Hey. A little light material for Hannibal and Frances. After all, he's a master cook so why not enjoy a nice breakfast ! :)

His immaculate shirt yet had to sustain a smudge, the apron firmly set in place as he cooked his famous mushroom omelette for breakfast. Precise gestures, dance of spices in the spotless kitchen, ballet of saucepans and blades soothed Hannibal's mind. In the space of twelve hours, his world had been turned upside down; her presence was a tsunami in his life. Finding that another human being knew of him … and was still alive, for one, was a close call. Taking her to his home, to his bed had been fuelled by strange passion. The woman had been eager to reacquaint herself with him. What a strange notion, as if they'd known each other before.

This morning's discussion, though, sent his usually cold and calculated mind in turmoil. She could bring him some measure of peace and happiness, for sure. Her gentle caresses, her lips searching his, her body moulding against his skin. Those sensations had stirred a need he'd discarded for so long. She was a novelty; something he relished in. To study her, to see what she could bring, it was a tempting offer. Keeping her close, in his house, was the safest thing to do. This way, she would be in his power, and unable to denounce him.

But to change his ways, to refrain from killing and cooking human flesh … that was a huge step. Not so different from men on the day they were married, all those dumb guys when their wives asked for them to stop womanising, or watching football with their friends to become better men. Social men, worth treading at their arm. Was Hannibal ready to be tamed? Would those conditions – no violence whatsoever, no manipulation – change who he was? What was he, in the end? What was it that defined … him? Was he only a psychopath killer, the Chesapeake Ripper? Or someone else? Someone more?

The sound of running water taught him the young lady had found her way to the shower. Good. She had been, after all, a magnificent provider of tenderness and pleasure. And love, unconditional love. How weird, to love a stranger so. But her eyes didn't lie; he was not a stranger to her. He, for one, was eager to understand this turn of events. And the reason why he dreamt of her every now and then, clad in armour, wielding a curved sword.

Maybe he could try to abide by her wishes for a while and see how it went for him? Chop, chop, chop. Hannibal sliced into the coriander with swift, practised moves. He knew nothing about Frances, would she even appreciate his menu? What if she enjoyed McDonald's muffins and sweetened cappuccino for breakfast? Hannibal shrugged. In that case, they had nothing in common; he could still kill her after all.

Her feet made no sound on the wooden floor, yet Hannibal sensed her presence right away. Turning around, knife in hand, he was surprised to find her clad into his own shirt – the one her wore the night before. Her hair, tied into a bun, had lost its reddish colour with the dampness. Its wave, entirely tamed to the side, looked strangely similar to his. A few freckles marred her nose, giving her a youthful look. Frances addressed him a crooked smile, seemingly unsure of herself.

— "I am sorry for stealing your shirt, Hannibal. If you wish I didn't, you only have to say so. I had nothing to change into."

The psychiatrist paused, his grip tightening on the knife. Yes, somehow, it should have bothered him that she took this liberty with his clothes. Everything in his life had a place, his garments handled with great care. What if she stained it? Ripped it? Deformed it? Yet, the sight of her lithe silhouette, walking barefoot, long legs exposd below his shirt, was splendid. A token of belonging.

— "If I am to die, I wanted, at least, to be surrounded by your scent."

Hannibal nodded, resuming his chopping without uttering a word. What a strange conversation for anyone else but them. But she knew who he was and what he as capable of. And somehow, he suspected that she was dangerous in her own way. There was no better assessment of one'd body than when sharing one's bed. Behind her innocent smile existed a mind coiled to the extreme, her elegant form hiding efficient muscles. He'd witnessed their ripples below the layer of soft skin firsthand, the way they moved under his deft fingers as she gently rocked against his body. Sensuality incarnated in a woman. Oh, he'd enjoyed it, enjoyed her. Hannibal's senses were, after all, quite developed. And the way she moved around the room, almost like a dancer, light on her feet was an indication as well.

Frances' delicate nose rose in the air, sniffing slightly. Slowly, the young woman approached him to peek at the herbs he was currently mincing, graceful, like a cat about to bolt.

— "Coriander?"

Chop, chop, chop. His knife didn't pause.

— "Yes"

Her voice was soft, barely strong enough to cover the noise of his blade falling periodically upon the board.

— "I adore fresh coriander. Do you grow it yourself?"

— "Yes. In the garden"

Frances tip toed around the kitchen counter, reaching up to bestow a light kiss on his cheek. She had courage, to approach him while he wielded a knife long enough to gut her.

— "Neat"

Hannibal paused, unused to such tokens of affection. How could she be so accepting of what he was? Would she turn on him? His eyes bore holes into hers, and she stared right back.

— "Do you need some help?"

— "No, thank you"

He was the master of the kitchen. Period. His abrupt dismissal though, seemed to chagrined his guest. Hence his next words.

— "Do you cook, Frances?"

— "Aye, I do, but I lack experience. I am French, after all."

Hannibal could almost hear the click in his mind, the noise that two pieces of a puzzle made when they were set right. Cooking, French. Could there be a better start to this acquaintance? Aside from the fantastic moment they had shared in bed, that is.

— "Would you be interested to learn more?"

— "I would be delighted, provided … you know."

Provided I don't cook human remains. But this, she kept silent.

— "Do you drink wine?"

The young woman nodded.

— "Sometimes. Only good one, though. There is no point in drinking alcohol unless it is good one."

Well. They might very well get along. Hannibal threw the coriander into a bowl, mixing it with the eggs. Frances took a step aside to give him the space he needed to pour it all into a saucepan.

— "Do you keep to French wines?" he asked without taking his eyes away from the omelette.

The young woman's hand hovered gently over his back, hesitant, until she let her fingers graze along his spine in a tender gesture. Hannibal paused, a tingle running where her feather touch had awakened the skin.

— "I love them, Burgundy the most because…"

Her tone caused him to put his knife down; she eyed the instrument warily, as if expecting him to run her through. Sadness had crept upon her lovely face, and Hannibal turned to her fully.

— "Because?"

— "My father's origins. Pouilly fuissé, Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet"

Hannibal nodded, reaching for her hand, letting his thumb caressing her knuckles. It was a soft, sweet contact that called her attention.

— "Romanée-Conti"

Her smiled widened, the sparkles in her hazel eyes masking the sadness. Hannibal almost congratulated himself on having chased it away.

— "Ah. I have a budget issue on that one. Still. I also appreciate Bordeaux and Pays de Loire, but am not adverse to California, Chile or South African wines. Some are just poetry. I do not judge a wine by its name, nor a book by its cover."

The sibylline statement touched his mark, and Hannibal, emboldened, slid his hand to her waist to drag her flush against him. The closeness of her form felt good against his body, especially since she had to arch her back to see him properly; at least eight inches separated them. What he found in her eyes dumbfounded him – she was quite a case to study – as much as it shook him. Yes, she loved him, he that knew nothing about her, except that she populated some of his dreams. His lips captured hers in a slow kiss, her hand reaching for his cheek tenderly. Then he cocked his head aside, and showed her the breakfast he'd prepared.

— "Hungry?"

— "Starving"

Hannibal led her to the table, and puller her chair for her. The young woman, still wearing his dark blue shirt, beamed at him for the gesture. She obviously wasn't used to gallantry. Many items appeared on the table; freshly brewed English tea, the coriander omelette as well as buttery toasts and all sorts of treats. Hannibal had outdone himself in a complete vegetarian way. Her shining eyes told him his effort was appreciated; the moan that escaped her lips as she sampled his food feeding his pride.

— "You are a very talented cook, Hannibal. This is delicious."

Silence hung between them for a while. She, eating delicately, him watching her every move. Frances was elegant, and mannered. Not falsely, as she sometimes sat sideways, or let her feet roam over his own. But there was nobility in her poise, some kind of respectability in the way she held her head. And not an ounce of deception. She didn't push him, didn't ask until his decision was made. How she was able to eat breakfast and maintain a proper conversation while her life hung in the balance was a mystery. Perhaps she had nothing to lose. Her presence was a welcome distraction, not a burden, nor a constraint. An invitation to share his world. Then, everything seemed clearer.

— "So what do you think of going to the Opéra?" he suddenly asked.

Frances smiled, understanding his meaning.

— "I would love to… Does that mean you would like to keep me around?"

Hannibal nodded, refraining from voicing the blatant 'for now' that would have been, even more than rude, interpreted as a threat. Yet, Frances picked up on it easily.

— "Until when?"

His startled answer was nearly blurted out.

— "Are you an empath?"

How his control faltered beside her! He would have to be careful; she seemed to call something within him, a part of him only eager to respond. Flustered, he hid his trouble by eating a mouthful of coriander omelette. The numerous tastes mingling on his palate distracted him enough to regain his composure. Frances seemed to look for the right words.

— "No. Or yes. I don't know, though I read people quite easily. It's like a vibe they exude."

Hannibal nodded, his eyes squinting a little.

— "What information does it give you?"

The young woman set her fork down to stare right into his eyes.

— "It is more about intentions. The eyes never lie; they tell me if people are angry, or tense, if they lie or conceal the truth."

— "Do you ever get the wrong impression?"

There was curiosity in his question, but not only. The concealed interest, the way he chose a toast, his eyes avoiding hers. And Frances saw right through it.

— "I have learnt to trust my instincts now. You cannot manipulate me, Hannibal. I won't let you do it. You can get away with many things, I am rather accommodating. But no manipulation, and no killing."

How unfortunate, he mused to himself. Manipulation was such a second nature that he didn't realise it anymore. For a moment, he wondered if he would be able to keep his word. Maybe he could just tiptoe around it, and cheat her into believing him. Maybe not; that particular young lady might actually prove to be a challenge. Yet this new new experience, laid at his feet, was worth seizing.

— "I am not like Will, nor as powerful," she added.

Hannibal slowly sipped at his tea while his eyes bore holes into her.

— "You know of Will Graham?"

Frances me his gaze squarely.

— "I know of many things."

Hannibal's cup of tea gently clanged against his china plate.

— "How?"

How did she know about Will? How did she know about him?

— "It is a very long, very complicated story. Unbelievable to rational minds. Better kept for later, if you don't mind."

Hannibal wondered, for a scant second, if he should kill her now. She was, after all, depositary to secrets that could lead him to his doom. But then, his reason reminded him that she knew no more than yesterday before even he discovered her existence. Eventually, the psychiatrist relented. The morning was, so far, rather pleasant. He'd never experienced this kind of simple domesticity, like a husband and a wife partaking the first meal of the day together. Still, he couldn't ignore the tug of his mind as he asked.

— "Why are you here, Frances?"

The words she spoke made no sense to him, for he never had such strong emotions. Yet, he couldn't help but feel humbled by them as they poured out of her mouth.

— "I am not here to confound you, Hannibal. I wanted to find you. You are the only one I have left in the world, I want the moments we have together to count."

She sensed his hesitation, for she added with a smile.

— "I'll be more a cat than a dog. I won't disturb your life, won't depend on you and won't tear your furniture with my nails."

A smile quirked his lips as he bent over the table.

— "Cats don't cook"

Frances' hazel eyes twinkled with mischief.

— "That will be a première. A cooking cat!"

Hannibal smirked.