Special message to Koba: I have to say I am impressed that you are reading this even if you didn't watch the Hannibal show. Thank you, a lot. As for Jack Crawford, he is a good man, but also used to protect rather brutally those he cares about. His suspicions are not unfounded, and he is used to twisted individuals (such as Hannibal … although he doesn't know he's the killer he is running after aha) so his treatment of Frances is understandable.

Regarding Hannibal, it is a difficult subject. He has empathy and is not a psychopath as per standard definition because he was raised by loving parents. BUT, the trauma he went through as a child twisted it all, making him build walls that are not easily bypassed. Overall and psychology wise, Hannibal is unsortable.

The steady beep was annoying. Its pitch too high for her taste, its sound just enough to prevent her from getting back to sleep. What the hell had compelled her to buy such an annoying machine? Hr brow furrowed… no, she couldn't remember buying one. Beep, beep, beep. Perhaps workers in the post office below her French apartment? Weird; she was sure the renovations were over by now. Beep, beep. It seemed like the steady alarm of a truck backing up in the street. Phew, damn noisy city; she would need the rest to get this day over with. If she wasn't mistaken, today was geochemistry and material resistance. Ugh! Fortunately, the afternoon would be spent on cartography, a much better perspective. She felt warm, and sweaty, her body propped up awkwardly. Frances wanted to curl aside to get back to sleep, but her body refused to respond. What the hell! Beep, beep. Damn it! What was it with this machine! How long would this truck back up for? Its alarm was so noisy that it felt like it was inside her bedroom.

Frances eventually lost the fight, relinquishing the little hold on sleep she was trying to regain. Opening her eyes, she blinked several times before realising she wasn't in her room anymore. Appliances, dim light and horrible wall painting said it all. Hospital. The young woman recoiled internally; she hated hospitals. Condescending people, stifling atmosphere and the feeling of being a helpless child always crushed her whenever she set foot in a hospital. Her right arm was hooked up to an IV set above her head and her left … on her left slept a man whose hand dwarfed hers, tightly enclosed around her small fingers. She didn't need to study his face, for his presence and smell alone sold him.

Hannibal.

Her husband to be.

A tear ran down Frances' cheek and she bit her lip, refraining the sob that tightened her chest. She wasn't home, in France, about to graduate in geology. She was there, in this world, estranged from her past and family and quite alone in the world. No cousin, no parents, no brothers, no schoolmates, no Daniel Jackson and SGC friends, no Mulder, no past … no necklace to at least be the Keeper of Time. Nothing left… Except for the cannibalistic killer that she loved, and his more or less friend - the unstable empath - Will Graham. What a fucked-up life! And she'd just lost Bella to cancer, helping her die in her backyard. Right. This was her life now. Well … it sucked.

Beep, beep, beep.

Her heart rate was increasing due to the realisation of her predicament. Stupid machine that couldn't even leave her to wallow in misery without pointing its digital finger in denonciation. Hospital, the place where privacy held no name, dignity no sway, and intimate wasn't even a word! A place where boundaries didn't exist anymore… In a movement of pure exasperation, Frances tore the pads stuck on her chest with a wince. It stung like hell, but damn it, it felt good to take her anger upon this blasted machine. For a blessed second, the heart rate monitor seemed content to shut its mouth until…

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Frances groaned, realising her mistake. Of course, the monitor would wail bloody murder at the loss of signal! The noise jolted Hannibal awake; he'd never been a heavy sleeper but even a dead man would have jumped at the sound. His frantic eyes jumped first to the flat line on the screen – doctor one day, doctor forever – then to her form. How fitting, for a man so far from his emotions, to check the machine first to know whether she was dead or alive ! The sarcasm fled her the instant they locked eyes, pure relief washing over him. Hannibal bent over the bed, resting his forehead upon the crown of her head with a shuddering sigh.

Never had she seen Hannibal so shaken; it had to be a first. And when his arms wound around her shoulders in a warm embrace Frances's brain flatlined. Surrounded by him, his scent permeating, she felt safe and content. Tears ran down her face of their own accord, the joy of recognising him, his very essence, unwinding her tense body.

— "I am glad you are awake," he whispered into her ear before crushing her to his chest.

She didn't have time to answer as a flock of nurses and doctor rushed into the room in panic. Frances tightened her hold on Hannibal in fear; she'd found him anew, she wasn't about to let go now. The rest of the world could go to hell for all she cared. The young woman buried her face into his chest, anchoring herself to his unwavering strengh. With his body winding around hers, she didn't fear the world anymore, didn't fear the prodding doctors nor their blatant disregard for privacy. Hannibal was her lifeline, the only remaining soul that kept her sane and grounded in this angry world.

— "Sir ! Get away from her! She's flatlined!" a man shouted.

Hannibal's soothing voice didn't echo loudly in the room, but it reached its destination nonetheless. Something about his authority that couldn't be ignored, the words of an alpha male to lesser men.

— "There's no need. Frances simply pulled at the wires upon waking, that is all."

Hannibal's voice rumbled in his chest, permeating through hers. In the room, the flurry of activity seemed to come to a standstill, all sounds and voices dying at this simple statement. The machine was silenced, it irritating beeeeep dying without a squeak.

— "Let me see", came the same stern voice that had ordered Hannibal to get away from her.

As if !

— "Give us a minute"

An indignant sneer answered the psychiatrist's statement, and Frances could imagine easily the affronted look upon his face.

— "Sir !"

— "I was surgeon, I know what I am doing"

Hannibal's tone was final, and even if the doctor was probably seething by now, several sets of footsteps retreated in the corridor. Playing the surgeon card definitely did the trick; it only stated he had more years behind his belt than the doctor he had just kicked out. Sly man… her man ! For a moment, there was only silence as Hannibal hugged her. Heartbeats synchronized as thin coton vibrated, chest to chest. Frances' breathing evened out, panic receding as her muscles relaxed in the strong hold of her husband. Then, at last, Hannibal asked if she was ready to see the doctor and his nurse. Frances nodded, less than eager to be prodded around.

They performed the standard checks – temperature, blood pressure, incredibly stupid questions … – until they hooked her again to the horrible machine and walked away. All this time, Hannibal kept her hand enclosed in his, grounding her as he sensed her unease. Visibly, Frances disliked doctors. It was ironic, for a woman used to gruesome battlefields in the fifth century … who knew what story laid beyond the closed doors of her mind. Ironic as well, for she was married to one.

— "Hannibal?"

Her voice was subdued, so tired.

— "Yes?" he answered, kissing her temple tenderly.

— "Is there any way to kill the sound of that blasted machine?"

Her request was so unexpected that laugher bubbled into his chest. She saw the tension leave his shoulders as he authorised himself to relax. Standing up, Hannibal pushed one button and arched an eyebrow at her, understanding the reason why she'd nearly torn the wires out of her chest. The noise annoyed her.

— "There, no need to pull your skin out next time"

— "Merci, mon amour" (Thank you, my love)

For a moment, they stared at each other, unsure about what needed to be said. Frances kept her mouth shut, the weight of her sadness heavy over her chest, constricting her throat. And although Hannibal's gaze was unguarded – a rare feat – the intensity of his regard for her failed at cheering her up. The young woman's eyes landed on her lap. She must look a fright, and she wondered how Hannibal managed to be so handsome even with circles under his eyes and tousled hair. That man was never caught unaware, never shed his persona … almost never. The closest she came to catch him undone was in bed, when he eventually shed his armour – the three-piece suit – and let her take control of their lovemaking. And not always…

It was Hannibal who eventually broke the silence, his fingers grazing her chin to call her back to him. Something had shifted in his features, they were less guarded. Perhaps it was the exhaustion taking its toll, or perhaps he was ready to let her in. Still, his golden-flecked eyes were intense as he softly said:

— "I'll thrive to take better care of you but you must help me, little fairy."

Frances' eyebrows shot up, shocked.

— "New nickname?"

Her voice was slightly hoarse, her throat dry and she would have given a kingdom for a glass of water. But the discomfort was forgotten as uncertainty passed over Hannibal's features, an expression so foreign that it caused her to frown. How incredible, to see her man so unsettled!

— "Isn't that what Tristan called you?" he asked.

— "Yes. But now I am no Keeper of time. Just Frances. And you are not Tristan, Hannibal."

The psychiatrist caressed her cheek gently, his tongue passing over his upper teeth in a gesture she had come to associate with nervousness.

— "Do you wish I were?" he asked.

— "No."

There was much she wanted to say, but her brain was too fuzzy to find the proper words. Sill, the very faint smile that graced Hannibal's gorgeous lips told her he understood her meaning. And truth be told, it removed such a weight from his shoulders! For long, Hannibal had feared that Frances only searched for the dead knight she fell in love with, staying with him because of his past life as Tristan. But her earnest answer gave him hope; she loved him. Not Tristan, nor a memory of the past. Him, now.

— "Your wish in my command, beloved"

And he bent forward, his lips catching hers, their softness so distracting, caring and gentle. Then he just held her close, bestowing slow kisses upon the skin of her temple, his large hand caressing her hair as he took in her scent. It was still wrong, still impaired by the disease raging into her body.

Oblivious to his musings, Frances relished in the gentleness of his care as she thought. Beloved. He had never called her that, referring to her as 'my beautiful'. Perhaps because she wasn't even close to fitting the title at the moment … perhaps because he had realised he loved her a little. And his statement couldn't be truer; he abode by her rule like a musketeer protected the Queen. She had wished him to stop killing, and he had. She had asked him to stop manipulating people, to stop harming them, and so far he respected her wishes. She had rocked his life entirely, yet he still tolerated and humoured her.

— "Thank you," she eventually whispered.

And he made no move to acknowledge her words expect to tighten his hold. Once they were both satisfied that the earth was still spinning, Frances asked for a glass of water that Hannibal provided for her. His keen eyes watched her as she drank her fill, then he sat in front of her on the bed and deposited the plastic goblet on the nightstand with very measured gestures. Face serious, Hannibal then gathered both of her hands into his and regarded her with awe.

— "I have the answer now."

— "To which question?"

For a shameful moment, Hannibal recalled how he had hesitated; things were clearer now, and she needed to know.

— "I would cry if you died, my wife. All this time when your life hung in the balance, I feared for you. Your existence and mine have become tangled now, so much that I am unsure where mine ends and yours starts. I do not wish to be parted from you…"

Frances was shocked speechless, but even more so when he added softly.

— "Please don't leave me"

There would be no better admission of love coming from a man as damaged as he was. Startled, Frances felt the dam of emotions crack through her well-maintained walls. The relief was like an earthquake, shaking foundations that she thought stronger than that… But again, she had been fighting for a long time, and a woman could only endure so much before breaking. Gathering her face into her hands, she started sobbing like a child. Hannibal loved her…. and yet, she couldn't find the will to be happy. She was so tired of this world, so tired… And guilty to react so childishly to his heartfelt confession. She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, too afraid to see the hurt her tears caused him. Instead, she flung herself in his arms, pulling at the IV with a wince, and latched her fingers to the once pristine shirt of his tuxedo.

— "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Hannibal," she kept saying between sobs. "I love you, mon amour."

His voice was strained when he eventually asked.

— "Why are you so sad, Frances?"

The words came out jumbled, nearly unintelligible for she cried heavily still.

— "Family … friends … purpose, I have lost it all."

And she felt selfish for saying this, because Hannibal had no family left either, no friends, and she had taken his purpose away from him. Yet he still stood.

— "And I am not enough?" came his earnest plea.

His pain tore through her heart, giving her the strength to sober up. Suddenly, Frances straightened and wiped out the tears. Her red rimmed eyes fixed him intensely, forcing upon him the truth of her feelings, her slender fingers landing on his cheek. And for once, Hannibal closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like a wounded man.

— "You are more than I could ever hope for. But you know as well as I do that you can't replace others. You can't fill the whole space of my heart. I miss them, that is all."

And Hannibal nodded, truly moved by the wisdom of her words. As a psychiatrist he had met many patients who searched to heal their wounds through their counterpart; it always undeniably failed. The mind could not be completed by another than oneself; no spouse could ever fix what had been broken or bring what was missing. And Frances understood that, because she had laid conditions but not hoped for him to be different. She didn't naïvely think her love would heal him. But it brought him so much, making him feel once more. It was different from satisfaction or the thrill of the kill, a feeling much warmer, more enveloping. Acceptance, belonging, the sense of need and usefulness. She depended on him; maybe he could rely on her as well.

When the young woman – too young for his old self! – fell asleep once more, he could only contemplate the exhausted lines of her face. The steady flow of antibiotics flooded her body to chase away the nasty streptococcus that had claimed her lungs. Pneumonia. How fitting, for a woman who had just lost a friend to lung cancer. For a moment, Hannibal wondered if there was a connection other than a psychological transfer.

Frances' hand still grasped his tightly, as if she was afraid that he would leave her alone. But he wouldn't. He'd come so close to losing her that he knew he wouldn't leave her side. If she had not walked into his life, he would still be a lonely cannibal with a very dull and bloody life. She'd given him the fright of his life, and he understood now what she had felt when Tobias came for him. Pure dread.

Before his own eyes closed in exhaustion, he texted Will.

'Frances is out of danger. You saved her life, Will. Thank you' – Hannibal.

'Great. I'll pop by tomorrow' — Will.