Hey. So I hope you are still hooked! Here come a gentle chapter, quite long by the way, about Hannibal and Frances' life as they try to settle in a routine. Bella will also kick a little over the traces.

Many an evening passed, Hannibal composing on the harpsichord while Frances wrote her story, loved on the couch. Despite her writings not being of classical quality – although it was rather pleasant, for a French – the psychiatrist was drawn to her story like a moth to a flame. His past self, bared for him to discover. Each of her words like the smear of an impressionist brush, painting a corner of Tristan, drawing shadows around him until the light was revealed; a fascinating tale. The simple idea of him sporting a mane of unkempt hair, braids and beard, and not washing for weeks was enough to make him cringe. The description of his blood lust, though, tugged at the threads of his sanity. And the tiny bits of Will as Galahad also brought memories forth … memories of grassy plains, stretching as far as the eye could see until the dark blue sky met them. Of horses, the best friends he ever had, and his hawk. Of brothers in arms, dying one after the other, for the oppressive Rome who had all but crushed his people. Rightful wrath sometimes seized his heart, wrath like he'd never felt since Mischa's death.

Tonight, as Frances' fingers ran across the keyboard faster than the eye could see, Hannibal did not settle in front of the harpsichord. He spared a glance to this woman who had shaken his world with her presence. To this day, he was still unsure whether it was for the best, or impaired him. It just was, and Hannibal adapted to the change of situation like he always had. A cat thrown from the seventh floor would not have managed to land on his paws with more grace. Still, seeing her small frame wrapped in one of his shirts – red waves tumbling over immaculate cotton – sent warm tingles down his spine. She belonged to him now, wrapped in his scent, for she never picked freshly pressed shirts from his closet, choosing instead to wear the one he had just discarded the day before. Frances had such a sensitive smell that she relished in the warmth and presence that clung to the fabric, surrounding herself in the fragrance that was purely him. A habit he didn't mind much, for she took care of them, mindful to return them untainted.

Hannibal settled in front of his desk; intend on using the principle of sublimation to unburden his subconscious. Picking up his pencils, he started sketching. The shadows assembled, forming a silhouette he knew too well, but his hands would not still. So he went on sketching, sparing, once in a while, a glance at the fiery lady that had claimed his couch … and his life. She sometimes danced in his dreams. Laden in the Keeper of Time's armour, or in a Chanel skirt he had bought for her. He knew both versions of her to be fiercely protective of the people she loved; she would die for him. Of this, he harboured no doubt. Yet he still had trouble reconciling the two Frances, especially since the first one was part of memories long past.

Sensing his attention upon her, the young woman stood up and stretched. Her movements, like a cat waking up from slumber, full of grace. Dangerous. Sending him a smile, she walked up to him, her toes gracing the wooden floor like a classical dancer's would. If Hannibal didn't shed his shoes until bedtime, Frances hated being enclosed and had found a pair of lovely sleepers that left her toes free to roll and unroll as she stalked around the house. Frances set a hand upon his shoulder, where his waistcoat stopped, baring the shirt beneath. Her hand caused his skin to warm up under the thin cotton, stopping his movement. Then she bestowed a gentle kiss upon his temple, mindful not to jolt him for he still held his pencil, and contemplated the sketch he had started. It depicted Galahad sitting atop his horse, gaze lost in the horizon, a wistful look on his face. He sported his Roman armour, the reins firmly held in hand. Frances' chocolate eyes widened slightly, and he was sure her eyes misted over at the sigh.

— "You have such talent, darling. A picture couldn't be more accurate. The way you render things is so vivid, I love it,"

Hannibal nodded proudly. His chest swelled from her genuine praise, happy that, for once, people were not gushing because of his status or wealth, or because they wanted him to acknowledge them. No. What Frances gave was truthful admiration and love shone in her eyes as she took in the picture. It was acceptance, a feeling he couldn't get enough of; one addiction he'd rather indulge in that shy away from. Nothing along the lines of 'I would love to draw like you' or anything of the sort passed her lips. No jealousy, no envy, only pride in his work. Frances was only too happy to acknowledge his gift, and let him know of her admiration. That woman had no sense of pressing advantage, or playing cards close to her chest; she gave freely and happily to anyone she loved, and Hannibal couldn't help but compare their opposite ways.

But now was not the time to linger on his wickedness. Now was a time for sharing.

— "I draw from memories," he said, pencil accentuating some shadows here and there.

— "From dreams?"

Hannibal nodded.

— "Yes."

The young woman squinted slightly, taking in the intricate design of Galahad's armour.

— "Your memory is impressive. You have an eye for every little detail."

— "Edeitic. Just like Will's"

This time, Frances knelt beside him, resting her head on his arm for a while, inhaling the sweet masculine scent of him through his pristine shirt. It was laughable, really, to learn about this simple fact for her memory, too, bordered on eidetic. Not as powerful as theirs, though. But for once, it would be nice to have someone who remembers as much as she did, if not more.

— "How fitting that both your brains should have this very rare quality. One more thing that binds you."

— "Aye"

The word called a smile to her lips. Ever since he had discovered Tristan's existence, Hannibal sometimes reverted to expressions of the scout. They shared as many characteristics as difference. The sense of smell, awareness, cunning and memory were common to both. The attention for details as well, and the way they both hid behind a façade; where Tristan chose to remain silent to fend people off, Hannibal created the distance with manners and poise. He had learnt the codes of society, yet wasn't part of it. But the scout's gruffness and rudeness certainly could not be mentioned to Hannibal. And Tristan had been much more attuned to nature, something Will had not forgotten, but the psychiatrist quite forsaken.

— "What about we make a book out of this? We can scan your drawings and include them as illustrations. Then I'll print, sew it together and bind it. It could be a nice Christmas present for Will"

Hannibal's eyes lightened up at the idea, such a rare display of eagerness that she drank in his features, committing his smile to memory.

— "And for us. It is a brilliant idea, my beautiful."

— "Can you imagine what a historian would give to lay his hands on this?"

Hannibal nodded again, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips.

— "Let's hope none set his hands on us. They might poke our brains to no end like Doctor Chilton pokes this poor Gideon."

The young woman frowned. Hannibal and Will would only have the historians chasing after them. But if the US government came to realise that she had travelled back in the past and from an alternate reality, or that she was a clone … she would be a lab rat for the rest of her short life. Already, their air force had visited her in hospital after her stunt calling the private numbers of the NORAD base in Cheyenne Mountain. She couldn't afford to be discovered. A tug on her sleeve, and she was suddenly sitting in Hannibal's lap. Much like Tristan used to ground her beside him in Vanora's tavern.

— "Do not worry, beautiful. I will not let anyone approach you with ill intentions. I will protect you to the end."

Frances buried her head on his shoulder, shuddering at the intensity of his vow, the silk of his voice laden with an underlying threat. Sensing her hesitation, Hannibal looked for her eyes and pressed his words with conviction.

— "I always keep my promises, Frances."

— "It is not what I fear. I don't doubt you, Hannibal."

When she said no more, he couldn't help but pry.

— "Tell me what bothers you."

— "You already died protecting me. I never want to go through that again."

The psychiatrist held her gaze a moment, then kissed her lips tenderly before guiding her head on his shoulder again. He knew Tristan had died to keep her safe. But now, and then, he could not refrain from making the same vow. Frances would not come to harm under his watch.

The young woman settled in the waiting room, taking time to watch the décor. Fine furniture and elegant drapings, the epitome of Hannibal's taste. Her ears couldn't help but be attuned to the muffled crumbs of conversation that scarcely echoed through the closed door. Even though she had returned many times to Hannibal's office, her emotional memory couldn't get over the day she had found him pinned to his desk by a murderous Tobias. Each time her feet passed the door, her heart rate picked up before it eventually settled. She had come so close, that day, to losing him again. Frances shuddered, crossing her legs tight to distract her running mind. If he died … there would be nothing more than death to greet her. Thankfully, the opening of the door pulled her out from her spiralling thoughts.

Frances' chocolate eyes opened wide as she watched Bella, Jack Crawford's wife, exiting Hannibal's office. The beautiful woman paused at seeing her, many expressions crossing her features before resolve settled in.

— "Hello, Frances. I'm happy to see you again. Can I offer you some lunch?"

The invitation took her aback. Sure, they had agreed to meet again after the dinner at Hannibal's, but until then, life had been a little hectic. Neither women had dared calling the other and now… Bella seemed in a rush to keep her promise. Frances shared a look with her husband – there had been no ceremony, but they considered themselves married – who loomed over the doorframe, his impassive face giving nothing away. His eyes, though, held no warning nor disapproval. An agreement of sorts, so Frances turned to Bella.

— "Er. Sure, I would be delighted. Give me a minute, and I'll be all yours."

The tall woman smiled.

— "Great, I'll wait outside."

— "It is not necessary. I just wanted to drop Hannibal's lunch. I know he will have little time before the next patient and would rather fast than call for a pizza"

Bella gave Frances a fond look as Hannibal froze in the doorway, his hands unconsciously blocking the frame. How could she possibly know that he had scheduled another patient after Bella, squeezing his lunch time to mere scrapes? He might have mentioned it, more than two weeks ago … and then it hit him. Frances had, just as himself and Will, an incredible memory. The fact that she had stored this information, and bothered to pack him something to eat – he that relished in home cooked meals more than anything – touched him deeply.

— "That is very thoughtful," he said. Then he added with a twinkle in his eyes "And the only pizza worth eating are yours."

The redhead lifted an eyebrow in a playful expression, but fondness still shone in her eyes. She would have given anything to be there when Hannibal would find the beautiful arrangement she had pieced for him, plates and silverware included, as well as the glass of wine she has stored into a lovely miniature bottle.

— "Can't let my husband starve, high metabolism and all."

To this, Bella actually chuckled.

— "Definitely can't"

Hannibal allowed a smirk to adorn his lips to hide the swarm of emotions that rushed through his chest. His gaze returned to his lovely wife, taking in the twisted bun and casual, yet classy clothes she adorned. A long-sleeved kimono top bared her collarbone, its Japanese style fitting her entirely. A little fairy she was – a kitsune[1], today – always taking care of him with the slightest of attention. Be it so save his life, or just call a smile to his lips, Frances always thought of him. Addressing him a genuine smile, she picked up the cooler bag and left it in his care with a chaste kiss.

— "Until later, my darling," she whispered against his lips.

But the psychiatrist wasn't about to let her go so easily. Snatching an arm around her waist, he rested his forehead against hers. He hoped his gaze conveyed the gratitude he felt, and hid his worry. If he was right about Bella's intentions, Frances would need his presence before this day was over, as he needed hers in his life. Tightening his hold for a moment – he wasn't one for public displays – he just held her, closing his eyes to inhale the scent that was so distinctively hers. Then he let her go.

— "You have my thanks"

— "You are very welcome. Bon appétit, beloved"

Bella's lips twitched at the romantic display, sadness just barely kept at bay as she linked her arm through Frances to sweep her away from her one true love.

The same evening

The set of strong arms that awaited her as she passed the threshold of the magnificent mansion folded her into a supportive embrace. Frances let the tears fall, crying silently over the injustice of Bella's stage four cancer and her approaching death. She cried for the woman she had come to admire, she cried for Jack Crawford who would be devastated, and cried for herself because her first potential friend was already dying. All this time, Hannibal only held her, his chin propped on the side of her head, his long fingers caressing her hair soothingly. The strength of his tall frame, unwavering as she unburdened her sorrows, told her everything would be fine. Eventually. That he would be here no matter what, and could take anything.

While Hannibal cooked dinner – she swore it was his equivalent of therapy – Frances allowed his dance around the kitchen to lull her thoughts, leaving them unbridled as she watched. The psychiatrist's lean body manoeuvred gracefully from post to post, mixing, sorting, washing and selecting various items he fetched in the pantry. It was mesmerising, to see him work. Like a dancer performing the most difficult of choregraphies, his will focused on the control of his muscles. Such was the intensity of Hannibal when he worked. Chop, chop, chop. Precise gestures and a sharp knife that left nothing to luck. Fresh fish was sliced, the Japanese way, while he mixed sugar and rice vinegar to cook the sushi rice in. Apparently, tonight's dinner was inspired by her choice of attire.

The young woman searched his eyes, addressing him a smile of gratitude for the effort of preparing one of her favourite dishes. There was nothing like fresh sushi, especially when prepared by such a chef. Hannibal smiled back, the lines at the corner of his eyes slightly cringing the way she loved it. But his eyes were expectant; he awaited her words. Not many passed her lips as she recalled the conversation of this previous lunch. Right before Bella lifted the hammer, and nailed the bad news into her skull, she had expressed her curiosity about them.

— "I have to admit that I had doubts, at first. It is not often Hannibal Lecter is seen in company of a young woman."

Frances quirked an eyebrow. What an elegant way to approach things. But she wouldn't blame Bella for being curious.

— "You mean the age difference put you off?"

The tall woman snorted, then a full smile bloomed on her face.

— "Yeah. I mean that, and other things."

— "Such as?"

— "Well, don't get me wrong, I am not here to criticise. But what Dr Lecter presents to the world is … rather cold. I just wondered how this came to be."

So Bella wanted to know how they met, and fell in love. Well, she was in for disappointment, for there was nothing she could share regarding this. Dodging the question, Frances chose to ask instead:

— "And now?"

— "I still wonder, but I see the way he looks at you, like you're a miracle in his life. And vice versa"

Frances cocked her head aside, wondering if this statement was true. For her part, there was no doubt. Finding Tristan alive, even in a killer's body and mind, was nothing short of a miracle. But what of him? Did she really deserve this happiness, now that she lived with a serial killer? Knowing what he had done, was he was capable of, and protecting him?

— "You are right, for my part at least. What Hannibal shows to the world is only a part of himself. His walls are strong."

— "I guess they are, not much goes past them. Except you"

Frances shrugged. Granted, he had allowed her to barge into his life without pushing back. Perhaps the repressed memories of their time as Tristan and the Keeper of Time. Perhaps because, deep down, his subconscious knew of their past love.

— "I have a special key, I guess. Hannibal is a very passionate man with lots of restraint. This is the way he was raised."

There. It was the truth, without revealing too much. Bella seemed to muse over her words for a moment, taking a sip of her red wine before her dark eyes squinted slightly.

— "Not unlike you?"

The young woman scoffed this time.

— "I couldn't possibly compete."

She may be a restrained individual with lots of secrets, but she didn't come close to Hannibal's self-control. Or Tristan's, for that matter. But Bella was done with her interrogation as she teared up a piece of bread.

— "So are you not going to ask what I was doing in Dr Lecter's office?"

Frances shrugged, digging into her beef.

— "Nope. Your secrets are yours until you decide to share it. Unlike some, I don't pry into people's lives."

Bella sent her a bashful look.

— "Yes, I guess Jack had it coming, right?

Frances nodded; yes, this could apply to Jack Crawford too. But her mind had been set on Hannibal in the first place. He was the one who loved picking others' brains, and turning it upside down. But Bella didn't know that, and nor should Jack Crawford. The young woman slapped herself mentally; her carelessness could have exposed Hannibal. She needed to better guard her thoughts. He trusted her with his secret, she couldn't afford to sell him now.

Fortunately, Bella was now trying to explain her husband's stressful life and need to be suspicious of anything and anyone. Leading the Behavioural Science Unit for the FBI led to tons of bad situations.

— "Don't worry, Bella. I understand that Jack means to protect his friends, and his wife."

The beautiful woman passed a hand in her curly hair before she sighed heavily, reclining in her chair.

— "Yeah. I wonder how he will react when he learns that he can't protect me this time."

Frances' heart increased its pace immediately, her features suddenly serious as her voice dropped. The reaction of a fighter.

— "What do you mean? Are you in danger?"

— "I have stage four lung cancer. I won't see next year, Frances."

A teapot of freshly brewed sencha tea suddenly appeared on the kitchen counter. Rinsed twice, as was the Japanese tradition, and presented in a cast iron teapot. Not too hot, for the sencha leaves turned bitter when brewed over eighty degrees.

— "There is nothing more soothing than a cup of sencha, my beautiful."

Hannibal's voice caused shivers to run up her spine, and she could nearly hear his smirk as he settled behind her, engulfing her in the safety of his arms. His taut silhouette pressed softly against her slender frame, his cheek in contact with her temple. Anywhere, anytime, that man could overpower her in a heartbeat. She was a helpless child compared to his cold efficiency. How was it that she felt so safe in his embrace when she should be afraid?

— "Are you willing to offer companionship? To face death again?" he asked.

There was curiosity in his tone, the same one that had led him to play with Will's mind. He wondered how she would hold up, how she would fare. If she was strong enough. This side of him unsettled her, but she knew it couldn't be chased away. Curious and manipulative; like a child picking up flies and tearing their wings, not even conscious of the morbidity of his own actions.

Frances wondered if he would be there for her when she crumbled. Would he present her with another cup of tea? Or watch her come undone without moving a limb? The young woman turned in his embrace, all cup of tea forgotten as she settled her back against the kitchen counter.

— "Will you be here when I falter?" she asked.

Hannibal plunged his amber eyes into hers, pinning her in place long enough for him to assess his possible reactions. Then, at last, he nodded.

— "I will support you, Frances like a husband should."

She deflated against him, pulling him close to circle her arms around his surprisingly tight waist. Her nose buried in his crisp shirt and she inhaled deeply, taking in the pure scent of him.

— "Then I am ready"

Frances released his chest, kissing his lips softly before fishing one of the teacups for him. Hannibal addressed her a nod of acknowledgement – her politeness endeared him – and waited for her to pick hers before he sipped at the characteristic brew. Gentleman one day, gentleman always. Frances' jaw was set, resolve settling in her eyes as she regarded him over the rim of her delicate cup.

— "I held this young man's hand, once, on the Pelennor's field."

And her gaze grew distant, remembering the sea of corpses, human, horses and orcs alike. The stench of this graveyard, the earth tainted with red and black blood. The worst battlefield she had ever witnessed, more gruesome than Badon Hill. Hannibal's gentle touch on her wrist called her back to him, and she eagerly followed his swirl of dark light out of the Pelennor mass grave.

— "He was Erbaran, son of Halbarad. His father hated me, he lay dead a few yards away. Hence I was the only one left holding his son's hand as he joined him, his blood flowing out like a river. I have faced death already. I even faced yours. I can do this"

— "I do not doubt you, wife."

And the trust in his voice was so genuine that she couldn't help but kiss him senseless.

[1] A Japanese fairy