Hey ! Sorry it's been a while, my life has been such a mess those past months. This is the final arc of thos story. Given it was meant to be a thousand words one short, I'm pretty satisfied :)
A few months flew by in relative peace, Frances' time divided between Will, her skating classes and Hannibal's office.
It had taken some time for her to get the hang of US laws and paperwork, but she was improving. The time earned allowed her husband to take patients in the mornings, which, in turn, relieved pressure in the evening. And if, by any chance, a cancellation occurred during that time … well … let's say that a few trysts tended to occur on the lavish couch of the ever-proper Dr Lecter.
Sometimes, she wondered if he did in on purpose just to spurn a few of his richest, more uptight clients. Just to keep the smell of their joining floating in his office.
As she worked on pages of dossiers, referrals and other standard tasks, Frances sometimes played secretary. Some patients were friendly enough. Others, right annoying. Most of them pretty scary, for the mush of their brains was very special; Hannibal enjoyed the challenge. He didn't follow people with a little trauma, or the standard neurosis. No. Dr Lecter prided himself on taking difficult cases. Another chance to play with someone's psyche without fearing too many consequences; who would suspect him when his patients were already messed up?
Today, though … today, another type of man passed the doors of the richly decorated building that was Hannibal's Baltimore office.
Ugly, leering and disgusting. Neither scary, nor imposing … the slightly rounded face just dripped with ugliness … from within. And his features, heavy and disharmonious, weren't his saving grace. Frances frowned; Hannibal was in a session already, and not expecting anyone else this evening. So, instead of plastering her best smile, the young woman stood from the little desk they had installed in the corner of the waiting room.
"Hello sir. May I help you?"
The man threw her a glance, his bovine blue eyes lighting up as they travelled down her silhouette. Fat, pale lips curled in a condescending smile; Frances immediately felt like punching him in the face.
"I need to talk to Dr Lecter," he told her with whining voice.
"You don't have an appointment right now…"
She should have added "sir", but the boyish features – pouting – didn't quite help the man earn brownie points. And the way he watched her, condescension mingled with that insufferable notion that he was an important person, caused her hackles to rise.
"It is an emergency," he drawled.
What a voice. Poor guy. Nothing like the smooth silk of Hannibal's tones. A wave of pity hit her, and Frances nodded to him.
"Please have a sit I'll see with Doctor Lecter what can be done about it."
"I want to see him now!"
Frances blinked, her features closing. How dare he make a scene in the waiting room! Who did he think he was, with his ridiculous fur collar?
"He's not available now," she stated, ice colouring her tone.
That type of coldness always repelled people; Frances had become a master as freezing guys with barely a smile. Usually, they ran away with their tail between their legs, confused about why they suddenly felt so inadequate. But the child before her – for he behaved as such – would have none of it. He nearly stomped his feet into the wooden floor, throwing a tantrum she'd quell on a five year old, but had never seen on a grown man.
"I tell you I have an appointment!" he retorted moodily.
"This is impossible, sir."
Hannibal would never be caught off guard, and every single rendez-vous was written in his agenda. Agenda that lingered upon her desk whenever she attended to his paperwork. And there was no way in hell he wouldn't have warned her about a last-minute change. Her aplomb, though, wasn't to the man's tastes.
"Do you know who I am, miss?"
That strange voice, rounded like a piglet's, contained a barely veiled threat. But Frances didn't care; she moved aside to block the door to Hannibal's office.
"Madam," she corrected. "And I know you are a patient without an appointment."
The man snorted, his eyes narrowing behind the wireless glasses.
"You are very poor at your job," he spat. "But again, that's why you're on this side of the door and not…"
Said door opened brutally, and it was only by the grace of greased hinges that it didn't grate to death. Hannibal stood there, regal, in his Bordeaux three-piece suit. Frances took a step aside, relishing in the presence of her husband. His eyes glared daggers at his patient, red seeping into their warm brown, the psychiatrist allowed his greater height to fill up the space.
"I assure you, Mr Verger, that my wife is nothing but thorough in her tasks."
Frances caught the moment Verger's eyes widened. Unfortunately, it wasn't fear, but interest that caused his thick lips to quirk. Hannibal, though, wasn't finished with his lesson:
"And her level of education and dedication not to be questioned. Your appointment was tomorrow, if I recall."
Frances nearly smiled at that; the polite edge hid beautifully the fact that his memory was more accurate than that of a machine.
"But I want to talk to you noooow," Mason whined again.
Frances refrained from rolling her eyes, watching Hannibal's countenance getting more sombre. His back, ramrod straight. His jaw, clenching slightly. But the most terrifying were his eyes, taking in the man before him. How could people ignore how dangerous he was when his very presence filled a room with the aggressiveness of a predator?
Verger seemed completely unaffected, his body language that of seven years old deprived of a lolly.
"Caprices are not in the list of emergencies, Mr Verger. How urgent is this?"
"Very urgent", he answered, looking contrite.
An act, that the adults in the room didn't buy. Hannibal's imperceptible sigh carried in the room when he cocked his head aside. A movement inherited from Tristan.
"Is there anyone in danger right now?"
His eyes flickered to Frances, a warning to stay way. An interrogation as well. She was unsure how to respond when Mason Verger's slick voice echoed in the room.
"Well, I am."
Hannibal's shoulders seemed to drop suddenly, and his expression softened slightly.
"Then take a seat, I will talk to you once this session is over."
Frances' eyebrows rose incredulously, wondering why her husband allowed Mr Verger such niceties when he behaved like a spoilt child. The response came an instant later when he handed her the keys to his Bentley.
"Go home. It is late, and I won't need your help this evening."
There was no coldness in his voice, but a hint of steel. The young woman retrieved the keys –his Bentley, damn it! She'd never driven such an expensive car! – with a frown, but said nothing. This wasn't a request, but an order. And given the look Hannibal gave her, arguing was a very bad idea. There was warmth in Hannibal's gaze, but he remained still like a statue. He usually didn't shy away from a little display of affection, using them to soften his image. But he probably didn't want to show any attachment in front of this particular patient.
Frances just nodded, and wished him a good night before she grabbed her coat, her purse, and disappeared in the corridor. When the door closed behind her, she knew Hannibal's eyes were still set upon the wooden door.
The young woman hurried to the Bentley, finding that she had absolutely no desire to walk home today even though she always did – to Hannibal's dismay. Today, she felt … almost sullied. That man's gaze had been so disturbing. With a shiver, she started the engine and drove home, mindful of the sheer power of that enormous vehicle. US citizens were used to handling big cars, but she definitely wasn't and the ride home was fit for any granny such was her speed.
Frances was glad for the automatic gates as she pulled the car inside, and got them to close behind her. Then, checking that no one was there at this late hour, she walked inside her home and shed her coat.
This enormous building, bricks firmly planted in the ground, with its lavish decorations and ostentatious paintings, didn't agree with her style. Yet … it was home all the same. Leaving her shoes behind, she went up to change into lounging clothes. The fireplace was empty, and she took her time to build a fire.
The growing flames hypnotised her as she remembered one of the first conversations she'd shared with Tristan, fifteen hundred years in the past, in the middle of nowhere beside the campfire. Tristan … scout extraordinaire and killer emerite. The man she'd fallen in love with without even realising. The same heart and soul who now resided inside Hannibal. A twisted serial killer who loved her with feral appreciation.
The distant noise of the lock being pulled didn't register in her mind as the flames danced, eating away the firewood. It should have, but Frances was too far gone in her memory to keep her attention focused on the noises of the house.
It was the slight noise of the bedroom door opening that called her back to reality. Startled, Frances whirled around. Only to find Hannibal, vest discarded, standing in the frame. Not so insanely tall, nor too bulky, but larger than life as his presence filled the room. Something was simmering in the depths of his irises. Hunger or anger? Both of them, battling for dominance.
Before she could speak his long legs had brought him beside her. Hannibal dragged her to her feet, towering over her with the intensity of a wolf about to pounce. Frances' breath caught, then his lips crashed upon hers. She melted into him, shattered by the intensity of his grip. Possessive, aggressive, domineering. This evening, Hannibal was in the mood for totalitarism.
Just like she'd asked no question in the waiting room, grabbing the keys of a car she had never once driven in her life, Frances submitted to his whims. To say she was an unwilling participant in the wild round of sex that ensured would have been a lie; she was totally, and irrevocably pleased. Even more so when he pounded into her, his hands firmly secured around her waist, giving her no option to flee.
But she didn't want to; his skin set hers on fire. His thrusts unleashed her as she cried out. His presence, his smell, everything about him added to the experience. And it was only half an hour later when he eventually crashed into bed that she pulled him to her and dragged the cover over them both.
"What was that, Hannibal?"
The psychiatrist tensed, squeezing her while his head lifted to find her eyes. The possessiveness was fading, leaving a softer man behind. One that knew her body was his, that her mind never strayed away from him.
"Mason wants you," he whispered.
Her sneer of disgust called a smile to his lips.
"It's not a nice feeling, I felt dirty after he looked at me."
Hannibal rose upon his forearms, shoulder muscles flexing as he dropped a kiss to her swollen lips.
"That pig will never have you."
Frances felt like she was missing something, but she couldn't voice it.
"Tomorrow, I'll write a referral," Hannibal stated. "I don't want him to ever lay his eyes upon you."
"Yes," she shuddered. "It was positively disgusting."
Hannibal's eyes twinkled with a dangerous gleam when he kissed her cheek, then brought his mouth to her ear.
"I'd rather kill him…"
Frances refrained from rolling her eyes. Of course, that would be another solution. Quicker, and more direct, and very effective. But she would never, ever, condone murder. Even though that sick man, Mason Verger, disgusted her to the point of vomiting.
"Yeah, well…", she whispered, caressing Hannibal's silky hair. "Can't have everything you want."
The psychiatrist retreated just an inch, trapping her in his gaze, the whole length of his body pining her in place in the midst of soft satin sheets.
"I'd kill him for your sake, my beautiful. Not for my own amusement."
Frances' didn't know whether to rejoice from the promise of retribution on her behalf, or recoil at the murdering streak of her husband. But again, Tristan would have done the same. So, instead of racking her brain, she just nudged Hannibal's nose with hers.
"You, sir, are incorrigible."
And the wolf smiled, sharp canines exposed.
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