Hey. Honestly, I don't know who quite reads this, but I like the direction it is going. It should be a short story, no more than 30 k words I guess. But there will be a real ending. It quite breaks the Hannibal series though, as Frances' presence and conditions do not allow our favourite doctor to have fun with Will as much as he would like to.

Standing in his pristine three-piece suit, Hannibal waited for his new companion to descend the stairs. Like the famous Jack in Titanic, he wondered how beautiful his redhead would be this evening. When her arm would rest in the crook of his elbow, would he be proud or annoyed that she had barged, unannounced, into his life? The psychiatrist fixed his cuffs properly, his keen hearing noticing the slight tap of heels on the wooden floor. One good point for her; Frances was punctual. He had now awaited no more than five minutes.

It had been a strange day. Not because of their activities, albeit it had been awhile Hannibal had gone shopping for evening dresses. Forever, actually. The weirdness didn't come from the content of his Saturday, but from the incredible tales Frances had fed him with. They had walked leisurely, her hand settled in the crook of his elbow as he took her from shop to shop in the city centre, occasionally stopping for a tea in a brasserie he knew well. How she had blushed, trying those dresses which price tag didn't agree with her purse. Hannibal couldn't care less; he was taking her to the Opera, she needed to fit his standard. She loved noble fabrics and simple things, no unnecessary adornments or flashy items. Frances was quite capable of discerning natural silk from artificial satin, and earned his respect with her sober tastes. But when she admitted, sheepishly, that she didn't have much in her name, Hannibal couldn't help but start his line of interrogations.

Time travels, alternate realities, little grey aliens and stargates. This was the story of her arrival. Of her memories. And he, Hannibal Lecter, was a fictional character in her world. This is how, she claimed, she knew about him and his ways. It was a miracle his eyebrows had not fled into his hairline to settle permanently. Her tales were so preposterous, but her eyes didn't lie. She knew it, as she gazed upon him, and softly admitted she was afraid he would kick her out of his life because he thought her crazy. He had chuckled then, and seductively whispered in her ear that being a weird case himself, he wasn't about to be picky about her mental health. This comment spooked her; the woman tensing slightly. She was adamant about the truth of her story, even if it made no sense. It gave him insight on her disease. Schizophrenia, perhaps, consequently to an assault. He had remarked upon her awareness of her surroundings, the tension in her body. As if she expected an attack anytime. Yet she relied upon him, trusted him. This, alone, was testimony to a mental disorder.

Hannibal's world truly was upside down. The wheels in his head kept running, wondering why she acted so normal if she truly believed in her story. Was is post-traumatic split personality? Only time would tell. Honestly, Hannibal didn't care for it; he was more than capable of defending himself should things go awry. His little minx wouldn't get the upper hand if she went crazy on him.

The gentle tap tap echoed in the stairs, and Hannibal straightened to welcome his lady for the night. As Frances appeared in the stairway, her beauty took his breath away. She wore a dress of very dark blue – matching the shade of his own tuxedo – that contrasted with her creamy complexion and fiery hair. Lace covered her arms up to her shoulders where the neckline plunged in a lovely V, exposing just the right amount of her skin to entice him to kiss it. The skirt flowed around her hips, suggesting, without showing the perfect arch at the small of her back. Hannibal knew better though … the memory of his hands roaming that place quite clear. The very top of her hair twisted in a loose but complicated braid, pulling it away from her face, while the rest tumbled in loose locks to her hips. She had applied a little more make-up than usual, the shadow at the corner of her eyes more pronounced. The perfect and discreet frame for her lovely almond eyes.

Hannibal's eyes sparkled; pride filling his chest to see her so beautiful, and eager to spend the evening with him. A young beauty for an aging man; she wouldn't be the only one. Except that she wasn't after his money; their shopping session had shed quite some light on how awkward Frances was about him doting on her. His reaction, although very contained, caused her to smile shyly. The psychiatrist gathered her hand in his, and bestowed a kiss upon her knuckles that caused her cheeks to blush.

— "You look lovely," he said. "You will outshine every woman in the room."

Her blush intensified, the rosy hue of her pale cheeks enticing him even more. Instead of reacting to his flattery, she instead chose to compliment him.

— "As do you, Dr Lecter. A true gentleman"

Hannibal bowed slightly. Then, his fingers gently trailed along her collarbone, caressing the smooth skin.

— "Something is missing," he suddenly said.

Frances frowned, her nose scrunching a little in an adorable expression.

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Hannibal fished a long golden necklace out of his pocket with a single, beautiful sapphire surrounded by diamonds. An appropriate gift for a beautiful woman. Frances gasped, her hand shaking a little as he asked her to turn around. He gathered her hair to the side, marvelling at its softness as the curls unfurled in his grasp, bouncing back the moment he released it. No product could give one's hair such liveliness, such texture.

— "How do you tame your hair, Frances?" he suddenly asked, his nose buried in the soft curls.

— "I don't, they have a life of their own, I only help them into shape by twisting my bun after the shower."

Hannibal hummed slightly, clasping the pendant around her neck, careful not to get it tangled in her fiery mane. Then, his sensual lips bestowed a slight kiss right below her ear, then followed a trail down her collarbone. Frances leant backwards with a moan, her body leaning on his front, her hand grabbing his fingers tightly. Hannibal smiled, proud of the effect he had on her. Then she turned around in his grasp, and reached for his slicked back hair, unhooking a single strand with a crooked smile.

— "And if I may, yours look nicer untamed."

Hannibal eventually laughed; his memory of nightly activities quite fresh. She indeed enjoyed tousling his hair when he made love to her, roaming her hands on his skull, massaging his nape. The best feeling in the world, the only moment when he accepted – sometimes – to surrender control.

— "Thank you, Hannibal"

For the necklace, for his kindness, for his acceptance of her in his life. Yes, she was a strange woman. Probably crazy as well. But he didn't care one bit as he reverently pulled her hand into the crook of his elbow, and led her to the car.

The soprano's vibrato touched her heart, making her entire body hum as she powerfully swept the audience from their feet. Despite her enjoyment of classical music and opera, Frances never had the occasion to attend a real performance. To say that she was floored was an understatement. Tears regularly escaped her eyes such was the beauty of their voices, the strength it conveyed, the sorrow expressed through a million variations. How they mastered it, how those singers and performers managed to turn this into a chef d'oeuvre!

A quick peek to her left gave her the most incredible of sights. Beside her, Hannibal was crying. Her chest swelled with hope. If music could sway his heart thus, maybe all was not lost. Maybe she would be able to stir emotions within him, to make him feel … to save will Graham, and the others from his killer instincts? Tentatively, Frances removed her glove, her fingers reaching for his in an attempt to bond. She didn't look at him for fear he might withdraw, or feel under scrutiny, keeping her eyes on the scene. But when the palm of his hand turned around to enclose hers, she knew her point was made. It was a great feeling, to lose oneself in the music while his hand anchored her to reality. To the reality of his presence, and perhaps one day, his love. For the moment though, he had cared for her like a gentleman. What more could she ask, when she had barged in his life unbidden, and made nonsensical demands?

Her nape tingled, but not in the pleasant way this time. Something was wrong. Following her instincts, Frances turned around discreetly. Her eyes roamed across the room the same way she read a book, passing less than a split second over each face in search of the ones that would make sense. Then she found it. Someone, at the back, was observing Hannibal rather intently. A short man, with a rounded face and awe written on his features. Except that it wasn't directed at the performance, his attention fully absorbed by Hannibal. The young woman frowned slightly, but the man caught her gaze and smiled bashfully. There was no danger in his eyes, nor in his posture, and she returned the greeting with a nod before turning around. Absorbed in her analysis, she had missed his dark companion.

Willing her heart rate to settle, Frances exhaled slowly, getting her attention back to the show. At once, Hannibal's breath brushed her ear, his smooth voice sending warm tingles through her body.

— "Franklin is my patient, nothing to worry about."

So he had noticed he was being observed. Scout one day, scout forever. Frances squeezed his hand in understanding, reluctant to disturb the peaceful moment on stage, when his lips suddenly bestowed a feather like kiss upon her temple. A genuine token of affection that warmed her to the core. Her blush intensified as he laced his fingers through hers, his thumb gently caressing her skin until the end of the act. As much as she enjoyed this moment, she couldn't wait to return home and snuggle in his arms. It was the only place in this world where she felt safe. The final was explosive, the soprano's voice so powerful that goosebumps appeared on her arms. Hannibal was the first on his feet, clapping with such strength, such emotion that Frances would have followed him to the end of the world. How she loved this man! Even if he had changed, even if Tristan was buried deep within the walls of his soul, the spark was still there. And when he gathered her arm into the crook of his elbow once more, she felt like the luckiest person in the world.

The guests crowded the great hall after the performance, evening gowns, jewels and expensive suits on display, hidden behind the best of manners. Or so they thought. Those people sauntered around like they owned the world, contempt dripping from their attitude, the rudeness hidden behind a façade of well breeding. In short, most of the people they brushed elbows with stank of wealth and superiority. Hannibal though, seemed impervious to it all. Looking absolutely dashing in his tuxedo, he navigated the throng will well practised smiles and nods. His eyes, though, betrayed him. He despised them, most of them, just as much as she did. Not for the same reasons, surely, for Frances couldn't stand all this falseness, while Hannibal reacted to inner rudeness.

An ageing woman clad in a red dress, lipsticks matching the garment, suddenly called his attention. Hannibal bestowed it willingly, introducing the harpy as lady something of whatever while her eyes roamed about Frances with a sneer.

— "And who would that young woman be? Your niece?"

Frances pursed her lips to refrain from laughing. There it was, the judgement about her youth. Needless to say, that despite her age, she had been through more than any of those people reunited. Experience could mature a soul prematurely. Hannibal's hand came to rest on hers in a tender gesture, his face straight as he answered.

— "May I present you my companion, the lady Frances."

Such a title would have deserved a curtsy, had she dared to insult the woman before her. Instead, she only dipped her head with a blush. Companion. Lady. Smooth talker.

— "Oh. My apologies, I was led to believe you were single."

Frances bit the inside of her cheek. How rude, to inquire so blatantly about his martial situation ! But somewhere deep within, she shook with fright, expecting his answer.

— "Not anymore"

The young woman faltered, gathering a crooked smile from the psychiatrist that made her knees buckle. Even after four days haunting his house, she didn't expect him to claim a status change so easily, to accept her presence in his life. But his tone, if friendly, was final. There would be no more said on the matter, and the red lipstick lady, curtain of dark hair dancing about her thin face, graciously inclined her head.

— "Aren't you a pretty little thing", she cooed, hoping to transform her insult into an attempt to redeem herself.

Nor Hannibal, nor Frances caught her act, but instead of flying to her defense, Dr Lecter landed his hazel gaze upon her. Wondering what she would do. Damn manipulator ! Frances straightened then, lifting a chocolate eyebrow high upon her brow as she adressed Mrs Komeda with false politeness.

— "What a peculiar manner to describe a human being" she retorted.

Beside her, Hannibal's lips twitched. The fire of her eyes betrayed the predator that rumbled within, swirling in anger behind the cage of decorum. A feeling he knew well. Mrs Komeda seemed to blanch, coughing awkwardly before catching a flute of champagne upon a passing tray to regain her composure. Hannibal disguised his smile behind the rim of his glass, feeling Frances' hand squeeze his other arm. The pretty little thing had grown in intensity to put the woman back into her place, retreating to the background once her claws had torn her enemy down. Interesting.

Slightly flushed to be called upon her politeness, the older woman took a sip of the less than excellent drink and resumed her assault on Hannibal; she probably deemed it safer than to poke the panther by his side.

— "Well. Then, it's been too long since you've properly cooked for us, Hannibal."

— "Come over and I will cook for you."

— "I said properly."

Frances felt the insult keenly, and retorted icily.

— "Anything Hannibal cooks fits that definition."

The woman gave her a condescending smile, one that said, 'I knew him before you did, child.' Guess what, I knew him fifteen hundred years ago, harpy! You were not even dust in the wind at that time.

— "Yes dear. What I meant was dinner and the show. Have you seen him cook? It's an entire performance. He used to throw such exquisite dinner parties"

Blood drained from Frances' face. Dinner parties, the staging for human parts, probably. Her hand tightened on Hannibal's arm, and he sensed her distress. How could a man dubbed a psychopath be so attuned to her emotions? That was a wonder. Unless he was no psychopath; only using his empathy for mischief. There was no box for Hannibal such was his complexity; she would have to get used to it and explore every corner of his personality. But the annoying lady wouldn't relent.

— "You heard me. Used to," she added wittingly.

Hannibal's lips slightly quirked in a condescending smile, one that Tristan sometimes wore when he was up to no good. But on the psychiatrist's face, tuxedo, clean shaven face and poise, no one even noticed the twinkle in his amber eyes. Fools, all of them, to think him a 'pride and prejudice' dandy instead of the ruthless and very capable killer that he was. His act was good, though, all manners and poise, discreet smiles and cheery front. Even his body language was tuned to present a fake openness.

— "And I might again, once inspiration strikes. I cannot force a feast. A feast must present itself."

There it was, the confirmation of the peculiar parties Hannibal used to throw around.

— "It's a dinner party, not a unicorn" was the horrible lady's rude retort.

Frances felt like slapping the bitch. How dare she speak to Hannibal this way? But her handsome man's eyes twinkled. He enjoyed the banter, enjoyed toying with her. He had power; she expected something from him that he wasn't willing to give … for despite his assurances, Hannibal had no intention to relent.

— "Oh, but the feast is life. You put the life in your belly and you live."

Despite the fact that the woman could not understand a word of what Hannibal truly meant, she chuckled. Then her eyes left Hannibal's face – at last! – to peek at something behind Frances.

— "I believe this young man is trying to get your attention."

The paunchy man, Franklin appeared by their side, beaming from ear to ear. His tuxedo failed to accommodate the sheer size of his belly and the width of his shoulders, but it didn't matter for the man looked truly ecstatic.

— "Hello" he said, shaking Hannibal's hand, then Frances.

His joy, so genuine as he greeted them, flooded her with warmth. Beside him though, stood a block of ice clad in a black man's skin. Dark eyes, devoid of any feelings, passed her without a second thought, landing on Hannibal instead. The psychiatrist seemed unaware of the scrutiny – Frances wasn't fooled though, nothing passed him – as he chose to address Franklin instead. In polite circles, one didn't talk to strangers before being introduced. Once more, the Jane Austen setting was resurfacing.

— "It's so good to see you."

Knowing his manners, Franklin pointed to his friend, the icicle.

— "This is my friend Tobias."

— "Good evening," greeted Hannibal as he shook his hand.

Frances wanted to flee from the man; he gave her the creeps. But rules would be rules, and Hannibal had to introduce her.

— "This is Frances, my companion."

Franklin's awe couldn't climb another notch as he discovered that his hero; Hannibal Lecter, had landed such a young and beautiful woman. But Tobias had no care for her, shaking her hand with his eyes glued to Hannibal. When his fingers encased hers, grip strong, unrelenting, she knew at once this man was dangerous. His hand didn't linger though, even if it had, she wouldn't have been able to shake him off. Not politely, that is.

— "How do you two know each other?" asked the older woman, still clinging to Hannibal like dirt on his shoes.

The psychiatrist smiled, unwilling to give Franklin away.

— "There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera."

Frances chuckled at that, if only they knew the full mystery of Hannibal! The other man, though, would have none of it. Genuine to the bone.

— "I'm one of his patients."

Well, the cat was out of the bag. At least, the guy was man enough to admit to seeing a therapist. Frances smiled at him, but he only had eyes for Hannibal. Between his awed observation of the man – she could relate to that; Hannibal was fascinating, and devilishly handsome – and Tobias's creepy look, she wondered how the psychiatrist managed to keep his composure. He was sturdy under pressure.

— "Did you enjoy the performance?" he asked Franklin.

— "I did. I loved it. Every minute."

The man was babbling, like a fan meeting a star between gates at the airport. Tobias, though, felt compelled to be even creepier as he said:

— "His eyes kept wandering. More interested in you than what was happening on stage."

Hannibal's lips quirked slightly.

— "Oh, don't say too much. You must leave something for us to discuss next week. Franklyn, good to see you."

His polite dismissal was enough for Frances to admire his quiet authority. Damn, the man had it all … except for the empathy. Franklin seemed a little chagrined, but respected the distance as he greeted him back.

— "You too."

— "Tobias."

With a final nod, Hannibal locked gazes with the tall back man. Was it a challenge she read in his amber eyes? Some cold, hard promise, an expression that had fear creeping her spine. Frances shuddered, and Hannibal turned to her, his face morphing instantly in one of concern.

— "Cold, my dear? Let us head home."

It took a while, sitting in Hannibal's car, for Frances to stop shivering. Hannibal had gently draped his coat over her as she sat, and they were now conversing.

— "Did you enjoy the evening, Frances?"

The young woman chose a partial truth, hoping it would occupy her mind and lead her thoughts away from the creepy Tobias. And Franklin, and that horrible woman who wanted to bed her man. HER man! Hers.

— "Frances?"

The young woman addressed him a smile.

— "The piece was incredible, a beautiful Aria."

— "Cleopatra's curse to the one that imprisoned her" was his reply as he exited the highway.

— "Well, it was very realistic. Although I doubt that she was a redhead."

Hannibal's lips pursed slightly, the corner of his eye smiling while the rest of his face didn't move an inch. He found himself quite partial to readheads suddenly.

— "No, probably not"

— "And it is a shame I didn't understand the lyrics."

— "You do not speak Italian?"

Hannibal seemed surprised. Was it because of her origins, or because he thought her a cultured woman?

— "As a matter of fact, I do, partly at least. It has been a long time since I visited Italy"

Another nod, curious this time, that promised a severe round of questions in a near future. Hannibal's mother being of Italian descent, he had become very fond of the country.

— "Anyway. The opera distorts lyrics so that the sounds are more rounded, and easier to sing. I do not think I would understand a piece in French either way."

— "You have some knowledge of opera singing?"

As usual, his question felt more like a statement rather than an interrogation. It was Hannibal's way of fishing information out of his patients, being ambiguous all the time allowing manipulation. But Frances had nothing to hide, and was therefore forthcoming with anything he wanted to know … and probably things he didn't either.

— "I have been in a choir for a while."

— "I'm glad to hear it."

Was he, really, with this straight face of his and even tone? Damn, he was even harder to read than Tristan.

— "Do not mistake me, Hannibal. I do sing, but nothing like this."

— "I wouldn't expect you to. But you have been avoiding my question. Or at least, part of it"

Frances sent him a heartfelt glare. Trust the psychiatrist to know something had been left unsaid. Two could play this game, and for a while the young woman kept to her musings. Until she had enough of the silence.

— "Whatever do you mean, darling?"

Her sweet voice, the nickname, and her fake surprise made his lips twitch again. She was a minx, showing that she, as well, could beat around the bush.

— "What about the rest of the evening?"

— "Before the swarm of women tried to catch you, I had a great time."

This time, the psychiatrist laughed. She was cute that little tigress, rumbling about the women attempting to catch his eye, his bed and his fortune. Somehow, he knew that Frances wasn't after any of this, and it strangely reassured him.

— "Are you being jealous?"

— "Of course, I am."

Needless to say, that her jealousy was enticing, and entirely useless. None of the women present this evening held a candle to her.

— "They were probably spooked to find you at my arm. A beautiful lady, younger than them didn't flatter their ego. But I didn't take you for the possessive type."

— "You were obviously wrong. Am I allowed?"

For a moment, Hannibal just drove, eyes squinting to discern the road markings in the night. It was a fair question. Not that he bedded any women, but would Frances be allowed to claim him as hers? Was she, in return, his? It should have been way too early in this relationship to answer it. Yet, somehow, it felt right. Turning to her, Hannibal nodded once. Yes, she was allowed to be possessive. There was no other woman he'd rather be with. Relief washed over her features, followed by a look of concern. Her hand shot out to squeeze his forearm.

— "Hannibal. This man, Tobias, he worries me. Something is wrong with him."

— "And you say you're not an empath?"

The young woman gave him a surprised look before understanding settled in.

— "So you have noticed as well?"

Hannibal stopped the car in front of his mansion, the automatic front gate opening slowly.

— "Something is uneven in the relationship with Franklin."

— "His eyes were so cold," she whispered, her gaze lost in the night.

— "Like mine?"

Frances started, her wide eyes meeting his. She looked very much like a deer caught in the headlights at the moment, and Hannibal reached for her hand. It was cold, and he brought his other hand to warm the soft skin, giving her time to make an assessment. He liked it, that she always took the time to think things over before speaking; that she always granted him with the truth.

— "No. There is warmth in yours, and light."

Something deflated in Hannibal, his cold core expanding just a little at her words. So, she saw what he was, and it held more significance than he thought it would. Kissing her knuckles, he regarded her seriously.

— "I am not a psychopath, Frances. I have feelings. I knew what love was, once. This man never did."

She didn't ask what caused the change. Perhaps she already knew, or was too afraid to pry. Still, this was the weirdest discussion he ever had with a woman. Holding her hand, telling her of his mental disorder as if he talked of the weather. Her hazel eyes, though, did not leave his face, and he marvelled once more at the unconditional acceptance. She was worried, for him.

As Hannibal drove through the portal, closing it behind them, Frances reached for his shoulder, setting her head against him.

— "The man has noticed you, I don't like it one bit."

A swell of tenderness flooded his body, something he had not felt for ages.

— "I will get to the bottom of it with Franklin, rest assured. Do not fret, my dear, I can take care of myself."

His words had a strange effect, for she lifted her head, and kissed his cheek with a beaming smile. Little did he know that 'do not fret, my dear' resembled much the 'don't fuss, woman' that Tristan would have served her in similar circumstances. Her tone turned playful, her fingers caressing his waistcoat.

— "With that body of yours, I bet you can."

Hannibal smiled wickedly.

Aren't they cute together ? If you enjoy reading this, please leave me your thoughts. It will be happy to respond.