Hey ! I wonder if anyone read the last chapter, but here is another one. Hope you enjoy.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you were a vegetarian."
Frances' eyebrows rose above her discreetly painted eyelids – Christmas make up was slightly more ostentatious than her usual nude style. Of course, Jack Crawford worked for the FBI; he would remember every single detail fifteen years from now. So, exchanging a sly smile with her husband, the young woman nodded her assent.
"I was. But who can resist Hannibal cooking for long?"
Little would Jack know that it was the reverse situation that had brought her to back to meat. The need for proteins and iron, first, after the Red Dragon had dug a hole in her calf. And their honeymoon to Italy where she knew, for sure, that meat was acquired the proper way. Seeing her delight when eating meat and fish again, Hannibal had gone out of his way to cook the best of dishes for her – provided she bought the raw material herself.
"Ah, I can hardly fault you for changing your mind. This is delicious, Dr Lecter."
"Hannibal, please. When not in the office, we are friends."
A shiver ran up Frances' spine, as if a ghost had touched her shoulder and sent a warning. A flimsy image ran through her mind, a kitchen knife she knew well embedded in Jack's hand, his lips set in a grim line. It was gone an instant later, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. A quick peek at Hannibal told him nothing was amiss; he had not spotted her moment of absence. She then realised that the psychiatrist was true to his words; he truly counted Jack as a friend, but it wouldn't prevent him from ending his life if he became dangerous.
"I am grateful for your invitation, both of you. I didn't want to spend Christmas with Bella's sister again."
Both she and Hannibal hummed concomitantly, accepting the words unsaid. Painful memories. And so, to redirect Jack to happier ones, Frances wasn't surprised that Hannibal steered him to Italy. The discussion that followed crisscrossed through shared experiences and anecdotes – all those men, calling his future wife "Bella", hence her nickname – while Hannibal and Frances partook in their own. And the delicious meal of veal and roasted potatoes was eaten away, speaking of the country that had housed them for the past four months. Four months where Hannibal had shed his waistcoat and his suits, revealing the man that used to reside below his armour rather than the carefully clad Dr Lecter. The man she loved, and had got a glimpse of before he returned in the office.
He was beautiful … every day. Today even more with his cream-coloured suit and hair slicked back. She longed to dig her hands into his strands to disrupt them, to see colours to his cheeks, to watch that delicious drop of sweat that always ran down his temple whenever…
"Weren't you in Venise when those killers were found?"
Frances struggled not to flinch; fortunately, Jack's gaze was set upon her husband's face. And Hannibal, true to himself, didn't betray himself. The cold-blooded killer was back, clad in his person suit, a smile upon his lips and death in his eyes. For they gleamed with a twinkle of coldness, that desperate pit that sometimes gazed back at her.
"Ah yes, we fled," Frances eventually said, interrupting the long, assessing look Hannibal was giving Jack.
His smooth voice rose over the ornate table he had decorated himself, stating a truth that aimed to pass as a fact.
"Honeymoon is hardly a time to deal with murderers."
Jack swallowed his mouthful, his attitude nonchalant.
"Can't fault you there. This country is so magical, I remember when…"
The man's features froze then, and his voice caught. Frances suckled at her lip to prevent her eyes from misting over. The sentence remained unfinished, and she could literally feel the pain radiating from the tall man; such a raw emotion that she wondered how he breathed still.
"I miss her too", Frances said. "She was a shooting star in my life. We would have been good friends."
Bella's husband nodded sincerely.
"You were a good friend to her. Thank you … for being there."
This was as close as she would get to an apology, she guessed. But Frances wasn't a resentful person; she understood Jack's need to protect his dying wife, and had pardoned his behaviour a long time ago. So she smiled at the man who had, so unfairly, lost his better half.
How would she fare in his place? Probably really bad. And while Hannibal coaxed Jack into speaking of Bella some more, Frances remained in the background, reclining against the high chair. She mulled upon her own twisted relationship with the man she loved. Over her past, as the Keeper of Time, and the knight that Tristan had been. How simple would it be to simply meet someone and fall in love without a war at your feet ?
And while Jack painted a lovely picture of his married life with Phyllis – Bella –, his mix up of past and present tenses called her attention. He talked of her as if… Another pressure, on her shoulder, caused Frances to tense suddenly. There was no one in sight, but she felt someone… Her jerk interrupted the conversation, a warm hand landing on her wrist.
"Are you all right, my beautiful?"
The young woman didn't even spare a glance to her husband, too caught up in the realisation that attempted to flee her mind, to be crushed by rationality. Her eyes bore holes into Jack.
"Have you seen her?"
Jack blinked, his eyes narrowing. But it wasn't surprise, nor misunderstanding that she read on his face. It was uncertainty.
"What?"
Damn. Frances nibbled on her lip, sliding a glance to her husband who regarded her with curiosity. He looked almost … amused, and she hated that he could remain unfazed by almost anything when her heart thumped in her chest with hope. Suddenly, she felt like an immense fool, but that reassuring pressure – if cold – settled again upon her shoulder. As if to coax her to speak her mind. So she did.
"Jack. You speak as if … you had seen Bella, recently. Am I wrong?"
The head of Behavioural Sciences send her a serious look, assessing her possible reaction. Then he turned his wary gaze to Hannibal. The psychiatrist throned at the Christmas table, all poise and elegance, the devil himself contemplating his pawns. How wrong was it to find him beautiful? To love him with all her heart, knowing how much destruction he could wreak? To protect him with all her might, knowing he was a time bomb set against humanity?
"Will you have me committed if I say yes?" Jack asked.
A low chuckle rumbled in Hannibal's chest, and he slightly hoovered over the table. It was but an imperceptible move, but one that caused him to loom nonetheless. For an instant, he kept Jack trapped in his gaze, then his lips quirked.
"Fear not. Frances has broadened my perspectives. I am not as ready to dismiss supernatural events as I used to be."
The stocky man's eyebrows knitted, as if he was setting foot in unknown territory. For once, he wasn't in control of the protocols. So, hearing that Frances was the most likely to hear him out, his countenance softened as he turned to her.
"Yes. I have mostly felt her, but I saw her once."
Frances' chest flooded with warmth, and that weight upon her shoulders intensified. Was it, Bella? A genuine smile broke upon her face.
"She's watching over you. Neat."
"So you believe me?"
The suprise contained in Jack's voice told her he might have considered himself a tad crazy. He was, after all, a very rational man that dealt with very practical issues every day. How could she explain her beliefs? Frances took a sip of her white wine, letting the dry, fruity liquid soothe her mind before she answered.
"I've seen my share of ghosts over time."
Of course, Jack wouldn't be Jack if he didn't try to question her. But compared to the previous times he'd try to dig up her past, his interrogation seemed devoid of suspicion this time.
"When?"
Frances exchanged a wary look with Hannibal, just a passing glance. The psychiatrist imperceptibly nodded, giving her free rein upon what she wanted to share. The young woman swallowed, then set her glass on the table to gather her thoughts. Speaking of her past with Mulder and Scully on FBI unclassified files would not do. In this reality, the section didn't exist, and Scully had become a psychiatrist ensnared in Hannibal's clutches.
And Jack needed something personal to relate to. So she chose, instead, to speak of a matter very close to her heart.
"I had this close friend, Tristan. He…"
Her throat closed, and Frances felt her right hand being encased in warmth. She addressed a sad smile to Hannibal, watching the candlelight dance in his darkened irises. Tristan's irises. For a moment, she saw him again, unruly braids and beard eating away at his fair features. Frances blinked, and the vision was gone, but it called a smile to her lips.
It was painful to speak of Tristan's death, but he was here after all. Inside Hannibal. Jack wouldn't have this luxury. So, the young woman's gaze returned to him.
"He died. Said he would watch over me. After his death, I plunged into the icy sea in an attempt to forget. Then I saw him on the shore."
The pressure on her fingers intensified; her husband's countenance was showing a few signs of distress. His face gave nothing away, but the hard set of his jaw contradicted the playfulness of his words.
"You certainly have a knack for diving in water when upset, my beautiful."
Frances froze; she had failed to realise how her near death in Stromboli's depths mimicked that fateful day where Tristan's ghost had called her back ashore in the fifth century. Had it been a catharsis from this day, four years ago, when she had to accept his death to postpone her own? A re-enactment?
Jack observed the exchange with curiosity; lost in their own little world, Dr Lecter and his wife were having an entire conversation without a single word spoken. And if the lines of the psychiatrist's face barely betrayed any emotion, Jack could feel that this man, Tristan, had been a close friend … perhaps more than a friend. How did Hannibal managed to keep such an impassive expression when his wife talked about a stranger with such strong emotions? He would have been incredibly jealous.
At last, he cleared his throat and both spouses returned to him. Frances addressed him a sheepish smile.
"So you see, I believe you. I am sure that wherever she is, Bella is waiting for you."
And her words weren't rehearsed nor as cheesy as they seemed. There was none of the usual condolences and reassurances that people told a loved one in grief. The woman's chocolate eyes held only truth, and she believed fiercely that Bella was here, watching over him. It brought him comfort, even if he hoped she wasn't getting too bored, up there, waiting for him.
Dr Lecter excused himself to get desserts, and Jack couldn't help but offer his assistance, which was denied rather vehemently. Both husband and wife proceeded to clear the table, dancing around each other like a set of principal dancers, leaving him in the room with a glass of wine to finish while they set up the last part of their meal. Jack took a moment to wander around the room, stopping at the harpsichord that seemed such an archaic instrument.
The furniture had taste, the floor polished to perfection, not a stain in the Lecter's immaculate home. He wondered idly if they hired a housemaid, or what would become of the pristine furniture and dark red curtains should a child grace their household.
He felt out of place, here. As if he had stepped into the past, and forgotten the key to get back home. The walls, the doors, the handles, the cushions … even the Louis XV couch was out of time.
"Dessert is ready."
Jack nearly jumped out of his skin; how had he not heard the Dr Lecter sneak up on him with all his years of training? Flustered, he tried to cover his surprise with a jab.
"I see no TV, it didn't fit the furniture, I guess?"
Dr Lecter's amused smirk, emphasised by the low lights, nearly caused him to shiver. Then, his countenance softened and Jack wondered if he was crazy altogether to feel threatened by a fifty-year-old psychiatrist.
"Ah, no," he responded. "We have no shortage of amusement. I do not have enough free time to get bored. And in the unlikely case it might happen, my harpsichord composition is always in need of attention."
Jack nodded, following the Doctor to the dining table where a beautiful Yule log caused his mouth to water. Was there anything that Hannibal didn't do perfectly? This dessert was a work or art, with delicate chocolate flowers to compliment to layered cream and blood red highlights.
"Wow. I understand why you don't have much free time. This must have taken an eternity."
Frances snorted, putting three champagne glasses on the table while the Dr devoted himself to uncorking the French Veuve Cliquot.
"Yes, and Hannibal works too much at any rate."
"I hear the complaint of a wife here. Bella used to say the same," Jack smiled.
"But she also worked a lot, right?"
Jack sighed; despite their short acquaintance, Frances seemed to have a good understanding of his late wife. Yes, both he and Phyllis used to live at work, missing out long periods of time they should have shared rather than spend in the office.
"Yes. That's why we never quite decided it was the right time for children. Then … well, you know the rest. But you are young, Frances."
His words caused her face to freeze, and her eyes to avert. Suddenly, Jack felt very awkward, and the loud "pop" of the champagne saved him from further embarrassment as Hannibal poured three glasses of bubbly liquid with great care. His eyes didn't stray from the task as he stated with finality:
"That age gap doesn't work much in favour of children."
Jack held his hand out to gather the flute or sparkling delicacy. Was Dr Lecter considered too old to get a child?
"Plenty of celebrities had a child after fifty," he blurted out in surprise.
A chuckle came from his right; Frances was holding her glass sideways to allow her husband to fill it without too much foam forming. The long ringlets fell over her titled silhouette and he had to admit that she was a gorgeous woman, if not to his taste.
"Celebrities are hardly the best example of mental health," she quipped.
"Good point, Mrs Lecter," he laughed, watching as she retreated to her seat.
She moved like a dancer… or a fighter. All grace and poise, but muscles controlled. Not a drop of champagne went overboard, her loose hair settling over the square neck decolletage that gave her a renaissance century look. She, also, was a lady of the past.
"My wife is young, but not devoid of wisdom."
Hannibal was now in the process of filling the third glass, his gestures controlled. Hands of a surgeon. But Frances wasn't done teasing her husband:
"Well, I married you."
Dr Lecter's eyebrows rose upon his forehead, but he didn't desist from his task. It was almost a ritual, quite mesmerising as the liquid gently left the bottle to settle in the tilted glass.
"That's not the best example," he stated, his voice smooth and laden with amusement.
"Mayhap. But I love you all the same."
At last, the glass was filled, and Hannibal Lecter lifted it with a smile upon his lips. He didn't respond to his wife, choosing to toast instead.
"A merry Christmas to you both."
Both Jack and Frances clinked their glasses to him, then took a sip of champagne. But the head of behavioural sciences couldn't help but notice that the psychiatrist had not returned his wife's statement. A private man, for sure, but it would have been fitting. Frances didn't seem fazed, so Jack reclined in his seat and decided to enjoy the rest of the evening.
The Yule log taught him everything he needed to know when it came to patisserie: this was the best address in town!
Sunday 28th of December, 2008
It was a lazy morning, one of the few before Hannibal's office would claim him again. Like Tristan, the psychiatrist was an early riser. A trait that didn't suit his wife at all, so he endeavoured to come back to her after cooking breakfast on Sundays, just for the pleasure to see her little nose emerge from under the covers and sniff the smells that came from the kitchen.
Today, though, she had claimed him before he could leave bed. Soft hands caressed his body languorously, and her skin, her scent, her hair surrounded him. Soon enough, fairy was riding him in the darkness, her paleness highlighted by the artificial light coming from the streets, her body dancing above him like a priestess in worship. And, when she successfully brought him into oblivion, they both fell asleep anew, entwined like a set of vines. He, a poisonous plant, she, a soothing one.
He would be opium; beautiful, addictive, and deadly. She, a Gardienia flower; enthralling and pure.
And so, when the psychiatrist opened his eyes anew, it was late enough to drag his wife in the shower. Flowers needed water after all… Then, once Hannibal had thoroughly lathered and washed her skin, he engulfed her in a towel and sat her on the martial bed. It was a tradition inherited from Italy, one he found rather soothing. Especially when the towel exposed her lower back, creamy skin peeking under reddish strands. Did she even know how those contrasts made her a work of art ? How many time he'd drawn her, naked or clothed ?
"What shall it be, husband ?", she asked.
"A simple braid today," he responded, parting her damp hair into three equivalent strands.
It was with a smile painted on her lips that Frances closed her eyes, relishing in the firmess of Hannibal's hands as he plaited her hair. As she felt him reach her lower back and tug in the solid braid, the young woman sighed in contentment; how she loved those moments of intimacy. As they basked in each other's presence, she could almost forget his proclivities. Forget that death followed him, lurking, awaiting for its chance.
"What would you like to eat for New Year's eve, my beautiful?"
His silk tones were a caress to her ears, and she only hummed when Hannibal reached for the elastic band around her wooden hairbrush.
"Oysters? Mussles?", he prodded.
The young woman grimaced as he secured the braid expertly.
"Ugh, no. Texture ! I hate those squishy things, I need something firm under my tongue."
Frances realised the double meaning too late, the words leaving her mouth a tad too early. So she wasn't surprised when long fingers closed around her upper arms and a warm breath brushed her now exposed ear.
"Spiky lobster then, it is as firm as can be", Hannibal whispered. "I am well aware of your tastes."
A furious blush spread on her cheeks as she twisted to catch a glimpse of him. He sat behind her, barechested, chestnut curls marred with white upon his well-defined muscles. There was a discreet layer of fat upon him, and, to his great dismay, little love handles that she adored. Her eyes travelled upwards; there was no mistaking the twinkle in his eyes nor the slight curve of his mouth.
"You, sir, are a mischievious husband"
Hannibal smirked. Warm hands circled her waist, the rougher skin trailing to her front when he fastened his arms around her. Frances reclined him. All tension left her body as it touched his bare skin; it was so magical. And when the pressure of his head landed upon hers, she deflated altogether.
This was home; the safe circle of his arms, the humming of their entwined bodies, attuned to the other's desires and wishes. Eventually, Hannibal shifted and he resumed their conversation as if the minutes that had gone by didn't exist.
"I have been known to be, grazi."
Ever scarcely, Lithuanian words escaped him. The sound warmed her heart, and she wiggled, rising on her knees to turn around in his arms. Hannibal lifted his face gently, resting his delicate chin in between her breast. She traced his cheekbone with a finger, then caressed his sensual upper lip. The desire to devour his mouth sent a pang of desire in her belly, and Frances wondered if she would ever have enough of him.
He probably wasn't oblivious to her arousal but Hannibal didn't move an inch, lips quirked, that amused gleam shining in his wide-open eyes. They were almost golden in the morning light. Eventually, Frances dove for a quick kiss, then cupped his cheeks gently.
"I love your humour, it suits you. As much as I love … the rest of you."
"Firm?", Hannibal questioned.
Frances laughed, the reminder of morning activities very fresh in her mind.
"That as well."
Thoughts ? Reviews ?