that damn dress that felt embarrassing.