Hey! The latest 'favourite' set me in motion again. I hope you enjoy this little bit of drama. It might be a little violent compared to what I'm used to writing, but this Frances embraces her darkness more than the others.

She knew, from the moment her eyes opened to the world, that it was going to be a bad day. The reason for it? None. She had woken up, ensconced within the safety of Hannibal's arms, her cheek on his chest, listening to the sturdy beating of his heart. Ever since their meeting four days ago, she had not left his house. Habits that shouldn't exist already bloomed, as if they had known each other for far longer than four days. But again, Frances didn't question it, for they might have been lovers, fifteen hundred years ago, has death not parted them. Now came the time to savour it. And when Hannibal's breath became heavier, she couldn't help but kiss his beautiful lips in greeting.

And despite the fact that this man, her man, was a psychopath, he still could be passionate in bed. They shared a beautiful moment within the sheets, exploring, moaning, kissing to their heart's content, until Hannibal fell beside her, sweat tickling down his brow, panting from the exertion. He was more handsome this way, ruggedly spent, chest dripping, his body shivering, than in any of his three-piece suits. Vulnerable. It was the only moment when Hannibal was laid bare, and she marvelled that he allowed it. His breath evened out, and he remarked cheekily how he wasn't a young man anymore, amber eyes boring into hers with an unspoken question. She scoffed, dragging him to the shower, showing him exactly how he was more than fit to keep up with her. His body was lean, efficient, full of raw power that he concealed below shirts and waistcoats. Not that she minded; he looked stunning in those finely tailored garments.

Still, the sense of dread had not left her. And when Hannibal passed the front door, leaving a kiss at the corner of her mouth, then square on her lips to prevent her from protesting, her heart started drumming in anticipation of his return.

— "Until later, beautiful," he whispered before disappearing into his car.

From that moment, Frances started to count every minute. To pass the time, she had roamed the place – even the basement – settled for some music and started making gnocchi. She had no clue about her great-grandmother's recipe, but enough memories of making them, and rolling them on a fork to start working on it. It took her two hours to get the dough right – it was her second time, after all – and another hour to create the little rolls. Once her gnocchi were complete, the young woman started pacing back and forth. Something wasn't right, she could feel it in her bones. That sense of uneasiness kept growing, and she had no clue what to do about it. She was alone, in this world, except for Hannibal. And she knew he didn't believe her crazy tale of her arrival, not that she blamed him. But then, she wasn't about to ramble on premonitions.

After eating some left over from yesterday evening, some delicious fish dish with a complicated vegetable arrangement, Frances decided to work on a porcini mushroom sauce. Hannibal had a few boxes of dried ones that she boiled for ten minutes, before setting it to rest for an hour or so. Then, she used the water to create a béchamel sauce, adding some cream and an egg yolk to complete it. In the end, she was rather satisfied with her work.

The clock rang 4 pm, startling her. A shiver ran down her spine, cold dread pooling in her stomach. For the umpteenth time that day, the young woman checked her mobile phone. Nothing. Well, nothing else than the midday texts Hannibal had sent her. She didn't dare interrupting his sessions; it would have been very rude. What if he was with a patient? But she needed to know how he fared. At last, Frances decided to send a text.

— "Are you all right, darling?"

Then she watched her screen, waiting. Not five minutes later, her phone beeped discreetly.

— "Yes. I am seeing my last patient and then I'll be home."

Her vision blurred, and Frances grabbed the counter, suddenly unsure of where she was. Franklin, the man they had met in the opera, was on the floor. Blood everywhere, his eyes unseeing. Next to him lay an arm clad in a shirt, and a suit jacket. The hand, she would have recognised anywhere, for she had kissed it day and night. Hannibal!

Grabbing her phone roughly, she typed in frantically.

— "Isit Franklin?"

She didn't even take the time to correct the typo, sending it right away.

— "Yes, why?"

This time, Frances called in directly. Her breath was short as panic settled in. Hannibal picked up his phone instantly. His voice was stern, rather pissed by her meddling.

— "Yes? Is there anything wrong?"

— "I … listen, Hannibal. I know it will sound weird, but I have a very bad feeling about this session."

She could nearly hear him sigh in frustration on the other side of the line, but he kept his composure.

— "Franklin is not dangerous, Frances. I know you feel nervous about this, but it is all right."

— "I think Franklin is in danger, and so are you."

Being the psychiatrist he was, Hannibal didn't lose his cool, answering her as he would a patient.

— "I understand that you feel uneasy. I will speak with him about warning the police."

Frances gasped in frustration. He didn't understand! He couldn't understand, he that thrived on science and rationality. But gut feelings saved lives! And she could practically smell bloodshed to come. Trembling, she nearly begged him.

— "Lock the front door, Hannibal."

— "There is no need to panic Frances."

She felt like screaming! But if she did, she knew he wouldn't listen. Forcing her breaths to calm down, she only repeated.

— "Please, do it for me. Please"

— "I will. Will you be all right by yourself, Frances?"

— "I'm all right," came her wobbly response.

— "I will see you in an hour and a half, dear. Until then"

— "Until then, darling"

Frances darted off before the tone even echoed in her hear. Grabbing her best shoes – a pair of ballerinas with low heels – and her coat, she practically ran down the stairs. Hannibal's office was four miles away from his house, but from the looks of her Google map, she could just cut through a piece of park and reduce it by half. More than two miles to cover, and no car. Calling a cab would have taken too long; Hannibal lived in a rather secluded area, who knew if she would cross paths with one? Frances took off running, her long skirt flying behind her as she covered the distance. Never before had she been so happy to have a strong sense of orientation. Basically, she couldn't get lost. It came in handy, for her instincts led her in the right direction, diving under the trees, jogging through paths and modest pedestrian roads to reappear right in front of the right street less than fifteen minutes later. 'Hurry,' she grumbled under her breath. 'Hurry.'

Her shoes hated every minute of her run, being dragged in the mud, then mistreated on concrete like a pair of vulgar sneakers. But they held true. Panting heavily, Frances ran as if the devil tailed her. Until she came into view of Hannibal's building. She worked on adrenalin, the sense of dread holding her in a vice grip, pushing her further, faster. Sweat trickled down her brow, following her temple as it dripped under her blouse. A car passed her, one of many. But for once, the driver didn't turn around to peek at this peculiar woman, running like crazy in the streets of Baltimore. Not like the others had. No, he didn't, for that driver was Tobias, and he didn't care for her. He came for Franklin, and Hannibal. Yelling in frustration, Frances could only watch as the car parked in front of the psychiatrist office a few hundred yards away. If Hannibal heeded her warning, he would get stuck at the door. By then, she would be able to call for help, or the police, and they would be safe.

Her plans were foiled, though, when she realised with horror that Tobias has penetrated in the building.

— "No!" she cried.

He had not locked his door! Damn Hannibal and his rationality, he didn't trust her! Tristan would have, he had witnessed first-hand the efficiency of her vision when she saved Dagonet from the clutches of the icy lake. But Hannibal didn't believe in her … dismissing her intuition for the ramblings of a mad woman. Insults flew in her head, rendering her even angrier. Despite her disappointment, though, fear was building up quickly.

At last, she had made it. Climbing the steps two at a time, she jumped at the door and pushed it away to run into the corridor. The door between waiting room and office was open, grunts and crashes indicating a fight was occurring. As Franklin rushed out, Frances took hold of his arm.

— "Call Jack Crawford," she yelled at him as she launched her handbag into his chest.

The round man's eyes were wide with terror.

— "Tobias, he's … help him! Please help Dr Lecter"

Frances ran with all her might, passing the door in haste. What she discovered froze her blood to icicles.

Tobias held Hannibal on his desk, hand at his throat, the letter opener inches from his face. In this very moment, Frances forgot her humanity. All she could see was Tristan's face as he died, his mouth bleeding, his life force pouring out of him from numerous stab wounds. That sorry excuse for a man was going to take the very last thing she had in this world. Hannibal, the man she loved. After losing everything; her family, her friends, her world, everything she owned. He was the only one left, and Tobias was about to take him from her. All the pent-up rage and despair flared, her anger bursting forth, taking hold of her, overwhelming, uncontrollable.

Her battle cry tore the air as she leapt at the man with the wrath of an amazon. Her fist collided with his face with such strength that his head reeled back, only to receive a second vicious blow. But Tobias was strong. He blocked the third one, backhanding her so strongly that she saw stars. Frances crashed upon a pillar, her back protesting at the pain that shot through her spine. She welcomed it, the agony, to keep consciousness. With a snarl he was upon her. Frances was too slow; the man too strong. She knew death when she saw it. Surprise took over when Tobias fell, his legs kicked out from under him by none other than Hannibal. Blood trickled down his mouth and hand, his stance wobbly. But Frances cared not; she would have wept with joy to see him alive still. She sent him a nod of thanks, and for the split of a second, his eyes answered his own gratitude.

Already, their mighty enemy was on his feet. It took a split of a moment for them to connect again, but very soon, they were dancing around Tobias. In perfect synchronisation, they landed blow after blow on the psychopath, leaving him no room to defend himself. Like a beautifully oiled machine, they covered their respective backs, preventing Tobias from landing any other kicks on any of them.

Frances fought like a lioness, her rage rendering her blows brutally efficient. Unrestrained, precise and destructive. Hannibal couldn't help but marvel at her skill; she was more dangerous than he was. When Tobias had blocked most of his fists – the psychopath was faster than him – he couldn't dodge hers. At last, Frances provided him with an opening, and Hannibal seized his chance by sending an uppercut into his opponent's throat. Tobias fell on his knees, choking. The young woman descended upon him like an angel of death, crushing his nape with her elbow in a show of rare brutality. Tobias fell to the ground. If his windpipe had not been crushed yet, Frances' last blow made sure he would never walk again. Panting, Hannibal's eyes met the young woman's. His mind froze, too numb to process what had just happened. Frances wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve before she collapsed on all fours, shocked. She had just killed a man, or maimed him without a second thought.

Hannibal was by her side in the blink of an eye, wincing at the pain shooting through his thigh where Tobias had stabbed him. Together, they dragged themselves onto shaky legs.

— "Are you all right?" he whispered, his gaze searching hers.

The bruise on her cheek had already turned an angry purple, and Hannibal refrained from touching it, fingers hovering without applying pressure. What a shame, to mar her beautiful features with such a mark. It would take weeks to fade. Frances sniffled slightly, her eyes roaming his frame worriedly.

— "Yeah. You?"

His forearm hurt where the wire had cut through the flesh, and his head and ribs pounded due to the numerous blows Tobias had landed before Frances' arrival. The worst, though, was the stab on his outer thigh. This one would scar for sure, and stung like bitch. Fortunately, his attacker was no surgeon and had missed the artery, only aiming to hurt. Overall, despite the black and blues he would sport, nothing was broken. He had been very lucky, had she not been there… She was his little god fairy.

— "I'll live. Thanks to you"

And then, fire blazed in her eyes, and her gesture surprised them both as she slapped him. None too gently, nor too harshly. But her wrath! God, it was an impressive sight, so impressive that he had to refrain from stepping back. He, Hannibal Lecter, humbled by a woman twenty years younger as her voice rose indignantly.

— "I told you to bar this fucking door, Hannibal! Damn you! I told you, and you didn't listen!"

Hannibal's heart leapt at his own admittance. Yes, he had dismissed her concerns for those of a crazy woman. Yes, he thought her stories unbelievable. Yes, he thought he was more than capable of taking care of himself. He might have prevailed, after all, right? But somehow; she had been right about the danger. How had she known? Hannibal was pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate her answer. Probably something mystical, or unbelievable once more. Still, there was only one way out of this; honesty.

— "You are right. I didn't believe you, and I am sorry."

An instant later, Frances was sobbing in his arms, her hands carefully wound around his middle as she shook from fright. Hannibal wavered on his feet, embracing her like there would be no tomorrow, his mind all over the place. She was his anchor in this very moment, the reason he lived still, and his reason to be a better man. At the door, Franklin still held her cell phone when his eyes met Hannibal's.

— "Wow," he only said.

Then he fainted.

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