Hey. I wonder why this popped up, but I needed to get it out of my head. This is an alternate universe, where Frances eventually find Tristan back in the form of Hannibal. She loves him still. For those who just stumble upon my Frances series, do not hesitate to have a look in my profile to see her chronology.

So, this is the reviewed first chapter of this story and … erm, the rating goes M, then Enjoy.

He opened the door with as much conviction as ever, curious to see who had elicited to become his next patient. The same noise, the same whoosh as he pulled the handle to place himself across the frame in a dominant position. The same movement, to greet a patient, or welcome a new one. A dozen times per day, a thousand times since he's settled in this consulting room. Nothing ever threw him off guard, he was ready for anything, feared nothing. He was, after all, the most dangerous of them all. All coiled muscles, keen intelligence, manipulative to the core and resilient to pain; fit as a fiddle should any danger arise. He'd seen any kind of mental diseases, any types of patients in the past. Men, women, some beautiful and quite intent on seducing him. Elderly and youngsters of any background. But she … she was something else.

Her almond shaped eyes stared right at him, unsurprised by his sudden appearance. As if she'd known all along that he would open the door this very instant. High cheekbones complimented her oval face, a little pointy chin ending the line of her elegant jaw. Even in the dim light, he could clearly see her milky complexion, its glow emphasised by the fire of her hair. Long strands framed her face, falling in ringlets of dark red across her chest until they touched her waist. For a moment, he wondered how long it took to obtain such a disciplined coiffure. Yet she didn't strike him as a vain woman; the slight accent of make-up accentuated her warm chocolate eyes. But that was it. No mascara, no artifice, no red lipstick, not even a shade of powder on her cheeks. Fairness in earnest.

Her silhouette was curvaceous, yet lean enough to speak of a dynamic nature. A dancer dark top enhanced her form, while a long, muslin powdery skirt draped over her legs like a silken sheet, suggesting the shape of a long calf, yet hiding it from view. Her poise, alike to a ballerina, called for his lips to land on her elegant neck. How would her pulse point feel under his teeth?

Hannibal almost started, surprised by his own thoughts. This split of a second lasted a moment too long during ; she was literally boring holes into him. As if she could read him … see him! For the first time in his life, Hannibal had to pause before speaking.

— 'Please come in'

The woman only nodded her assent, but for a moment, she remained frozen, her expression filled with sorrow and wonder. As if she'd seen the ghost of a long lost relative. Then she rose gracefully, the ringlets of her hair swaying gently as he stepped back to admit her in his office. She passed him with a meaningful look, her gaze loaded with so many emotions that he couldn't make heads or tails of it. As if she knew him. Hannibal kept his impassive, yet welcoming stance, closing the door silently. She wore no perfume, her delicate smell gently filling his nostrils. Genuine to the very last bit, his perfect doppelganger.

Hannibal watched as she stepped slowly into his den, her intelligent eyes taking in the layout, and the mood of his working room. Silent feet, although she wore delicate dark heels. Keen sense of observation as she turned around to take in the details, her gaze gently brushing his for a scant moment. The therapist motioned her to the armchair, and there she sat, one long leg swiftly moving over the other, the layers of muslin draping once more over them. Only the rounded tip of her shoe emerged from the waterfall of fabric. Elegant. He had to give her that; she could give him a run for his money, although her clothes were much less formal than his. Still, her could see in her choice of fabrics that she loved beautiful things. A woman of taste.

His keen eye caught hers, and he wondered about the simmering emotions that seemed to loom inside her psyché. For they boiled, under the surface; he could almost smell them. Despair, sadness, trauma … but also love and hope, albeit her mask was smooth. To anyone other than a master manipulator, they might have remained hidden. Still, her eyes spoke volumes to him. Their warmth chocolate, almost golden in the indirect light of his office, betrayed her fondness for him. Her wariness as well, as if she expected to be attacked.

What did she want with him?

Settling in his usual chair, putting the professional distance between therapist and patient, Hannibal eventually broke the silence.

— 'What can I do for you, Mrs …?'

— 'Frances.'

The psychiatrist paused, opening his booklet. This name rang a bell, and a strange shudder ran through his spine, a wave of longing.

— 'And your surname?'

— 'I'm just Frances.'

Hannibal had to master his eyebrows to not shot up. There. Maybe she was crazy after all. A new case to evaluate, how exciting. Now, his brain wanted to overtake the session, to steer him back into safe waters. For this woman unsettled him greatly, her presence alone making his body hum in delight.

— 'So, Frances. What brings you to my office?'

— 'You'

Silence ensued. This time, Hannibal set his booklet aside, balancing the item very thoroughly on the armrest to gather his thoughts. A movement caught his gaze, the rustling of her skirt only confirming it; the young woman had risen in silence, not unlike a shadow. Slowly, she stalked to him, the look in her eyes overwhelmed by an emotion he had never seen directed to him. Well, not since he was a child. Awe. And despite her dark top and mane of fiery hair, he could see only light. Hannibal arose as well, all muscles coiled as he watched her approach. Wary. She exuded an air of danger, as if she didn't fear him but knew altogether what he was capable of. At last, she came face to face with him, her slighter stature requiring that she lifted her head – despite the heels - such was their closeness.

Her eyes gazed right back at him, deep emotions swirling behind the mask she'd carefully displayed.

— 'Look at me,' she whispered.

The psychiatrist complied, surprised by his own reaction. Since when did he obey orders from random strangers ? The distance was far from being professional, and he berated himself for letting her close the distance so easily. Hannibal watched the familiar contours of her face – when, exactly, had they embedded themselves in his memory? He noted the shortness of her breath; she, too, was unsettled. He knew that woman, longed to hold her close. Something deep within his soul whispered that she wasn't his in the first place, that he was unworthy of her. Yet he'd never met her.

Eventually, a sigh passed her rosy lips as she asked, her eyes still set upon his face.

— 'Do you not recognise me?'

His head shook from left to right, words failing. Yes, and no. Trapped in her gaze, he couldn't help but notice the flicker of sadness that washed through her eyes. Her presence was so intense, so overwhelming that he longed to melt inside of her. The young woman lifted tentative fingers, silently asking for permission to touch him. Hannibal didn't recoil, too curious, too eager to feel her bare skin upon his. Awaiting for an epiphany; maybe he would remember then.

Her soft fingers cupped his cheek, and he couldn't refrain the onslaught of emotions that washed through him. Love, relief, longing. Hannibal closed his eyes for a second, his heart beating frantically at being touched thus. By a stranger.

— 'Tristan,' she whispered.

His eyes flew open, his own hand came to overlay hers. Fingers brushed against each other on his cheek, the contact of her skin so sweet that he longed to prolong it. He that was used to slicing, dicing and violence couldn't believe what he felt. It had been so long since someone had touched him that way. Silence surrounded them, time stopped as none of them wanted to pull out, their eyes speaking of shock and joy at the same time. Hannibal could only remark how open her gaze was compared to his, even if they shared the peculiar golden flecks that marred their depth. Could she read him as well as he read her?

Then, at last, Frances rose on her toes. Slowly, sensually, her other hand slid gently behind his neck, sending tingles through his skin. A vulnerable spot; should she choose to attack him, she'd have the upper hand. Her fingers brushed the tip of his hair, massaging his skull slightly; a shiver ran down his spine. It felt so right, so true, so loving that his knees struggled to keep him upright. When her eyes fluttered shut, her lips gently rising to his own in the gentlest of caresses, Hannibal wondered if he'd found redemption. A feather like kiss was deposited upon his mouth.

No. Redemption was a concept. But this … the sensual dance of her lips around his, as if she tasted something precious, this was something else altogether. Elation, perhaps? There was no epiphany in his mind – she still was a stranger, and no memory forthcoming – but his body knew. Humming, muscles clenching at her touch, Hannibal felt his need arise and take control. His hands lifted of their own accord, circling her waist to press her against his tall frame. An anchor, while his fingers slid across her spine to settle on her upper back. They found skin, just below her nape, and decided to settle to keep her close. How deliciously soft…

His tongue begged to taste her; she granted his wish with a loaded sigh that caused his heart to miss a beat. As if he had granted the most precious of present. Her scent was a blessing, faint and feminine, like a beacon of light in the darkness luring him in. The prey and the predator. Her taste, sweet heavens! He knew he would never have enough. His tongue swiped across her rosy lips, caressing their plumpness before plunging into the deep, taking full control of the shy kiss she had bestowed upon him. Her warmth engulfed him, her body so plush, so compliant. Softer than he would ever be. Her little hand slid against his waistcoat, finding its way under the suit, pressing his lower back with more strength than her frame let on.

Damn woman, she was going to set him on fire! He needed to react before he was utterly lost! But then, his mind begged for him to surrender. How long since he'd had such a beautiful woman in his arms? In his sheets? The beasts longed for a mate, to bury himself deep within.

Pulling back, his breath uneven, Hannibal couldn't find the strength to let her go. His lips had released her, but the rest of his body refused most vehemently. The young woman tightened her grip on his waist, her wide chocolate eyes fearful. She bit her lower lip, unsure, but didn't come forth. Her gaze, though, didn't leave his face, expecting his decision. As if he could refuse her! But he was in control, the only one in control, right?

In an effort so tremendous that the coils of his mind creaked, the psychiatrist unclenched his hands and let them drop by his side. Frances closed her eyes in defeat, the tightness around her mouth showing how she quelled her disappointment. Then her posture sagged, and she dropped her forehead upon his chest, her hands coming to rest upon his pristine waistcoat. A tentative goodbye, one last moment enjoying his presence. Hannibal frowned, realising how painful it was, for her, to try to let him go. Her despair seeped through him, her emotion so strongly felt that he couldn't guard his own heart against it. The psychopath psychiatrist undone by a teary tiny woman!

His arms surrounded her without asking for permission; his mind screamed a warning – this woman would be his death ! – and was squashed in an instant. The wild beating of his heart probably seeped through his clothes, and he berated himself for showing such vulnerability to a stranger. But she wasn't … her body felt so familiar, her smell like a mate. The slightest of movements – she pushed against him – sent his body in panic. Hannibal tightened his hold, too flustered to understand what had sent his inner self into such a fit. He bent forward, his breath caressing her ear as he coaxed.

— 'Will you come home with me, Lady Frances?'

Lady Frances. Why such a title? It had rolled from his lips so easily, as if he'd heard it a thousand times before. Perhaps an artefact from his noble upbringing, proper addresses long buried. Hannibal didn't get time to ponder much longer for she lifted her head to him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, an endless pool of warmth watching his face as if she witnessed the purest of miracles. His chest constricted slightly, his mind refusing to be the recipient of such awe. He didn't deserve such devotion. But his heart … his heart felt faint, flooded with light. Would he ever have enough? And despite the stupidity of his proposal – once in his home … who knew what could happen? —Hannibal couldn't bring himself to care. Tonight, that young woman was him to breathe and taste, his to manipulate and caress, his to bring to heaven.

The lady didn't speak much when he locked the door to his office, and pulled her to his car; she was too fearful to break the current mood, and have him change his mind. But why would he, when she offered her affection so easily, so readily? Her eyes didn't widen at the smooth interior of the Bentley; oblivious to its price, or indifferent? A wonder, for the quality of her coat left much to be desired, she wasn't a wealthy woman. Another puzzle for which he had no piece. The ride was slow, and silent. Short as well, there wasn't much distance between his house and his office, even less when cutting through the woods, which he obviously couldn't do with the Bentley. Hannibal pulled the first move, reaching for her hand cautiously stored in her lap.

A gasp nearly bubbled out, mercilessly refrained. But the contact of her skin felt so foreign, and so familiar at the same time. His fingers tingled furiously, asking for more contact. Hannibal frowned, unable to understand the strange pull this woman created. He hated losing control, hated not being privy to the meanders of others' minds, and his own. What could possibly create such a need?

The front gate opened, and he parked the Bentley, exiting without a word. A he circled the car to reach for hers, a sense of familiarity washed over him. His heart, once more, was drumming a staccato. Pushing his interrogations away, Hannibal reached for her hand. She voiced a warm "Thank you", setting her heeled feet on the paved pathway that led to his enormous mansion. Once more, her gaze didn't linger much on the house, her focus resting on him. As if losing him from sight could cause his disappearance.

There was no skittishness when he helped her shed her coat, only a beaming smile when his fingers brushed her shoulders. A warning washed through him when he realised how poor the quality of her coat; what if the woman was after his fortune? In that case … she would probably die for it, and grace his table as a perfect hors d'oeuvre. Yet, her manners, her poise screamed of nobility. And more. Danger…

Hannibal's hand shot up, grabbing her arm to turn her abruptly around. The gesture was nearly brutal, and very firm, but she didn't sway on her feet. Her balance, even on heels, was fairly perfect … nearly as efficient as her reflex to push him away. Her hand shot up to his wrist, ready to break it, or twist it around. Aikido. She stopped at the latest moment, though, realisation that she wasn't under attack dawning upon her features. Yet, she still glared at him defiantly, fire dancing in her eyes as she squared her jaw. Hannibal smirked slightly … as if she had any chance to best him! But it answered, at least, the sense of danger that oozed out of her. The lady Frances was a fighter.

Questions would wait, though, for if he started now, he knew he would never enjoy the delightful evening he had in mind.

His mouth found hers so suddenly that he surprised even himself for being so bold. She was like a drug, as delicious as fresh air after hours in the hospital tainted by bleach, as soft as a cashmere blanket when the weather took a turn for the worse, as delicious as the most delightful of his dishes. Instead of steering her to the kitchen for a polite drink, the psychiatrist picked her up, his tongue still actively swiping inside her mouth. She let out a small squeak, then nestled against his chest as if she'd been residing there forever. A long-lost wife… Such a light weight, compared to his brute strength.

Would she question it, given he was a psychiatrist? Suspect anything untoward, or dismiss it altogether? After all, plenty of men his age worked out. His age … damn, she could be his daughter. So young, so beautiful, so untainted… Hannibal's step faltered, not enough to send them tumbling in the stairs but Frances's grip tightened. If his previous experiment had not given such a blatant response, Hannibal would know, now, how aware the young woman was to her surroundings. Yet, she let HIM, a cannibalistic serial killer, bring her into his lair.

— 'Have no fear, beautiful, I won't let you fall.'

The nickname caused her breath to hitch, or perhaps it was the sultry tone of his voice, caressing her ear. Still, he had no qualms stating that he found her truly and utterly beautiful. Her body relaxed then, her fingers intertwined behind his neck to ease the strain on his arms.

Hannibal laid her on his bed, bluntly stating his intentions. The woman didn't flinch, her porcelain skin so radiant in the petals of his pristine sheets, her fiery hair contrasting with the immaculate white of the Egyptian cotton. Would she burn like Icarus, caught too close to the sun? For she certainly watched him like one, a celestial. Hannibal's deft fingers untied the full Windsor node of his tie, his moves intentionally slow as he removed the piece of silk from his neck. Her shoes hit the floor, removed with the slightest tilt of her feet.

Hannibal unbuttoned his waistcoat ever so slowly, and she watched, still, without moving an inch from his comfortable bed. As if she belonged here. Garment discarded, his shirt still tugged into his slacks, the psychiatrist prowled to the bed. Crawling on all fours to hover over her small frame, his eyes met hers. The light was dimming, painting the room in orange and red hues, yet unable to match the fire within the depths of her gaze. She trapped him there, for a moment of eternity when their breaths mingled. Then she reached for his collar and undid the first three buttons. Her warm fingers hesitantly brushed against his exposed skin, her eyes swimming with untold emotions as she dove for the flesh of his collar. Her lips caught his pulse point, suckling on the tender skin of his neck with sensual slowness.

The sensation that shot through him would remain unnamed for years as his body begged to surrender, tremors shaking his frame. It was all he could do to keep his weight from sagging upon hers. But the fire that poured into his veins sprang him into action – the old man forgotten as he felt the whole power of his efficient body. His hips, still clad in his suit, lowered to meet hers at once, his arousal plain and brutal. The growl that had been building, and refrained, eventually escaped before he captured her lips in a searing kiss, exploring her mouth like a starving man. Frances's back arched, researching his contact as her arms circled him.

From there, things became more heated, hazier as they both wrestled the other out of their respective clothes. Her little hands took great care of his suit, which Hannibal was thankful for, and she kissed every inch of exposed flesh with such reverence that he wondered what he could possibly represent in her mind. And when his large hands diverted her of her dancer top, the psychiatrist found her magnificent, plush flesh over toned muscles. His heated mind didn't give him much time to observe her lacy bra, pulling the long skirt away. He'd rather explore every curve with his lips than linger on the view. How long since he'd had the pleasure of such a natural beauty? She was soft, and energetic, welcoming and strong at the same time. So tasteful under his tongue, so pliable into his hands, so delicious. He needed to have her. He needed…

For a scant second, Hannibal thought of foreplay, and discarded it altogether. He was too far gone, starved. For the moment, nothing but the whole length of her body against his would satisfy his throbbing need. There would be time, later, for games and sensuality. And as he tasted her, caressed her humming flesh and got lost into her enthralling scent, the epiphany came. Stilla stranger to his eyes, but he knew, now, that he would want her again. That the sensations and feelings taking hold of his body would never be forgotten, and that he would enjoy it again. And again.

Her panties were discarded with steady hands – the perks of being a former surgeon – while his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. Hannibal couldn't fathom why he was so flustered, apart from the very sensual round of lovemaking, of course. He had never felt so nervous, so eager before. Her body was calling to him in so many ways, the desire in her eyes throwing him off guard. As if she knew him, intimately, and only wished to renew this acquaintance and become complete again. Frances watched him, pain mingling with awe, begging for him to join their bodies in blissful oblivion. And for once, Hannibal had trouble holding her gaze. One last breath, the full length of her body against his, he dove to her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

She responded eagerly, her arms pulling him close, hips bucking up to meet him. Hannibal could only gasp when he found himself fully sheathed, her legs encasing him in her warmth. The young woman moaned then; a low, throaty sound that lingered as she welcomed him entirely. Her back arched anew; her frame tensed against him, begging him to go deeper, to take her whole. Pleasure exploded in his lower belly, radiating all the way through his spine. Her soft flesh pulsated against him, her arms massaging his back, searching for the muscles that rolled under his sweaty skin.

She was such an amazing dancer in bed, and for once, Hannibal didn't feel the need to introduce variations. Overwhelmed with sensations, he just followed the rhythm and went with the flow, his breath coming in short pants, his lips roaming her face and every single bit of skin he could find. She tasted salty now, her reddish strands in disarray upon the immaculate sheets, her quiet sighs and moans terribly arousing as he worked her body like the theremin. Hannibal's pleasure was building so fast, so strong, burning his insides and he fought to regain a little control, slowing his thrusts in hopes of getting her over the edge first.

Her eyes shot open at once and he watched her face, her lips swollen and skin chaffed raw by his five o'clock shadow.

— 'Don't,' she whispered, her voice hoarse with pleasure.

And he knew what she meant. Don't pace yourself. And so, Hannibal surrendered, his movements more erratic, his thrusts long and deep, oblivious that he could cleave her in two such was his strength. But she took him in stride, her head rolling backwards, exposing her elegant neck to his lips. How incredible, for such a slender woman, to accommodate him so easily. His peak came from deep within, long and intense, overwhelming. His hips dug into hers, his manhood buried to the hilt as he growled his pleasure into her neck, strong arms lifting her from the cushions to crush her against him. It was all it took for her to go over the edge; a surprised cry escaped her lips when her small frame started shaking around him. Hannibal's arms supported her, grounding her into him, and he watched her body unravel with fascination. Her eyes wide open, she was regarding him with such marvel that he wondered if she'd ever had an orgasm in her life.

But there was more to it. Something deep, something hidden behind the wonder, a history of pain and heartache, a lingering sadness. Almost like regrets?

How ironic for a man so cold, so calculated to be able to detect all those feelings in a single glance. In this very moment, though, Hannibal felt alive. And while his body hummed still for the high, he gently set Frances down, kissing her lips, and pulled the sheets over her sweaty form. He too, was in dire need of a shower but he couldn't bring himself to wash her scent from his skin. So animalistic! And so, the psychiatrist lay down, brushing Frances' hair aside, and gathered her into his arms. She melted against him like butter on a shiny piece of roast, warmth seeping from them both, their hearts beating in unison. And for once, Hannibal felt complete.

This evening, for the first time in many years, the good doctor forwent the idea of cooking dinner.