Hello. A big thank you to all those who reviewed. You feed my muse, as usual. I am humbled that people enjoy this as it was only meant to be a short digression. But what can I say, I don't know how to do short … blame me?

Honestly, I didn't see the end of this chapter coming. It just … kinda wrote itself this way. I am glad we get to see a little more of Hannibal, I felt I had neglected him recently :)

This is the aftermath of the mighty battle. We get to meet Will Graham... For those who read 'All Hail to the King', you probably know where this is going.

When the FBI popped into Hannibal's office, they did not expect the scene they found. Hannibal's patient, Franklin, was sitting in the armchair, face pale, visibly shaken. Doctor Lecter himself sat at his desk, nursing a sore head and a bandaged wrist, a crimson trail running all around it. His lips were split, his gaze a little unfocused. Kneeling beside him, a young woman with a long fiery braid kept pressure on his thigh with a handkerchief, her eyes focused upon the psychiatrist. And on the floor, they found the body of Tobias, the bulky man who had, not an hour before, killed two FBI agents in cold blood and nearly disposed of Will.

Jack Crawford left his team to its work; examining the criminal in front of a very disturbed patient. The paunchy man, Franklin, would need the therapy to go through the trauma; the look in his eyes told him so. And, needless to say, that the trails of blood, and upturned furniture – all evidence of the fight – made him uneasy. This sanctuary, with its high ceiling and muffled atmosphere, was the epitome of zenitude. Seeing Dr Lecter, the ever-poised psychiatrist, bruised and battered did add some weirdness. Never before had he witnessed a single strand of hair out of place on the very impeccable Hannibal Lecter. What called him out, though, was the figure whose hand rested on the psychiatrist's thigh in a familiar gesture. As if touching him, the coldest of individuals, was the most natural thing in the world. Unattainable Hannibal Lecter, tall and proud Dr Lecter, receiving comfort from a mere girl?

— "Who is she?" he asked. "Another patient?"

Will chose this moment to penetrate the room, his head cocked aside as he took in the sight before him. No. Not a patient, there was too much closeness, too much familiarity between the two of them. Hannibal's eyes sought him out, relief flooding him.

— "I was afraid you were dead," he said.

Will nodded, still shaky from his recent encounter and brush with death. He wasn't sorry that this psychopath, Tobias, lay dead at his feet. Then his gaze returned to the young woman kneeling by Hannibal's side. Her hair was in disarray, a purple bruise marring her cheek. She had been hit, but refused the medics to come any closer. Her long flowing skirt had blood trails upon it. Will's eyes widened as he noticed her flayed knuckles; she had been fighting. Hannibal sent her a fond look, one that he had never seen upon his face, then turned to Jack.

— "No."

The doctor seemed to hesitate a moment, then pursed his lips.

— "She's my…"

— " … cat…", interrupted the young woman.

— " … companion," finished Hannibal with a mock stare.

At this, the man named Franklin actually scoffed, mumbling something about a panther. Jack sent her a startled look that probably mirrored the one on Will's face. Who referred himself willingly as a pet? And worst of all, since when Hannibal had a woman in his life? A very young woman; she might even be younger than himself.

— "Ferocious kitten you have there," Jack deadpanned.

Hannibal smirked, tugging at her hand so that she stood. Then the Doctor did the unthinkable. Something so wild, so extraordinary that Will's heat missed a beat. Hannibal rested his head upon her arm, features softening, exhaustion settling in as he refrained from slipping into oblivion. She gently caressed his messy hair, a look of pure adoration on her face. Will had to refrain from choking on his own saliva, bewildered by the gentle solace that exuded from the man. For once, Hannibal was not the one in control. And when his voice rose, eyes opening once more, it was barely above a whisper.

— "Yes, my kitten. She saved my life."

Will's eyes widened entirely.

— "You fought this man?" he asked, not even trying to tame the surprise in his own exclamation.

The young woman's eyes turned steely, her posture stiffening.

— "We both did."

And then, Will saw the warrior behind the classy exterior … the background morphed into a grassy hill swarmed with barbarians. Her features carved in stone, her jaw set, braid tucked into a leather armour. She was fighting like a demon, slicing into their army, a tall man with unruly braids by her side. Both locked in a trance, their bodies attuned to each other as they laid waste on the battle field. A deadly and unstoppable force that hacked through their enemies like a Russian tank.

The woman's voice, full of tenderness, called him from his vision.

— "Yes. He was about to kill him, I couldn't…"

— "You're lucky you're alive," Jack interrupted sternly.

Obviously, the FBI director was not aware of the devastation the woman was capable of. She was just about to retort when Franklin suddenly stood from his armchair, his shaky hand pointing at the doctor and his companion. His voice trembled as he ranted.

— "No, no, no luck there," he started, his voice trembling. "She and Dr Lecter, they were awesome together… you should have seen them, it was like a dance. A deadly dance,"

Frances addressed a bittersweet smile to Franklin before he was ushered away. Will nodded, the vision at the front of his mind before his gaze returned to her. Her eyes were glazed over, as if she remembered, also, the battlefield he's just witnessed. As if the mention of this deadly dance triggered her memories. Her hands laid on Hannibal protectively; she revolved around him, he was the centre of her world. Will frowned. If she was the woman in the vision, did it mean that Dr Lecter was the other knight? Shaggy exterior, chainmail and sword in hand… Preposterous! Will Graham doubted that it could be the same man; they couldn't be further apart. The grace of his moves, the purpose of his kills… Doubt bloomed in his mind. He had no doubt Hannibal could dance. Despite his three-piece suits, the man moved with efficient economy, unhindered by the restrictive garments. And where did that vision come from?

— "Is he dead?" the woman eventually asked.

Jack frowned.

— "Yes. Very dead"

A gasp escaped the young woman and the doctor stood on shaky legs to gather her in his arms. Damn, he looked more beaten than she was. At last, the woman muffled in the Doctor's chest.

— "I did not mean to … he was so dangerous, I only wanted to incapacitate him. I was so afraid he would hurt Hannibal again"

Dr Lecter kissed her hair gently, his show of affection entirely foreign to Will, then turned his intense gaze on Jack.

— "I count on you to consider this self-defence."

Jack Crawford took a step back, pacing for a while before he could voice his consternation.

— "Crushed windpipe…"

— "That would be me," said Hannibal, unrepentant.

— "Broken neck by a neat, precise blow to the cervical…"

This time, the young woman turned to Jack to look him in the eye. A gentle squeeze on her waist warned her to stay silent, that he would take the blame for it. She ignored him entirely, stating the truth bluntly.

— "My bad"

Hannibal wondered, once more, how Frances could feed him such tales of time travel and aliens when she seemed so direct, so honest. Her brutal admission caused the FBI director to drop his hands at his sides in a gesture of surrender. It took a sheer amount of strength to break someone's neck this way … something Jack had trouble understanding. Will, though, saw the desperation in her gaze. Like a mother protecting her children; they were known for pulling incredible feats in such dire situations. Adrenalin, they called it. Eventually, Jack pointed his meaty hand to the body.

— "This is self-defence to you?"

Frances extricated herself from Hannibal's grasp; she wanted to take responsibilities for her actions.

— "It was," she answered genuinely. "No matter how wounded, the man was unstoppable. I acted on instinct."

Jack walked up to her, towering over her frame in an attempt to intimidate her. His strength, his stance alone were impressive, but Hannibal just smirked: he knew what his kitten was cut off. She didn't bulge an inch, staring right back at Jack, daring him to make a move. Where was the young woman that shook in his arms not a moment earlier?

— "Well, you've got some pretty good guts, and technique, young lady. What do you do for a living?"

— "I teach self-defence"

This time, Will grumbled.

— "This explains a lot."

The young woman turned to him, scrutinising him. Then, a bright expression took hold of her face, something so out of place that it left him startled. Frances couldn't believe it. Galahad was here, and he hadn't changed an inch! Galahad, once more trapped in a weird relationship with Tristan, his brother of old. Clarity suddenly came to her; he could only be Will Graham, his most interesting patient. Now, instead of one, she had two of her knights back. How incredible! Her smile was genuine when she addressed him, her joy confusing him even more.

— "It is nice to meet you, Will Graham. I've heard a lot about you."

Behind them, Hannibal sent her an inquisitive look before his eyes met Will's. The FBI consultant scathing expression promised hell whenever they would meet again… in private. The young man would never believe that Frances had barged into his life less than a week prior, especially after seeing the destruction she was capable of on his behalf. This was love, fierce and deep love, and Hannibal didn't expect Will to miss its significance.

— "Well, obviously, I haven't," came Will's answer.

Frances laughed at his bluntness. Such a childish answer, so open, like his past self. Damn, if he was an empath back then, she understood why he spent so much time in the bottle in the fifth century. Her grasp on his pain – the pain of being a murderer for a cause not his own, Rome's egemony – was under evaluated at best. For the moment though, she needed to establish a bond with this skittish animal that was Will Graham.

— "I would be surprised if you had, Hannibal is not the most talkative of men. Never has, never will be. It's in his nature to be private."

Her attempt miserably failed. Visibly, Will had no recollection of her, and was wary of her exploits on the battlefield. Nodding once, he turned to Hannibal whose left hand supported his weight on the desk. Frances's heart clenched at his battered body; she needed to get him home to rest.

— "We'll talk in my next session, doctor. Whenever you can get back to work."

The former knight left after that, not even turning once.

The gnocchi were a strange comfort this evening, and for once, Frances had to navigate the kitchen by herself as doctors had strongly prohibited Hannibal from moving around. Not that he obeyed, mind you. He still found the way to extract a bottle of white wine – the very best to celebrate his life – from the basement. Her dish, albeit made with love, didn't look so appealing compared to the visual chef d'oeuvres he usually served. Frances felt self-conscious as she set the plate in front of him. Still, the openly appreciative expression on Hannibal's face as he chewed into the traditional gnocchi warmed her heart. She could see, from the slight quirk of his lips, that the taste pleased him. After a few bites in silence, Hannibal eventually set his fork down, and reached for her hand. His skin was warm on hers, a reassuring presence conveying his gratitude.

— "Thank you, Frances"

The young woman nodded, her mind still reeling from the events of the day. In truth, she was quite ready to crumble down, but Hannibal's stout presence at the dinner table kept her poised.

— "Thank you for the best gnocchi I have ever eaten. Thank you for this fantastic mushroom sauce, and thank you for saving my life"

Startled that food and his life be put at the same level, Frances's heart poured into her next words.

— "I love you" was her only answer.

He should have been startled by the emotion barely repressed, the slight trembling of her voice betraying how close she was from collapsing. But he had already come to terms with her unconditional affection. The sheer power of her blows had taught him how protective she was of him, how desperate as well. The height of absurdity, for he was the fiercest of killers. But today… today she had protected him better than herself. He didn't know why he deserved to be loved thus; somehow, he knew he did not. Still, she was there. Cooking for him a dish he had not eaten since forever to occupy her busy mind. A mind dedicated to him, and his well-being. A mind intent of keeping him safe, even when he discarded her advice.

Questions could wait; he was in no hurry to learn the truth. For the moment, he only needed a night of proper rest, bundled under the covers, with the woman who took care of him like a faithful wife. And so, standing wearily, he led Frances to bed without further ado, and held her close as she cried – from shock and relief – into his chest. Her hand came to rest upon his heart, her dedicated spot where her fingers gently played with his chestnut hair. As if, every night, she wanted to make sure that his heart continued beating. Unlike that day, fifteen hundred years ago, when it had stopped right under her palm. Or so she said. Sometimes, Hannibal wondered if her story was true, if the strange dreams that sometimes invaded his mind were of that distant past she talked about. Perhaps then, his world was not a materialist as it seemed. If God existed, though, he had a twisted sense of humour.

Six days later brought Hannibal to suit up once more. The stitches of his thigh had just been removed, the pain lessened considerably. Ribs were on the mend, muscles quite happy for they had received many massages and warm caresses those past days. Instead of erring about the house like puppets, Hannibal and Frances had used the excuse of their sorry state to spend more time in bed. Bonding, body and soul. They had been careful, of course, both of them knowing their limits, yet both quite resistant to pain. To discover their respective bodies, once more, with tenderness to prevent any wounds. To caress, kiss, and join without pressure, passion shared in the sweetest of manners. Hannibal had been appalled at the giant bruise on her back, he had kissed it from shoulder to hip with great care. It was a good therapy for her as well. Frances was still shaken, unsure of where this relationship would lead her.

Whenever they left the bed, they descended in the kitchen to cook. Hannibal shared many recipes and tricks that she absorbed. His every move, his habits, the spots he placed utensils and the way he washed them. The places he shopped, the pieces he chose at the butcher, the fish stall, the vegetables and fruits he loved and those he loathed. Frances was learning how to fit into his life. And when he gathered – from her recollection of that fated day – that she had ran all the way to his office to save him, ruining her best pair of shoes in the process, Hannibal decided she needed a car. Frances dismissed his idea; she did not possess a driving licence, for lack of time and budget. This would have to be remedied. Right after he allowed himself to be impressed by her sturdiness, and her willingness to put her life on the line for him.

She fit like a glove in his life, and Hannibal decided that never would she return to her horrible foyer. On the fifth day, as both felt much better, they gathered the little amount of her possessions and brought them to his house. And when he realised she had quite nothing to her name – and not even a real name – Hannibal decided to take her shopping. He dragged her into his favourite boutiques, buying outfits, underwear, shoes which price tag was fortunately not displayed. She deserved the best, but still shied away, telling him how she felt like 'pretty woman'. Hannibal dismissed her concerns. Money he had aplenty, for both of them.

— "Money only is an issue if you make it so, Frances," he told her, kissing her hands in a display of genuine affection.

He never thought he could feel it; such an unguarded emotion for another. She called the best in him, this woman. And he was proud to call her his.

So when time came for him to get back to work, and he secured the vest of his suit upon his shoulder without wincing – a little victory – there was only one solution in his mind. Hannibal turned to the young woman; anxiety was written all over her face at the idea to let him go once more.

— "We will invite Jack for dinner, and his wife. Will and Alana as well. Now that you are part of my life, it is only normal to present you as such. Formally"

Protocol at its best. Frances frowned, her worried glance turning to puzzlement as she wondered about the title she should sport.

— "As such?"

A smirk adorned his lips, still slightly swollen from her morning ministrations. He had to admit that finding an eager and warm body next to him every single morning was something he was looking forward to.

— "My wife, if you so wish."

Frances swallowed; uneasiness written over her features as a rosy hue crept to her cheeks. Was this even real? Would she be lucky enough to have this handsome and magnetic man as a husband? Not that he could possibly be in a relationship with many women, given his occupations. But still, with his charm and poise, she didn't doubt he could land any female he fancied. Was he ready though, to have her permanently so quickly?

— "Are you sure, Hannibal?"

Ah, she was worried about him once more. Doubts needed to be put to rest. The psychiatrist checked the knot of his tie one more time in the mirror before sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand.

— "Well. Since it is out of the question that you return in this horrible place you used to live in, and decided to attach yourself to me should you die in the process, I think you deserve the title"

A full smile bloomed on her face, and with the haphazard sunrays that filtered through his curtains, she looked beautiful. A lovely maiden, for an old – if very fit – man. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to regret it, to regret her presence in his life. The doors she opened, the emotions she created, none of it could compare to his old, solitary life. Perhaps he was incapable of love; he certainly wasn't about to propose, one knee planted in the ground like a knight of old, with a shiny jewel and profess his undying love. But something was stirring within him. The need to care for her. As his wife, she would be protected from the world, never to be cast away once more. If he died, or was discovered, she wouldn't be left in the streets. If he got caught, she would be exposed to the likes of Freddie Lounds. One more reason for him to behave.

— "I would be honoured," she said, grabbing his neck to kiss him.

Hannibal let her tongue linger on his lips, his own fingers grazing at her cheeks in a tender gesture before he gave her a cheeky smile.

— "And it would give you a real surname."

— "That too"