Hey. Short chapter here, but it is emotionnally charged so I decided to keep it at that.

Will Graham killed Freddie Lounds. Will was a murderer. There was no simple answer, no right and wrong anymore… She just knew that it came from the heart, but hers was breaking. In love with the devil, yes. That much was true. How could she love him, when everything he touched was corrupted ? When would her mind be twisted enough to stop being the protector Thor had asked her to be ?

It didn't matter, right ? Didn't matter when the water engulfed her in its warm softness. Frances clutched at the heavy rock she'd found at the bottom of the sea. Its roughness imprinted on her fingers, the waters reflecting that incredible colour. Indigo. She'd never it seen it anywhere else. Below her, the steep slope of the volcano plunged in the depths.

Just like 'Le grand bleu', she felt like Jacques, reaching for the dolphin to welcome him in death. Perhaps Hannibal should have chosen 'Delphine' rather than 'Hélène'.

All this time she thought he was wrong to seek kinship in Will. To think that the empath may be able to understand, to become like him. She thought her husband was misguided by the fact they had killed, together, fifteen hundred years ago. In the fifth century, the circumstances had pushed Galahad to kill to defend his brothers and his life.

Now… she wasn't not so sure. Maybe Will would have broken and embraced his inner darkness if she had not intervened. For even if she wanted to ignore it, it was there, right ? If Will had killed Freddie Lounds, even in their defense, it meant he was able to do so in the 21st century. For his brother, for his loved ones. But able to kill nonetheless. Closer to Hannibal than she thought… Closer to them both, for she had hilled Tobias Budge.

A trio of killers. Just like the fifth century.

Underwater, everything became so simple. Air was starting to be a problem, so Frances walked deeper and deeper. One step after the other in the bottom of the sea, deep blue surrounding her, then black. The sun shifting away as she progressed. Fishes passed over her head, a jellyfish was straying in the current.

After a while, the pressure became strong enough for her lungs to stop protesting and she watched, mesmerised, the unending expense of indigo – the result of the black sand beneath her feet – that greeted her with open arms. Frances sat, the heavy rock in her lap, on the burnt soil of the Stromboli. Six meters underwater, perhaps seven. Eight ? She didn't know; the sea was so pure, here, that she couldn't keep count.

It didn't matter.

Air was scarce, now, and her vision started to blacken. It felt so different than the swimming pool. So different from that day, when the Red Dragon awaited her. Perhaps because, at the time, she was desperate to break the surface and run to Hannibal, to save him from this fate. She didn't care anymore, now… she couldn't live, with or without him.

Perhaps she would forget to swim up to the surface. It might solve her problem.

Actually, she felt good down there. Funny, she'd never been quite proficient at free-diving… and she didn't think she had the energy to move anymore. The world was too harsh here, the air too scratchy, noises too loud. Emotions… too raw.

Frances' eyes closed.

The rock slowly fell with a thud that reverberated under water, her hands no longer able to hold it. But her body remained. Something suddenly pulled at her arm. Frances barely reacted as she was dragged upwards. She couldn't kick her legs, couldn't open her eyes. Too tired.

When she broke the surface, the harsh environment assaulted her senses at once. A warm body wrapped around hers, holding her up.

— "Breathe !", came the harsh command.

But she didn't want to, oblivion was better than… she didn't remember what had happened.

— "Damnit, Frances ! Breathe !"

The shout himself was enough for her body to regain consciousness, and her lungs protested at once. Reflex took over. Frances took a large gulp of air, then another. The grip on her chin increased, and she was dragged ashore by a powerful body. Her eyes opened on the way, closing at once from the intensity of the light.

— "Good", he panted. "Again."

She knew that voice, knew that body, those coiled muscles. Her husband had come to the rescue, and from his tone, she could tell he was very, very upset.

Her feet touched the ground – sand – and Hannibal scooped her in his arms, dragging her face to his ear to ensure she had not swallowed too much water. Her breathing was a little erratic, but devoid of hitches.

His little fairy had almost committed suicide, by his fault. Had he not followed her from afar, watched her disappear into the sea… he would have buried her. The psychiatrist collapsed on the hot sand, his shirt and pants soaked, a barely conscious Frances in his arms. He tightened his grip around her; an apology, perhaps. The memory of her unconscious form, so many months ago as he waited for the ambulance, caused his chest to tighten.

What had he done ? He wanted to break her will, and remould her again. But she was too proud to surrender.

Her breathing stuttered, and Hannibal kissed her lips soundly to revive her. To remind her that life awaited her. Frances' body arched in his hands as she rasped.

— "Bring me back ! Bring me back, no one will miss me."

And he was reminded, once more, how she had no one left in this alternate reality. His throat closed, and he kissed her forehead with conviction.

— "Don't leave me, little wife. I will, I will miss you."

She was shaking her head now, tears falling down her damp cheeks.

— "I have missed you, damn it!", he almost shouted, his voice breaking.

Even when he stood on that bucket, his heartrate had never spiked like this. Contemplating his own death had been less stressful than watching her struggle for breath. But she couldn't believe him. How could she, after what he had done ? And so, he repeated his plea, over and over again, hoping she would hear him.

At last, her eyes opened, and they locked gaze. He wiped the tears from her eyes tenderly, his thumb freeing the chocolate eyes he loved so badly, only to face her accusation.

— "How can you say that, when you want to corrupt me ? You can't change me, Hannibal."

Frances tried to sit, and it took all his willpower to let go. She gathered her knees, and rested her cheek upon it, closing her eyes once. A dizzy spell; he could recognise it well enough. How close she had come to dying… a mere ten seconds, perhaps, and she would have been done for. Hannibal shuddered.

Her eyes opened once more, and she sent him an intense look.

— "I'll die before I become what you want me to be."

Hannibal nodded; he believed her. And so, he let both of his knees fall into the sand, and grabbed her cheeks to rest his forehead against hers.

— "You will be the death of me, my wife."

Frances froze, a weird sensation in the pit of her stomach. Then she started shaking, and he gathered her in his arms again. Just to make sure that she was still here, still alive. They remained thus a long time, she, playing with the hem of his shirt. He, embracing her as if she was a child. Passersbys probably though her his daughter; what a peculiar man, bathing with his clothes. They were now laden with dark sand.

A deep rumble echoed in the silence, an explosion that shook the foundations of the island itself. Frances' eyes lifted to the plume of pink ash that rose in the air.

— "Tomorrow, I will show you what power is. True, raw power."

And she rose, extending her hand to him. A gesture of peace. Hannibal grabbed her fingers, finding them warm, with newfound respect.

Frances wouldn't be changed.

The strombolicchio was slowly disappearing into the night; the harsh rocky spikes blending between the blue of the sea, and the darker hues of the sky. The lone glow of the lighthouse lit up, and the shadows disappeared altogether.

Beside her, she could hear Hannibal set the table for two. Of course, he had found a cloth, cutlery and crystal glasses. The characteristic smell of candles floated in the air, overlapping the sea. She knew he would monitor her all night to ensure she was safe from dry drowning, or any stuff that might happen after her stunt. Lungs, as Alana had said a year ago, was the siege of sadness after all. And If Hannibal might have scoffed at this analysis, she knew he wasn't about to take chances.

— "Frances ?"

The young woman didn't react, despondent. She didn't want to face him. His voice washed over her again, and she wondered why she loved him. Why he made her feel so safe, so cherished in the first place. Why she was addicted to his skin, to his taste, to his smell… the same one now washing over her.

I almost died. Do I want to die ? What's my purpose here ? I shouldn't even be alive…

How could one love and hate with so much strength ? With such equality ? He was calling her again, but she struggled to form coherent thoughts. The adrenalin crash, perhaps. Or she'd damaged some circuits in her brain; both hypothesis had equal probabilities.

— "Beloved…"

This snapped her out of her trance; he'd never called her that. Not a sentence, ever since she'd kissed him in his office, with the word 'love' embedded inside.

But Frances was in a strange place, right now. A place where thoughts danced in her mind without logical behaviour; she couldn't even tie them together. The moment she grasped one, it escaped, twirling away to present another image. Another thought.

She felt the blanket she'd been huddled in part, and a warm hand grab her fingers gently.

— "Will you not speak to me ?"

His contact seemed to awaken that part of her brain that controlled her body. Frances turned her head, slowly, to observe him. The depths of his gaze, greyish in the candlelight, showed how much he worried. She squeezed his hand once, trying to find her voice but he beat her to it.

— "I've cooked some fish. Can you eat ?"

Eat ? Will my body open for food, like it has opened for air ?

That first breath had been so difficult, as if she was forcing life into her body. Ever since Hannibal had dragged her back to their temporary house, Frances had neither drunk not eaten anything. It felt… intrusive. The delicious smell of dinner twirled around her.

Red meat, cooked to perfection. Frances had found that she craved red meat more than anything at the moment, the result of her anemia. Vegetarisme didn't suit her; that was too bad. They'd come to an agreement with Hannibal; they bought it together, at the butcher. There was nothing than he loved more than cook meat for her, he could now unravel all his talent in the kitchen. Share his taste, even if it wasn't human.

Tonight, he had outdone himself with a beautiful piece of beef. An attempt to make piece.

Hannibal's hand left hers, travelling upwards, causing her to recoil. Smell was alright, but touch wasn't. She noticed the flash of hurt in his eyes, but what could she do ? Contact was too harsh, so much harsher than water had been. She longed to return at the bottom of that ocean, the deep blue sea around her, and the rumbling power of the volcano beneath.

But Hannibal awaited her answer, so she nodded. Could he be that person ? The one that caused her to return to the land of the living ? Did she want it, rather than await the next opportunity to finish what she had started ? Hannibal's tall frame suddenly folder around her, and she allowed her head to settled upon his shoulder. Slowly, the psychiatrist rested his head on top of hers, his arms tightening against her frame, without touching her skin. A loose embrace, heartfelt all the same.

A deep, weary sigh escaped his lips and Frances felt his taut muscles relax. They sat there, in silence, watching the mesmerising reflections of the village over the sea. Frances' hand gently searched for his chest below the blanket. She splayed them on his shirt, finding his steady heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. Life, in its simplest form, flowing in his veins. Thud. Thud. Slow, and powerful. Reverberating inside his broad chest.

There was peace in life as well.

— "Do you know what this is ?", she suddenly asked.

Hannibal followed her gaze to the lighthouse.

— "Il Strombolicchio ?", he all but purred, curious.

Frances shuddered, remembering how soothing she found the caress of his voice.

— "Yes."

— "Tell me about it"

He was coaxing her, gently, to leave the shell she'd trapped herself in. His arms didn't move, encasing her without constraining her. Showing his support, without suffocating. And so, Frances found her voice again.

— "It is an ancient chimney of the volcano. A relic from the past roughly 200 000 years ago."

— "The first Stromboli ?"

Frances nodded; was there any subject in which Hannibal wasn't proficient? But again, he'd had fifty years of curiosity to build his knowledge. And the subject was lying elsewhere.

— "It's me. A shell of the past, sometimes. But there's still light in the darkness."

The psychiatrist nodded by her side, his loose hair slightly brushing her cheek.

— "Who are we, but products of our past ?"

— "A product you cannot accept"

There should have been a sharp intake of breath, a tension… anything to betray emotion. But Hannibal was too adept at hiding his own feelings. He controlled them, even. So, instead of reacting in anger or offense, he searched her gaze instead.

— "It was a lesson learned in grief, but one I have learnt nonetheless. You are a ruthless teacher, little wife."

— "What of the morale?", she asked, attempting a parallel with La Fontaine fables.

Hannibal's irises seemed to melt, and a slow smile crept up his lips. As if he acknowledged that the rules had changed. A new challenge.

— "I will not try to mold you."

Hope slowly seeped in her bones, and Frances watched, mesmerised, the shadows play upon his features. Fifty years old, and so incredibly handsome…

— "Promise ?"

Like a child would ask an adult, but the young woman didn't quite care about hierarchy. Hannibal could behave despicably, but he always kept his promises. If she could extract one…

— "That's a promise."

And, slowly, gently, Hannibal leant into her until his lips were just a breath away. Giving her the opportunity to pull back. Frances closed the distance, her mouth meeting his for a very slow, sensual kiss. It lasted forever; his breath, the softness of his lips, his tongue gently caressing hers, his arms circling her back, fingers grazing her cheek.

When she eventually pulled away, Frances found herself strangely revived.

If she didn't eat much at dinner, she couldn't help but notice how Hannibal's hand kept caressing her. An attempt, perhaps, to reacquaint her with skin-to-skin contact. The psychiatrist kept her close while he washed and stowed the dishes, poised and quiet. A camomille lay, smoking, in front of her until Hannibal was satisfied with the kitchen, and hoisted her up in his arms to drag her to the bedroom.

There, he proceeded to undress her with careful gestures. Little by little, he revealed her skin, gracing it with his mouth – wet and soft – before his hands replaced it. He caressed her as he would play the piano, leaving no piece ignored, until he shed his shirt and pants. Then, it was his own skin that created the bridge of communication, his warmth, his scent, surrounding her. At last, Frances sighed. Her body arched into his touch, searching him.

Hannibal smiled, and kissed her full on the mouth, looping his tongue with hers with a moan of delight. He'd thought her lost, she was returning to him.

— "Open for me, my beautiful", he begged, enthralled by the sensation of her beneath him. "Open for me, and I'll give you everything that I am."

Frances whimpered, overwhelmed by the sea of sensations that assaulted her. Her head fell backwards in the cushion; she had never heard him so sincere. Never before had Hannibal offered himself so entirely – he always kept a part for himself. So when her legs opened to welcome him in her core, Hannibal rasped.

— "I won't hold back, I'll make you feel alive. I promise."

As usual, please leaaaaaaaaaave a review :p