Thank you, Koba, for your review. Yes, PTSD is a bitch... She needs someone to talk to. As usual, your comments made my day! Everything in italics is French.

And to all of you, a happy new year.

The brusque movement caused a few tomato slices to jump from the blade and land on the floor, splashing her legs in the process. Pissed beyond measure at her clumsiness – she'd poured water over her lap earlier, and hurt her shoulder on the door as well – Frances barely refrained from yelling, releasing a string of annoyed curses instead.

— "Holy mother of… God damn it. I'm such a … cruche (dumbo)!"

The blade shook in her hands. The world seemed intend on making her miserable. Releasing a heavy sigh, Frances realised that her vision was blurring. She was tired … so tired. The sadness consumed her entirely, or was she coming down with something? Frozen in the spotless kitchen except for her clumsy handiwork, the young woman tried to calm her nerves with deep breaths.

A set of warm hands suddenly pried the knife from her grasp, the touch familiar and oddly comforting. Then, the tall presence dragged her into an awkward embrace. Frances breathed in Hannibal's familiar scent, his soothing fragrance surrounding her as his arms wound around her small frame to provide comfort. She returned his embrace faintly, her mind miles away from the kitchen, wondering why his presence brought such relief when he could break her neck in a heartbeat. But Hannibal had always cared for her until now. The sturdiness of his tall frame and hard muscles provided a safe place for her to break down. Yet, she didn't.

His hand eventually led her to sit on his favourite chair, on the other side of the counter. Frances's body didn't even react, following his lead without thinking. Then a glass appeared in her hand. A slight sniff told her it was rum, the only strong alcohol she ever drank. Then Hannibal's amber eyes locked with her; he was crouching in front of her, his hand caressing her thigh, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort.

— "Drink to her memory, Frances. You are allowed to grieve for a friend."

The young woman nodded, taking a sip of the drink. It was, of course, the best rum she'd ever tasted. Even more since she'd dropped several vanilla pods inside. Yes, she was mourning for Bella, the only female friend she had made in forever. Not in public though, neither in front of him. She didn't know why, something to do about his sturdiness. Her self-preservation asked to show no weakness; nit was stupid really, for she knew the predator in him could sense her distress. But Hannibal … he seemed so unaffected. He's come for the funeral, of course, to support his friend Jack Crawford. Yet, nothing had changed in his routine nor his facial expressions. As if the beautiful soul of Bella has not left the world … or never entered his.

— "What about you?" she asked.

Hannibal stood, his tailored cream shirt flexing around his shoulders as he reached for his own drink on the kitchen counter. Waistcoat and jacket discarded, dark honey hair flowing freely across the left side of his face, the psychiatrist almost looked casual. The impassive mask, though, reminded her how dangerous and controlled he could be.

— "I was not gifted with the amount of empathy you have, Frances."

Hannibal took a sip of his own poison – Whiskey – eyes daring her to delve deeper. And she did. Not out of malice, or reproach, but out of love.

— "How do you feel?"

There was not an inch of judgement in her voice; this was the reason why Hannibal considered answering her question truthfully. No matter who he was and the people he killed without remorse, Frances didn't regard him with contempt or disgust. She tried to understand him, a little like Will Graham tried to wear his skin on crime scenes. Coating the whiskey around his tongue, Hannibal licked his lips before answering.

— "Bella was a fine woman, but no friend of mine."

— "What about Jack's pain?"

— "I am sorry for his loss. My mind sympathises, but my heart … it is too far away from me, do you understand?"

Silence greeted his statement, and for a moment, Hannibal wondered if he had gone too far. What would happen if the young woman decided he was a heartless bastard and decided to leave? Many times already, he could have sworn she would walk away. Frances was strong, stronger than most, yet she kept coming back to him. She fought with him sometimes, teeth and nails, unafraid of his nature, standing up for her beliefs. Weakness that she would return to him, or admirable resilience? Hannibal had yet to decide. For now, he could almost hear the wheels running in her mind; she was absorbing the information to paint a picture of his mind, to understand his way of thinking. Mapping his own weaknesses in terms of empathy, assessing how far he could go. And accepting it, adapting once more to his peculiar psychology.

And once her analysis was over, she searched for his gaze and held it so intensely that he nearly shivered.

— "Would you cry over me if I died?"

The statement nearly shocked him… Nearly, but not entirely. It was a valid question, to which he had no answer. Frowning, he searched his mind to form an honest statement. He knew his hesitation could only hurt her. Still, she couldn't be oblivious since she had felt compelled to ask, and he tried his very best to never lie.

— "I would miss your wit, and your presence. I would miss your skin, and your company… I would probably cry, yes."

Probably.

Glass of champagne in one hand, impeccable suit clinging to his lean body, hair slicked back in his favourite style, Hannibal was in his element as he navigated the throng of psychiatrists that had attended the conference. His easy smile, practised over many years of socialising, easily fooled people into thinking he was pleased. Never had he voiced his utter suspicions about the science they all called psychiatry. For even if he relished in probing the mind, Hannibal despised all those doctors who thought they understood the human condition by dissecting its childhood. Putting them in little boxes, naming syndromes, relishing in a newfound case for everyone to gush over. Yet no one could have possibly named what he was. Nor a psychopath, nor a sociopath, maniac even less, bipolar? Not even close.

Hannibal didn't fit anywhere, and he relished in that fact, his intelligence swimming over their heads as they congratulated themselves on the latest finds about Stockholm's syndrome, or the new Oedipal complex. The presence of Alana Bloom by his side had made the conference bearable. Her comments, questions and pointed remarks showed how unafraid she was of the entity of eminent figures that loomed on stage. He was proud to see that her critical mind had beneficiated from his teachings; a worthy student. For now, though, she was engrossed in a debate he absolutely refused to linger upon about young children. So Hannibal wandered a little further, studying people, engaging in conversation here and there, his three-piece suit still in pristine condition despite the buffet. The psychiatrist had not eaten much; he would cook at home. A warm buzz spread in his limbs at the thought. He had a wife now, awaiting his return. And since she had woken a little stiff – her usual grace was missing this morning – she would probably get a massage afterwards. Bella's death had taken a toll on her mood, and he thrived to care for her as well as he could. It was weird, to feel needed; it gave him purpose.

The sudden vibrations of his phone in his outer pocket had him excuse himself from a boring conversation and a flirty lady. Aside Jack, Frances and Will, no one should have triggered the device to set off. A quick glance at the screen told him it was the latter. Probably an FBI emergency, for Will was perfectly aware of his attendance at the conference, thanks to Alana. Little by little, those two danced around each other. His treatment for encephalitis had brought Will a new stability to which Alana responded with eagerness. How long before those two became romantically involved? Her innocence and naivety told him she could be good for Will. The psychiatrist sighed, considering how far he'd strayed from the path he had set into motion when first meeting Will Graham. Discovering of their mutual past as brothers in arms had shifted his perspective, putting a stop to his mind games to try to mend a damaged brotherhood. Frances' plea had touched him; she wouldn't have to come between the two of them anymore. Galahad and Tristan. Since the young woman had killed for him, he didn't feel the need to pry the killer out of Will so acutely. A soul for a soul. This is what Tristan would have done at the time, goading his younger brother until he relented to his very nature. But he was Tristan no more.

Picking up the line, Hannibal answered quickly.

— "Hello Will. Is everything all right?"

— "Er. I'm not sure. Have you heard of your wife this afternoon?"

Hannibal frowned, uneasiness creeping up his spine at Will's uncertain tone. Suddenly, his mind wasn't so focused on the lady – a false blonde who would never understand his recent fondness for redheads – whose eyes were still glued on his form.

— "No, I haven't. Weren't you supposed to meet for lunch?"

— "We did. She was feeling a little feverish, and left early."

Hannibal froze. Fever … that would explain the stiffness. Nothing too alarming, but Will was downright panicked.

— "I've been trying to call after my latest class, her phone keeps ringing but I can't reach her."

'Not so abnormal,' screamed Dr Lecter's rational brain. Frances wasn't very assiduous when it came to mobile phones. She frequently forgot her device in her purse, or didn't hear it whenever she worked on a text, or in the workshop he had set up for her sewing and embroidery.

— "When was that?" came his smooth voice, too calm for Will's taste.

— "4 pm. If I go it will take me more than an hour to your house."

Hannibal checked at his watch. 6:18 pm, the device tightly held into his right hand. For even if his mind found a thousand excuses why he shouldn't worry, his heart clenched painfully. Will's voice alone was the testimony that he should move, fast. His friend's guts always proved right.

— "I'm on my way, Will."

He didn't spare a look behind, didn't even retrieve his coat from the locker as he jogged into the parking lot. The engine roared to life, and he felt every bit like a stressed out European as he made it home in record time. Still, the thirty minutes ticked by so slowly that all kinds of scenarios passed through his head. Had she made it home safe? Encountered another killer, looking for him, on the way back? Could it be someone following Will? Or she had an accident? Or was she soaking into a hot bath, her phone discarded in a corner, all muscles relaxed as she waited for him. Hannibal shuddered, trying to rein his running mind. He that usually considered all possibilities coldly couldn't shake the angst that squeezed his chest. Never before had he been so irrational. Taking a deep breath, Hannibal exited the highway. Five more minutes, and he would probably barge in, find her resting with her phone in silent mode, and call Will back to berate him, or reassure him, or both.

The automatic entrance gate had never been so slow, but he could clearly see her blue car parked in front of the house. He didn't spare more than half a second for the memory that burst forth – Frances laying conditions for her car: blue, small, manual transmission to be in control. That was it. No condition on motorisation, equipment or fancy upholstery. Needless to say, that she had baffled more than one seller, much to his amusement. Had she thrived for concealment; Frances would never have managed to pass unnoticed. She stood out so easily, hair, poise and character alike. A magical being… And the blue car indicated she was home. Hannibal pulled his handbrake a little too tight, his Bentley protesting in a groan. But he couldn't care less. Springing from the driver's seat like a devil from a box, the impeccable psychiatrist climbed the front steps two at a time, long legs pumping as he fished the keys out of his pocket. The door was locked, and he fumbled slightly with the bolt before the heavy front door gave way. Silence greeted him, and in the background, the gentle cracking of a fire.

— "Frances, are you home?" he called, trying to modulate the worry in his voice.

No response. Hannibal's strides led him to the kitchen, finding it empty, then the dining room.

— "My beautiful?"

Nothing. Tap, tap tap. His hard soles echoed on the wooden floor; he wasn't even trying to remain stealthy. Never before had he cursed the grandness of his house, yet now, it only made more ground to cover. His thundering heart was his only companion as he trod through the mansion.

At last, Hannibal popped his head into the small living room where Frances loved to take refuge with a book. The gentle glow of the fire illuminated her sleeping silhouette, red hair glowing in the orange light. A great sigh of relief escaped his lips as he took in her slumped form and peaceful expression. It lasted but a second. As his eyes roamed her face, the bead of sweat, reddened cheeks and plastered hair set his alarm bells.

— "Frances!" he called, kneeling beside her.

She didn't seem to hear him, and he gently set his hand on her forehead. Her skin was burning! Troubled, Hannibal tried to shake her out of her slumber.

— "Wake up, beautiful," he coaxed, seizing her arms.

The young woman cracked an eye open, her vision blurry at best as she tried to focus. Then a smile crept on her features.

— "Nice suit … dashing"

The psychiatrist couldn't believe his ears. The woman was so sick that she didn't hear her phone blazing beside her and could have set fire to hell, and her first through was to compliment him on his appearance! Had he not been so worried, her words would have melted his heart. As it was, his medical background made his spine stiffen.

— "You're ill, why didn't you call me?"

Frances' lips trembled.

— "Your conference … no worry"

Her eyes darted to her phone sheepishly. Beside them lay a set of pills, antibiotics by the looks of it, and a paper with blood test results. Hannibal picked it up, reading the figures twice before his stomach plummeted.

— "This is a massive infection, Frances. It is serious."

The young woman sent him a contrite look, her body shaking uncontrollably as she seemed to fight the haze of her mind. Hannibal's hands came to her shoulders, supporting her.

— "I know. I took the pills … and sleep."

The effort was too great, and she suddenly slumped against him, her eyes closing anew. Hannibal's heart leapt into his throat, and he picked her up. Her weight wasn't so great, and the adrenalin pumping through his veins screamed at him to hurry. Rushing upstairs, he made a beeline for his room; he had never been so glad for his medical supplies than today. Setting her on his bed, Hannibal rushed to get his suitcase, fishing out the blood pressure armband. Her heartbeat was so faint that he nearly missed it. 80. Damn. Septic shock. One more hour, and she would be dead. Perhaps … perhaps it was already too late.

Hannibal paused. If she died he would be free to kill again, free to play the mind, and push others to kill to see if he was the monster they said he was. Nights on his own, hunting … the memory called the thrill to flow in his veins, the need surfacing, the incredible empowerment of taking one life. He would be back at square one. Free, powerful, unleashed.

Alone.

No one to come home to, no one to give a piece of mind over ethics … or his lack of thereof. About his food, and how delicious it was. About his drawing, and how gifted he was. No one to kiss, no one to cherish, no special smile reserved only for him. A cold, old mansion with not a shred of life within. He would never again feel her writhing in his arms, undone by his ministrations. No one to love, no one that loved him back. And suddenly his chest constricted, and Hannibal was afraid. For the first time since forever, afraid to lose the little bit of light that radiated into his life for the grace of her presence.

Anger threatened to take over, soon replaced by a wave of panic. Hannibal forced all those feelings down, surprised at their intensity, and dialled 911. As the tone rang, he fished out a syringe and several vials of antibiotics. His usual poise returned, his hands steady as he spoke to the emergency lady, at the same time administering the vials to his precious wife. For he knew, now, that even if he might never be able to love her properly, Frances held a special place in his heart. Waiting for the paramedics to show up, Hannibal gathered the young woman into his arms like a man lost at sea would hold his lifeline. The prospect of losing her was suddenly too tangible to ignore. Like a cliff in a moonless night, with angry waters awaiting to swallow him whole. The doors she had opened, the possibilities of his heart… No, he couldn't let go now, couldn't revert to being alone. So he held fast, speaking in her hear, caressing her face, and professing his love for the first time in his life. She would never know, but he hoped that her soul was listening.

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