Yeah, Mads Mikkelsen is an amazing actor. So subtle, the slightest change in his eyes and the world crumbles down. It truly is extraordinary what this man can convey in a look. Viggo Mortensen himself said so. Coming from Aragorn, it is quite the compliment !

When Will showed up the next morning, a box of chocolate in hand, Frances was still asleep. Hannibal, never one to be caught off guard – much like his wife – heard him turn the handle before he even popped up into the room. The psychiatrist stood from the armchair a nurse had nicely brought him at night so that he didn't break his neck. Will's eyes didn't meet his for more than a second – as was his habit - but his face morphed into sympathy at once.

— "You look like hell," he whispered.

And Hannibal had the gall to smirk; he had yet to leave Frances' side ever since she was brought two days ago. Of course, unshaven and sleeping in uncomfortable chairs, he probably didn't meet up the pristine standard Will was used to. He didn't care much for it, though. Will was becoming family pretty fast; it gave him a little leeway when it came to his appearance. The psychiatrist was about to answer when Will's eyes glazed over, his hand gripping the railing of Frances' bedfoot. Worried that he could have an episode, Hannibal approached silently, his keen eyes taking in Will's tense posture as he roamed the vision he was probably having.

And for sure, Will Graham's mind was filled with heartache and sorrow as he took in the slumped form of Frances in bed, features pale, lifeless. For what he saw wasn't a woman hooked up to an IV in the hospital. No. What he saw was a bloodied body, her collarbone shattered by a bolt she had taken in stead of Lancelot, crimson blood covering her armour from head to toe. Hers and Tristan's who had passed away on the battlefield in her shaking arms. He saw the hours pass by, the sun dip and rise again, and still she wouldn't wake, wouldn't whimper, mourning silently as she refused to regain consciousness. Her shoulder got bandaged, the muscles and bones torn awfully, and when she awoke it was to bury Tristan in the sad little cemetery of the knights, looking like a ghost herself.

And she remained upon his tomb, singing to his soul so that he could reach the heavens, her left arm bandaged and useless, forever crippled. And the evening fell, the light faded, then came the rain yet she still stood upon the mount of dirt, refusing to leave until the knights came to collect her. A Sarmatian wife mourning the passing of her warrior husband.

— "What have you seen?"

Will almost started, the box of chocolate forgotten upon the blankets as he gazed into Hannibal's eyes. The older man was so close, towering over him and he had failed to see his approach. The empath recounted his vision with a trembling voice as he recalled the heartache of those days. His hand still clung to the railing, shaking, as he told his psychiatrist of the gruesome wound Frances has sustained.

— "Where?" Hannibal asked, his voice low.

Will pointed to his upper chest, right below the left collarbone and the psychiatrist nodded.

— "I've seen her rub this place often, as if in pain."

— "How is it possible? Ghosts pain in a new body?"

Hannibal turned to his wife for a moment, hiding his face to school his features. Will still believed Frances to be reincarnated; she shouldn't be able to feel the consequences of a wound from a body long dead and buried. Sensing that he wouldn't get more, Will continued.

— "You have no idea how much she had mourned Tristan … you."

And the emotion in Hannibal's eyes was so raw that the empath felt his tongue thicken. Never before had he seen the psychiatrist so shaken. Perhaps … perhaps he had an inkling of how much Frances had wept upon his grave.

— "Do you still doubt her story?" he asked.

Hannibal shook his head. Despite the few memories he had recovered from Tristan, he didn't doubt it anymore … but Will didn't know the full extend of it. Aliens, cloning, Stargate and Keeper of Time included; he was only aware of reincarnation. There had been much more to doubt about in the first place that the return of two fellow knights.

— "No. I have come to terms with this impossibility."

Frances suddenly stirred and opened her eyes. Despite the hushed conversation, she had sensed their presence. Hannibal sighed; she always had been a light sleeper and resisted to medication. A Xanax held no sway over her stubborn will – her body simply washed it away like Tylenol – and Frances never relinquished control, even in sleep. It took barely a second before she recognised the newcomer.

— "Will," she said, a smile brightening her features. "I'm glad you are here."

The empath gave one last meaningful look to Hannibal before picking up the chocolate box. The present was met with a heartfelt smile that melted both of their hearts. Chocolate always did the trick for her; comfort food at its best. Pleasantries were exchanged, trivial things such as why she had nearly died in the first place. The young woman thanked him profusely for his quick thinking; he had saved her life. A feat that Hannibal confirmed, a fond gaze directed to Will.

— "She was in septic shock when I found her. Half an hour later would have been too late."

The empath only nodded, uncomfortable. But then, Frances's countenance brightened and she suddenly asked.

— "Can you stay for a while?"

— "Got no case today," Will answered, avoiding her eyes.

A smile passed upon her lips, then she turned to Hannibal.

— "That's your cue, darling. Go home, sleep, take a shower and rest."

Had her affection not poured out of her chocolate eyes, Hannibal might have recoiled that she kicked him out so easily to replace him with Will. But in truth, he was in dire need of a break and a hot shower … maybe a homemade brunch as well, to put his thoughts together. And a nap … and a change of clothes. The perspective of a little comfort after those trying days brought him to pick his coat up and peck his wife's lips.

— "Are you sure?" he asked.

For he knew that something loomed under the surface. Frances was afraid of hospitals, he had picked up on her distress signals from the moment she awoke. And even if she wouldn't be alone; Will couldn't stand out to doctors the way he could. The young woman reached for his cheek gently, warm hazel conveying her gratitude for his supporting presence. But still the fear lingered in her eyes, mercilessly pushed down as she kissed him.

— "Yes. I won't be alone. Get some rest, I will need you, mon amour."

And so Hannibal left Frances in the care of Will Graham, intend on cooking something nice to bring her back for dinner once he had pulled himself together from the ordeal. No killing had ever drained him like this, no investigation nor near miss situation. The stirrings of his heart unsettled him, but he welcomed them. Pain and longing meant he was still alive.

Will and Hannibal rotated beside Frances' bed while she recovered, Alana even taking some time out of her tight schedule to pay a visit. They didn't have much to share, those two women, except about the people they knew in common. Will Graham, a love interest of Alana's – even if she was still in denial – and Hannibal, her former mentor. She was a sweet and naïve woman, this lovely psychiatrist, and Frances hoped that Will and her could find a way to make it work. Yet, she couldn't share too much for fear of selling her husband to be to his very devoted disciple. Despite her deceitful appearance – Alana was lovely and her eyes very doe like – the woman was far from stupid. Any slip and she would put two and two together.

By the end of the third day, Frances's patience had run out and she insisted on being taken home. Hannibal would have none of it, arguing that she wasn't out of the woods yet. Still, they had taken her IV off to give her antibiotics pills. But the doctor in him was wary … what if the bacteria were resistant and her fever suddenly worsened? In hospital, they would pick it up immediately while he was away working. At home … who knew what could happen in his absence? And despite Frances arguing her case very soundly – she had a solid background in biology and physiology after all – Hannibal refused to relent. She sent him home that night with a huff, her eyes promising such retribution that the psychiatrist actually shuddered. What could her kitten possibly plan to make him regret his unrelenting position?

Settling in his lonely king-size bed, Hannibal could only mourn the loss of her warm body beside his. Her absence felt wrong; he actually enjoyed being her pillow. The psychiatrist hoped his wife wouldn't deny him the company out of revenge. Somehow, he doubted it; she was addicted to him. Two more days, and he would be able to take her home … still, he wondered how she would receive him tomorrow. No doubt she would still be pissed, especially since he had a long list of patients and wouldn't be able to visit before late afternoon. The psychiatrist prepared himself for the cold shoulder; Frances really could be difficult whenever she set her mind to it, responding yes and no with a fake smile like a noble lady of old. Bah. He would make it up to her by bringing a nice dinner.

His fears were unfounded … mainly, for nothing came to disturb his psychiatrist's schedule nor his routine. No pranks, nor tantrums, or angry words. Except for the text message, around 10 am, that said:

'I'll be in Wolf Trap today, don't worry about me. Will can drive me back tomorrow. Yours faithfully' — Frances

There was no mistaking the sting hidden behind the formality. Hannibal's head suddenly fell upon the desk in a show of rare fatigue. What was he going to do with his headstrong wife?

Frances wasn't one for revenge; still, she stood out for what she believed, and tended to her needs. Especially when the man of her life refused to do so… This is how, at 9 am sharp, Will Graham found her fully clothed and ready to go. She didn't lie to him in any way; no claim of discharge papers being signed. No, she just told him to take her to Wolf Trap. Cornered, Will stuttered.

— "Frances, I can stay at night if you don't want to be alone. I'll be here to support you if you need it. And where is Hannibal?"

The young woman huffed, her gaze so steely that he couldn't handle it and looked at the ground.

— "I don't want support, I want out. Hannibal refused, him being a doctor and all."

— "Why?" he asked.

And she knew he wasn't asking why her husband refused to discharge her. Will was too attuned to her emotions, to the panic building inside her the more she stayed here, to ask such a trivial thing. No. Will wanted to understand why she so badly wanted to run away from this place, even if it meant facing the wrath of a certain – very intimidating – psychiatrist. The young woman tugged at his sleeve, avoiding touching his skin for he disliked physical contact, but willing him to catch the plea in her eyes.

— "I can't heal in a hospital, Will. Things happened to me there, things that shouldn't have. I am not sure what, I was small, I just don't remember much. I am on edge, expecting an attack. I don't sleep here… I feel disrespected"

Will's blue eyes widened at the implications of her words. This was a losing battle and he didn't fancy hospitals much either.

— "Take me out please. I got my prescriptions, just take me out."

— "Frances, don't…", he said sternly.

It was his last failed attempt at reasoning her.

— "I'm leaving on my own, Will."

Will sighed, overwhelmed. She wasn't threatening nor blackmailing. She could have told him that she would be left in the streets with nowhere to go if he didn't comply, stirring guilt in his heart. But it wasn't Frances' way. Her sheer determination, though, told him she would be gone in less than a minute. Better with him than alone; it was freezing outside. And if Hannibal would have had the strength – damn that old man! – to restrain her, Will certainly wasn't about to get into a catfight with Frances. Even impaired, she still was a very dangerous woman. A wounded and desperate woman that wanted nothing more in the world than to escape this place.

— "Hannibal will kill me," he grumbled.

At this, Frances only laughed.

— "He didn't do it fifteen hundred years ago, he won't do it now."

— "Whatever," Will huffed.

He expected to grab a suitcase but realised that Frances had nothing more than her purse in the room. Hannibal provided her with fresh sets of clothes every day, and had not brought her heavy cloak yet. Probably to avoid her from sneaking out…

— "I'll take the blame. Come on, let's go. I want a pizza"

Wolf Trap, Virginia

Frances shut the passenger door with a bang, glad to replace the dog's smell of Will's oldish car for the crisp air of the outdoors. The sun shone brightly; its course high enough to send its rays over the frozen layer of snow. The crystals twinkled in the slightly orange light; the result of a lower angle of incidence from earth's star. The air itself seemed frozen in place, and her mouth produced a puff of fog as she breathed in deeply. It was dry, all water expelled by the freezing temperatures; just like she liked it. It smelt like a morning day at a ski resort, when, after a good night's sleep, she used to hit the slopes even before the first lift started functioning. Always the first ones, always the last ones on the slopes; she had roamed many resorts with her father and brother, trying to keep up with their crazy pace. Those were but memories, now, forever buried in the recesses of her mind.

Beside her, Will was silent. He had been subdued ever since they ran into that redhead in the hospital. Freddie Lounds, the horrible journalist that kept spreading lies about how Will Graham was the greatest killer of all times. Ah. What a stupid woman! Her red mane had barely shifted her way as they exited the hospital before she scurried to them in haste. Frances had ignored her, getting in the car without a second glance. But Will had exchanged a few heated words with the journalist, asking her, far too gently, to back away. His brow still held the furrow that her allegations had called to his face.

They walked, side by side, in the crisp air, Frances taking in the quiet surroundings as she spread her arms. How she wanted to hang around for a bit and leave fresh tracks in the pristine snow. A childish behaviour; it would be like crumpling one of Hannibal perfectly ironed shirts. But it felt incredible to be free, the frozen breeze reddening her cheeks, its icy clutches reminding her of the immensity of the outdoors. Frances loved Wolf Trap, she enjoyed visiting Will in this wild place. For as much as she loved her husband, she hated living in a city. What a far cry from Tristan's scouting days, when he would sleep outside just for the sake of not being trapped in the fort. Yet, she had to accept it. Hannibal was unsettled with things out of his control.

What she loved in nature was the reminder that they were powerless, little souls drifting across the ocean of destiny. When she communiated with nature, there was no pain, no sorrow, no past and no future, only the blank bliss of the earth and its creatures living their own life. Something she shared with Will for he had no issues relinquishing sovereignty. And today, as she spread her arms and spun around in the snow, calling a smile on Will's face, she could feel the immense power of the planet. It only emphasised the hole in her chest, the energy she had given to Bella and failed to refill. All the missing people. A sudden cough caught bubble in her chest and Will immediately frowned.

— "Come inside, you don't have a cloak and you're sick."

The voice of reason, but how she wished to say no! Still, the coughing intensified, and she had no other option than to relent. Stupid pneumonia! Reluctantly, she followed Will inside the cabin, her eyes taking in the glorious landscape as she stepped under the porch of his house. Barking greeted them even before the door was open, and Frances welcomed Will's dogs with a heartfelt smile. Even though she would have loved to remain outside, she still enjoyed the furry heads' company. For sure, she wasn't about to have her own animal in Hannibal's impeccable house. Hairs on the sofa and torn furniture would surely send her feline straight to hell … or to the oven, yuck!

Passing the front foor, Frances scrunched her nose slightly ; the smell of dogs and cheap wood didn't agree much with her. It wasn't so far away from Galahad's room in the fifth century. Still, she had come to associate it with her friend and felt at ease now. She could already see clear as day the slight crinkling of Hannibal's straight nose when he would kiss her…

Frances settled on the sofa, Winston coming to rest his head upon her thigh as she petted him.

— "So, how about this pizza?" came Will's voice from behind the kitchen counter.

— "Oh yes!"

Will chuckled at her enthusiasm, his clear blue eyes catching her for half a second before he sent the flyer straight to her lap.

— "You've always been good at throwing things, although I remember more about daggers and arrows than pizza flyers."

The empath chuckled slightly before picking up the phone from its base.

— "So what will it be, my fair lady?"

Frances hummed slightly, taking in the long list that made her mind dizzy … or perhaps it was her low blood pressure that made the words swim before her eyes. Still, she knew what she wanted.

— "Pescadore, to honour the host"

Will sent her a cryptic look to which she responded with a grin.

— "Fisherman, Will. In Italian"

— "Right… No meat, uh?"

The empath was referring to her avoiding meat at Hannibal's, which slowly spread as the belief that she was a vegetarian. She had yet to correct that notion, but didn't quite know how to dance around it. So she settled for fish in public, most of the time, because Will knew how to cook it, and because she enjoyed it.

— "I never saw the interest of putting meat on a pizza anyway."

— "Why not?"

Frances snorted, her face coming close to a 'duh' she would never utter. Even though she was more relaxed in Will's presence, the young woman couldn't keep her nature away. And she wasn't one to swear, or express herself with rude onomatopoeia.

— "Because you either love meat, and you don't burn it to a crisp with no proper sauce on a bed of tomatoe, or you don't like it, and you don't eat it."

— "You're Hannibal's wife through and through," came his tired sigh.

— "Definitely."

Although the deed wasn't done as per the administration, they both considered themselves married. The young woman's eyes brightened at the perspective of a true marriage, tugging her legs below her body to keep body heat. Will's cabin was nowhere near overheated, and she was tired. It would take time for her to recover. The empath observed her with furrowed brows, and picked up a plaid to wrap over her legs with a smile.

— "Thank you"

Will only smiled, picking up the phone once more. His eyes were more greenish up close, and Frances left her mind wander as he rang the pizza shop for a delivery. At last, the price and time were settled, and the empath hung up, his gaze a little lost in the distance.

— "You know, you and Hannibal compliment each other, especially in the kitchen. And the language department. Do you speak Lithuanian yet?"

He was teasing her now, she could spot the glint in his eyes when they briefly met hers. Playing with the soft plaid filed with animal's hair, she stuck her tongue at him.

— "Er, no. I'll learn"

— "Well, give it a rest, your brain can only handle so much at a time."

— "It is unfair. Hannibal speaks French like he speaks English, but I don't know more than a few words in his mother tongue"

Will left his head slouch backwards, eyes roaming the wooden ceiling of his cabin. Those two brainiacs were weird … especially since they now spoke French more often than not between themselves. It probably reminded Hannibal of his years at his uncle's estate and his first years studying medicine.

— "How about Italian?" he asked.

The young woman gave him an incredulous look, forgetting that, aside from her, people knew next to nothing about Dr Lecter's passion for Firenze … or any of his passions whatsoever.

— "Of course he speaks Italian."

— "Spanish?"

The young woman huffed beside him. She was close, but not close enough so they could touch. Still, for him, it was a great step to settle in range of another, at the mercy of an unwanted physical contact.

— "Phew, when you know French and Italian AND Latin as well as he does, it's just too easy."

— "So you're vexed because he knows more languages than you do."

At this, Frances only nodded, biting her tongue to refrain from mentioning that Hannibal had no clue about the elvish tongue. Quenya or Sindarin. In this domain, she was sure to have the upper hand!

A few hours later

The pizza had come and gone, and Frances badly hoped that her system would handle it since she'd had nothing but light hospital food for days. Her weight had gone below the hundred pounds after her ordeal; nothing carastrophic, but it wasn't enough for her 5'4 in. Right after the meal, she had slumbered gently on the sofa, covered by Will's plaid, Winston settling upon her legs. The empath had left the room, resting upstairs to avoid waking her until he heard the front door open. Damn that woman! She was going out in the snow!

Darting downstairs, he grabbed his heavy coat and hurried outside. The sun was low now, painting the landscape in orange hues that rendered the silent place even more ethereal. Frances stood still, feet buried in the snow, his plaid wrapped around her. Her long hair, fastened into a braid, hung upon the creamy fabric like a tail of fire blazed by the sunlight. For a moment, all that he could see was a woman in armour riding a tall grey horse in a snowy mountain pass, snowflakes twirling around her reddened cheeks. Where, when? Despite everything they had discussed the past weeks, he still felt there was much he didn't know.

Will joined her slowly, his steps crunching packed snow below his boots until he stood by her side. Frances' mask didn't slip to acknowledge him, her hazel eyes lost in the contemplation of the landscape. At least, this is what she tried to project … but Will was an empath. The weight on her chest crushed him just as much as it crushed her. Inside, she was crumbling down.

— "Frances?" he eventually asked gently.

— "Yes"

Her voice was deadened, the simple word curt. Had she ordered, 'speak!', Will would have been less intimidated.

— "What's up?"

She didn't turn to him, her jaw contracting for a moment. Then she ungritt her teeth, and the words came flowing reluctantly.

— "I think this disease was a way for me to mourn. To realise I am still alive, and let go of the rest."

— "Is your family dead?"

The young woman froze in shock, her chocolate eyes – nearly golden in the low sunlight –searching his. Will cringed, interrupting the staring contest Frances seemed very fond of; a trait she shared with Hannibal. Will knew the effect his perceptions could have on people, especially when he asked questions that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. To them, there would be no link between what had been said, and his retort … especially when it delved into secrets they avoided like the plague. To him, it felt perfectly clear. Still, he thought Frances had gotten used to it; she never seemed quite fazed by his ability to jump from pillar to post. She knew his perceptions led him in an illogical way. But this time she wasn't expecting it.

Tears leaked down her face, and Will would have kicked himself for his lack of tact. Still, she didn't answer him. Perhaps … now that he had put his foot in his mouth … there wasn't much to save, right? So he kept his gaze firmly on the ground, ignoring the purring sound of a motor in the distance, as he blurted out the whole truth.

— "Frances, I know you've been lying to me…"

— "I never did," she retorted sternly.

— "Fine. You just avoid questions"

The young woman sent him a wary look to which he only lifted his hands in surrender. As an empath, he heard her silences as much as the truths. To any question he had asked about their common past, half of it remained unanswered. At the beginning, he thought she didn't trust him, or sought to manipulate him. That suspicion was long forgotten; Frances simply had too many wounds and secrets for such a young woman. But she was genuine as they come, and so was her affection. Hence he thought useful to clarify his statement.

— "I don't judge you. I won't force you to talk to me. You're my friend now, I'll be here when you feel like sharing."

Frances nodded with relief and surprisingly, Will lifted his arm to hug her shoulders, pulling her close as his body registered the contact. A contact he had initiated, wow! And she let her head fall upon his shoulder, her body less tense now he had said his piece. The tears, though, still flowed out of her eyes. The purring of the motor was closer now; a car was approaching in the snow. Will turned slightly to spot the familiar Bentley of Dr Lecter coming up his driveway. But then, Frances called his attention back to her, aware that this discussion was reaching its end.

— "I will tell you soon Will. But not now. I don't have the heart."

The empath nodded, his chest constricting in tune with hers. Moved by the intensity of her pain, he twisted to hug the young woman fiercely, and she hugged him back. For a moment, all air left his lungs as she tightened her hold. Then she let go with a quiet thank you, her shining eyes taking in the form of Hannibal Lecter emerging from his Bentley. She didn't seem surprised to see him, but didn't take a step forward either.

The smouldering ambers of Hannibal's eyes caused the young woman to straighten, and if Will missed the glint of jealousy in the psychiatrist's eyes – it was too preposterous to reach his brain – he couldn't ignore how they both tensed. Like an alpha wolf and its mate about to fight for dominance. Hannibal stopped a few feet away, his suit impeccable below the heavy winter coat, leather gloves covering his long fingers.

— "Hello, wife"

His very calm greeting elicited an equally icy retort from the young woman.

— "Hello, husband. If you are here to drag me back to the hospital, I'd rather sleep with the dogs tonight."

A feral glint passed in his eyes, something so reminiscent of Tristan in a bad day that Will instinctively cowered. His instincts urged him to run and hide rather than being caught in the crossfire between those two! But then, Hannibal's features softened, one of his hands extending forward in a gesture of peace.

— "I am here to bring you home, if it is agreeable to you."

Will almost rolled his eyes at the formality. Where those two born with sticks stuck up their asses? Did they speak to each other this way in bed as well? Still, Frances relaxed beside him, the formal address giving her much more information than he perceived. This cloaking of words, the ancestral etiquette, always held many layers. Almost like a code that the young woman used to reach her noble Lithuanian husband, a code that, he, the empath, had no clue about. Perhaps they were too used to reading each other, or perhaps they had always been wired together. His reminiscence of Tristan and the fiery lady seemed to confirm so, remembering how they communicated in the tavern without exchanging words.

At least, they had the decency to speak English in presence of others. Politeness dictated it and thus, they abode but its rules. Will wondered which harsh words – in French – would fly between the two of them once out of earshot. There was no stronger definition of private than the Lecter couple.

Frances pecked him on the cheek, her eyes still set upon Hannibal, then slid the plaid out of her shoulders to leave it in Will's arms.

— "Thank you for you support, Will. And the pizza"

— "You're welcome", he stuttered.

Then she literally prowled to her husband, eyes set upon his face, until her cold hand reached his gloved one. The stuffy doctor surprised Will then, engulfing his wife in a hug like a commoner. The gesture, so human, called a smile to Will's lips. This is what Frances brought to Hannibal's life; humanity.

— "You smell like dogs," Hannibal growled in Frances ear, careful not to be overheard.

And she laughed.

Half an hour later, Frances slept in the car while he drove them back to Baltimore, Hannibal's heavy coat draped over her. The doctor had dismissed the scolding for another day, feeling that she would give him hell for patronising her. The short conversation he had had with Will as she retrieved her handbag still played heavily on his mind. 'For her sake, you must support her, she won't be controlled.' There had been steel in Will's gaze, a determination that came forth every so scarcely.

Hannibal sighed. Since when the empath gave him orders? Since when was he willing to listen to them? And more important of all, since when Will's advice on women seemed sound?