For a fraction of a second, surprise and recognition pass over her face; she schools her expression as soon as she realizes it's betrayed her, feeling a faint sense of embarrassment at that starstruck instinct. Her only hope is that he was looking away at the time. She doesn't have any illusions about her ability to disguise the microexpressions of her mouth and brows from one of the greatest profilers to pass through the Bureau's doors.

"Clarice Starling." Everything that comes to mind is something she's not about to say to one of the Bureau's most storied agents. I pictured you differently won't win her any friends here. After a moment, she settles on a sentiment that's bland but undeniably true. "It's a pleasure."

(He really doesn't look the way she pictured him, though. He's taller than her, but only in the way all men are, not particularly tall for his own sake, with a whiff of the academic to him. If he'd walked into the front of a lecture hall at Quantico and started talking, she'd have leaned in to listen.)