Ah Koba, I didn't realise you had not read that one. The chapters are short, though, because I didn't intend it to go too far It will be a short fic, 40k at worst I guess. It is funny to see that Hannibal thinks Frances delusional, he is a psychiatrist after all. But he knows of his shortcomings as well, and for once, it feels nice to be accepted. Monster and all. As for Will … more of him in this chapter.
Jack Crawford couldn't help who he was, nor could he quell the feeling, deep inside of him, that screamed of dark secrets whenever he watched Frances' face. Nor the subdued presence of his wife, Bella – she was awfully quiet those days – neither the delicious food could take him away from his thoughts.
The little research about the young woman gave surprising results, even when he crossed referenced all databases. Frances, as per Hannibal's formal presentation, had only existed for a year. Popping up, unconscious, in an abandoned warehouse out of nowhere, with no memory whatsoever of her name and history at the time. No driving licence, no ID, one matching her face in the missing files. The air force had paid a visit to her hospital room; there was no recording of what was said. Classified, probably. Why would the airforce visit a 23-year-old amnesiac? After the lady's little stunt, crushing Tobias' spine like a cracker, he wondered what this woman was really made of. But none of his sources could fish out any reliable information about her. Frances just was. And even more surprising, she now lived beside the most guarded and secretive psychiatrist he'd ever met.
Frances talked liked a woman in full possession of her memories, behaved with assurance and poise. As if she'd fought a thousand battles, as if nothing could destabilise her, as if she'd accepted death many times over. Despite her youth, her hazel eyes held the unmistakable glint that many FBI agents sported. There was no doubt in his mind about the hardships she'd faced; death and loss, for sure. At first, he had judged the age difference of this strange couple, passion and coldness expressed in both of them. But now, as he witnessed their subtle interaction laced with affection, he didn't fear Hannibal's domination over the young woman. Even if she regarded him like a miracle, her esteem obvious in the little gesture they shared, she was no woman to be trampled over, even by an intimidating figure. For Doctor Lecter definitely was one of those people that could send anyone to their knees with a look.
Her accent was peculiar. Less pronounced that Dr Lecter's, even if she fumbled for words sometimes. He couldn't place it, though, until she asked for a translation in French, one that Hannibal was only too happy to oblige with a fond smile. Never had he seen such warmth in his manners, albeit the corner of his lips barely twitched when he addressed her. But Jack could see, as plain as day, the beaming smile she addressed him as he provided the correct word. The restraint of his manners did not fool her; she could see right through his armour and bask in the affection he barely expressed. As if they had known each other for years. Dr Lecter's mastery of the French language surprised him though, until he remembered he had started medical school in France. This only deepened his respect for the man. Medicine classes were famous for their selectivity in Paris. Still, he wondered why her accent didn't point to the country. French people were usually more than obvious when it came to their poor English.
— "Are you French, Frances?" he eventually asked.
The young woman addressed him a sad smile, an emotion he couldn't place upon her features.
— "I was."
Then her eyes darted to Will, again. The attempt at contact was once more pushed away by the consultant. Jack wondered at the strange dynamic between those two. She seeking his presence, and he pushing back with all his might. Mysteries surrounded this woman like a shroud would a dead. It had, so far, been the third direct question he addressed her. Each time, the same pattern; short answers, providing no information whatsoever. Either she was a master at hiding things, either she wasn't a great conversationalist. Somehow, he doubted it, because she was quite soon engaged into a nice recollection of Florence with Bella. Had she given up on Will, picking up a lifeline from Bella's Italian name ? Doctor Lecter was a European through and through. It only seemed normal that they would find each other.
In front of him, Will was mainly silent. Fascinated by the young woman, almost in a trance, but fleeing her attempts at eye contact. Jack wondered if he was trying to use his gift of empathy to pierce her secrets. But Alana Bloom, seated beside him, couldn't quite quell her curiosity at the peculiar response. Maybe he should let her do the prodding; a young woman might be more open with Alana than with him.
— "It's the first time I hear someone speak of a nationality in the past tense. Why 'was'?" she eventually asked.
Frances turned to the brunette woman, sizing her up before responding. She seemed genuine, if a little disgruntled that Hannibal – her mentor – had found a companion. Perhaps her age didn't sit well with her; Alana Bloom probably was slightly older than she was. Her question, though, called forth memories she'd rather forget.
— "I was found with no memory and no family. My surname is not my own, hence my ID states my citizenship to be the US."
— "Couldn't you apply for double nationality like Doctor Lecter?"
How ironic, that Hannibal actually held the French nationality when she didn't.
— "I am afraid that beside speaking French, there is no recollection of me anywhere. Getting a birth certificate would be difficult"
With a quick glance across, she met Hannibal's troubled gaze. He had searched as well, phoning the village she was born – bless his French! – , looking for addresses where she was supposed to live. Some matched, like the ones of her childhood friends and the name of the preschool teacher. Even the phone numbers did, they were listed in the white pages. Her own neighbours, with their five sons, their age, their name. All of it was true, he'd called them personally. But her own house had never been built, and she didn't exist in the registers. How could she describe it with so much detail if she wasn't born there? For her knowledge of the area – Lyon and its countryside – was as extensive as his recollection of the Essonne estate his uncle had lived in. Still, he couldn't believe in her weird story of time travel and aliens. The solution had escaped him until now, but he would meet the challenge head on.
Frances addressed him a tentative smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. He knew his scepticism hurt her feelings, but there was nothing else he could do. Feeding her delusion could only lead to a breakdown. And when her eyes turned back to Alana, he saw the mask slip back into place. It was too late to hide from Will, though, for the expression on his face sold him out. Pale, almost shaking, Hannibal knew that Will had seen something. What could it be?
— "It doesn't matter though," added Frances. "I know who I am."
— "And who are you?"
Jack's interjection was met with a disapproving stare from his wife. Hannibal straightened in his chair, a strange feeling stirring inside his chest. Protectiveness. Even if he didn't know who Frances was, and how she had unmasked him, she was his puzzle to solve. Not anyone else. She belonged to him, period, and he would protect her no matter what. If she died, it would be by his hand. Hannibal's lips pursed; his hopes that Jack Crawford would steer away from Frances, as she was under his protection, were crushed. But the psychiatrist had more than one string to his bow, and many more contingency plans than humanly possible. Frances was his, now. His to protect, his to cherish, his to care for. So his amber eyes turned to Jack, his gaze hard, and he could see the shiver the tall man repressed under the weight of it.
— "Are you, by any means, investigating my future wife, Jack?"
The jab aimed true, for as soon as his words passed his lips, gushing from the female company rose in the dining room, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly in talks of weddings and other romantic nonsense that caused Frances' eye to twinkle. Although she responded in kind, he knew she kept an ear on her conversation with Jack. 'Well played,' her hazel eyes told him, the semi smile gracing her rosy lips for a moment before she turned her attention back to Alana Bloom.
When Jack and Bella Crawford left, she and Frances were on very friendly terms. A promise to spend more time together was sealed with the exchange of phone numbers, and Hannibal couldn't help but notice the absence of anguish he felt at that. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still. He should have felt wary, to know that Frances was going to talk to Jack's wife more often. Yet, he was surprised to trust her to keep his secret. She had, after all, many more of her own about her origins. Whichever they may be.
When Alana insisted on helping him with the dishes, Hannibal took advantage of her offer to prod her feelings about Frances' intrusion in his life, leaving his lady and Will behind. He wondered if the young woman would be able to penetrate his thick armour, to pass his walls as easily as she had sent his crumbling. For the moment though, Alana's very thorough interrogation called his attention fully. She young woman asked the right questions, and there was only so much he could dodge in front of a well trained psychiatrist. It was lucky that his own training, his cunning and his manipulative mind knew how to lead Alana on the path he wanted.
The living room was quiet, Will Graham's eyes firmly set on her face, his breathing a little too shallow for her taste. The man was hyperventilating, feeling trapped. Frances stood, extending her hand in the less threatening gesture she could muster. Where Hannibal could be overbearing, Frances knew how to assume a very open posture.
— "Come, Will Graham. I would like to talk to you."
Like a wounded animal, Will took him time, watching her hand, then the expression on her face, before he accepted to touch her. Her fingers enclosed his gently, tugging slightly to lead him to the sofa in the living room. Frances had to refrain from performing a giddy dance. This little link was enough to send an ache through her heart, the memories of her hands roaming Galahad's locks when he slept, passed out on the tavern's table. The young knight certainly enjoyed contact more than Will.
Will Graham was as wounded, as uncertain as Galahad had been, and it would take a mother's touch to get him our of there. At last, Frances gently seated him, and settled in front, releasing his hand. Nor too close, nor too far, for she drank in his features like a parched woman. Hannibal had explained, in few words, that Will was not at ease with strangers and suffered a pathological shyness. But she was no stranger.
— "Will. I have heard that you sometimes see things."
The mention of his job tensed his shoulders, but it was a well-known subject that called a rehearsed response. His blueish gaze was locked on the fire as he answered truthfully.
— "Yes, I do. Things I would rather not see, but they help investigations."
Frances nodded, genuine warmth pouring out of her eyes. The fact that he would submit himself to such hardship to save lives called for her respect and admiration.
— "It is very courageous of you, I admire what you do."
— "There is nothing to admire, I assure you"
There is was, this self-loathing she never thought she would hear again. what a pity, than even there, even released from his oath to Rome, Will would be once more trapped in a duty that destroyed him.
— "It is my job," he shrugged.
What an oyster! He extended no lifeline for her to grab, his mind firmly perched into his dungeon. Sighing, Frances decided to take a different approach. Bluntness.
— "Do you sometimes have visions either than on a crime scene?"
Will's clear eyes snapped to hers, his whole body coiled. Yet, he said nothing. Frances swallowed. Make or break.
— "Is there any way you remember me, in a different setting?" she coaxed.
What a poker move. If he didn't, like Hannibal, she would definitely be categorised nuts and there would be no retreating. But she needed to know. Her heart thundered below her silk blouse, hoping to all gods that the looks he'd stolen all evening had something to do with his abilities.
— "What kind of setting?"
Frances took a shuddering breath.
— "Medieval. In the tavern, on horseback … or on a battlefield"
An incredulous smile suddenly bloomed on his face and his hand passed before his eyes. Relief flooded his features as he exclaimed:
— "I thought I was going crazy!"
Frances watched him incredulously, the genuine, unguarded expression of his face so alike Galahad that tears came to her eyes. And then, she couldn't take it anymore and jumped to his side of the sofa to hug him fiercely. Will tensed instantly, but the odd familiarity of the contact called something deep within him. As if, after so many years of treading a path alone, he had found a familiar thing. Something to anchor him in this crazy life. And the genuine happiness that poured out of her, her shaking silhouette crushing him to her chest, this was as authentic as the sun rising. Dumbfounded, Will Graham allowed relief to wash over him and quell his fears. At last the very proper woman – or so he thought – let him go. But her eyes still shone with unshed tears, and he couldn't make sense of it.
— "There was a man beside you, a tall fighter", he continued, his hands rising as he spoke.
— "A knight. Tristan. Did you recognise him?"
Will racked his brain for a moment, remembering the long limbs, the fluidity of the knight's moves and the purpose of his blows.
— "Is he …?"
Frances nodded.
— "Yes, Hannibal"
Will's lips formed a perfect 'O'. Hannibal, a middle-age knight. That was so preposterous that he should have aughed until his lungs couldn't take it anymore. But Franklin's words flowed through his memory as he described Frances and Hannibal's fighting. A deadly dance, he had called it. The same deadly dance he had seen on the battlefield.
— "What did I see?" he asked.
— "Describe it to me"
Frowning, Will Graham tried to get a clear image of the visions that had plagued him each time he concentrated on her. There wasn't much to work with, but he couldn't push from his the tall knight as he fought beside the young fury. His clear eyes lost their focus for a moment, their colour slightly green in the dim light.
— "It was fuzzy. Just a man, and you, fighting together in a middle age armour. Your enemies are mostly blond, some don't have helmets."
A sharp intake of breath answered this statement, the memory still fresh in Frances' mind. The dreadful fight had only occurred a year prior for her.
— "The battle of Badon Hill," she breathed out.
Mistaking her shallow breaths for awe, Will instantly apologised.
— "I'm sorry, history is not my cup of tea, I have no idea when or where it was."
The young woman fidgeted in her seat, settling her long skirt around herself to calm her racing heart. One slow exhale was all it took for her to meet his gaze again.
— "You saw the battle of Badon Hill, the day Arthur Castus, also known as King Arthur, kicked the Saxon's hides beside Hadrian's wall, in England. The year was 476 AD"
Will's eyebrows nearly fled his forehead.
— "King Arthur?"
— "Himself. He used to be a Roman commander, Artorius Castus"
The FBI consultant reclined in the sofa, trying to grasp all the loose lines that kept coming. The more questions she answered, the more popped up. His mind reeled, implications running so fast that he quite forgot how to breathe. Will shook himself mentally; he needed to focus.
— "All right. So I'm seeing King Arthur's knights in a vision. How can you be so sure? Where does this come from? And what are you doing here? I mean, in this vision?"
Frances' hazel eyes bore holes into his, her features set in stone as she evaluated what he could take. Will Graham was a skittish animal ready to make a run for it. Could she turn back now that he had seen her? Could she tell him that she was also reincarnated? Or speak about the Keeper of Time? What about the fact that she was a clone? The young woman frowned slightly; she would cross that bridge when needed. Not now. First, she needed for him to accept the concept of past lives…
— "I think those are memories."
— "Memories?"
The young woman nodded anew, nibbling at her lower lip.
— "Galahad's memories"
— "How? What does this have to do with Galahad?"
His tone was clipped; the conversation could slide out of her control anytime now. Frances felt like an equilibrist, walking a very fine line on the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. Hopefully, no Balrog should show up and burn her to a crisp … unless Hannibal disapproved of her speaking to Will about such things.
— "Uh, it's a long story. One for which my husband might consider me delusional."
Will scoffed openly; there was obviously no love lost between Will and Hannibal. The relationship of admiration and hate between Galahad and Tristan had been so alike that her heart ached. For she knew that deep down, despite his curiosity and twisted mind, Hannibal looked out for Will.
— "Well, that will make two of us. Tell me about Galahad"
Frances addressed him a fond smile, images of the pup – Galahad's nickname at the time –popping into her mind. This adventure was so fresh, so recent – one year and a half – that the image of the young knight, Sarmatian bow in hand, was still vivid. She missed him, he had reached for her instantly in the fifth century. But before she could even start her recollection, a smooth voice echoed in the living room; Hannibal stood in the doorway holding a tea tray.
— "Of everything you could have breached, I didn't think you were interested in the lores of the round table, Will."
Frances pursed her lips; even if Hannibal refused to acknowledge it, his habit of moving around silently strongly reminded her of Tristan. The scout had the ability to surprise anyone.
— "I am not, but your wife is," he answered innocently.
Alana Bloom, trailing behind, settled on an armchair in front of Will. There went their discussion about Galahad. As the psychiatrist gently set the tray down, he gave Frances an interrogative glance laden with questions. In front of her, Alana lifted a perfect eyebrow, sensing the sudden tension in the room. And even if Will and Frances refused to dwell on their previous subject – stating it didn't matter much – Alana couldn't help but notice that her friend had overcome his shyness and now conversed rather easily with Hannibal's future wife. To see Will warm up to a foreigner, a stranger to his habits gave her hope that maybe he was not as unstable as she thought.
When Will and Alana left this very evening, thanking Dr Lecter profusely for dinner, they had no idea that a heavy discussion ensued their departure. Hannibal was none too happy, but Frances met his disagreement without flinching. His smooth voice never rose, but she could feel the anger burning through every single fibre of his being. And for once, she thanked God she had faced Tristan's wrath, a year and half before this, to prepare her for this very moment. For her body trembled from the strain of holding her ground against such a formidable opponent. Her husband to ben the man she loved and feared equally.
— "It is needless to say how disappointed I am that you dared dragging Will into those fantasies. He is barely stable, and prone to be swayed," he said, folding his apron neatly after cleaning the kitchen.
Fantasies. The words cut deep, but Frances barely flinched. She would cry about his lack of trust later. For now, she only straightened, lifting her gaze to meet his greying eyes squarely.
— "He knows who I am. And who you have been," she said.
Hannibal's hands spread on the counter, shifting his weight forward to invade her personal space. His features were set, his face betraying nothing as he scolded her.
— "Frances. You cannot drag him into this. I cannot allow you to impair his mental health any further."
— "I do not drag him into anything. Will has seen us, in a vision. You and me fighting at the battle of Badon Hill"
Hannibal's nonexistent eyebrows rose at that; of all excuses he expected, this one diwasn't on the list. Seizing the opportunity, Frances pleaded her case. Her fingers grazed his, still spread against the cold kitchen counter, warm skin causing his to tingle.
— "I know you don't believe me, Hannibal. It hurts, but I don't blame you, this is way outside your zone of comfort. But Will has seen things that cannot be explained rationally and he wants to know."
— "Are you sure you haven't influenced him? Will can pick up the smallest of details and let his imagination run wild."
Frances sighed, hurt once more by the accusation. She took a step backwards, the loss of contact as uncomfortable for her than it was for him. Suddenly, she only wanted to shed her blouse and long skirt and roll herself away in a comforter, eating chocolate. Or ice cream. No, hot chocolate, the Spanish way, would do the trick.
— "I've been careful with his mind, as you have told me. He said he had visions when we first met. I only asked what he had seen."
Hannibal retreated to the sink, washing a pair of crystal glasses as he processed that information. Back ramrod straight, arms barely moving, all economy of movements; he was every inch the predator she knew him to be. Frances did not move an inch, awaiting his verdict. At last, he set the glasses down to dry, and turned back to her, his posture slightly more relaxed.
— "So this is what he was doing during dinner. I had an inkling, but wasn't entirely sure."
— "He went into some sort of trance. I guess," Frances confirmed.
Then, all possibilities started running into Hannibal's mind, none satisfying his rational brain. But the dialogue was open again, and he couldn't help but notice that Frances's breaths were less shallow now. She absently rubbed a spot over her left clavicle, as if in pain. He had seen no scar up there, but it wasn't the first time he witnessed this nervous gesture. Was he the cause of that ? Hannibal decided to focus on the present, and store this information for later.
— "How is this even possible, Frances? How could he even see you?"
— "And Tristan?"
There was a pain in her chest each time she pronounced that name, a glint of sadness in her eyes, hidden behind the mask whenever she mentioned the battle of Badon Hill. Could it be possible? No. She was delusional. A careful construction of her mind to fill in the blanks of her amnesia. One day, it would all come crashing down. Never before had Hannibal encountered such an elaborate, consistent construction, but one day… He would be here for her whenever she remembered the plain, ugly truth. For the moment though, he needed to sort out what Will Graham had truly seen.
— "Yes. How could Will possibly gain images out of your mind?"
Frances gave him a lopsided smile, an expression that spoke of emotional exhaustion.
— "Easy peasy, darling. They do not initiate from my mind. Will Graham was a knight of the round table. I recognised him the day he walked into your office; he resembles him so acutely, even more than you look alike Tristan. He was the pup of the brotherhood, and your relationship back them was uneasy. It seems like you are back at the same point, maybe to mend it. Who knows how those things work…"
Hannibal's brain short circuited a that, and words passed his lips without warning.
— "Galahad"
So, even if Hannibal refuses the possibility, his subconscious won't give him a choice. Let's see how obstinate our favourite cannibal can be. And I'm glad Frances gets to interact with Will. Hopefully they can be each other's anchor.