As usual, I tried to keep it short. I failed. I hope you enjoy.

Anyway, erm. Chapter 17 here, and I plan around 10 more then it will be the end so … 100k words? Damn, as much as the original work 'All Hail to the King'. When I thought I wanted this spin off to only be a drabble … What can I say? Hannibal is an incredible character portrayed by an amazing actor. I was bound to be inspired.

As usual, italics is French. Don't think me lazy, I could very write it all in french but I don't think you would appreciate much. If you want, drop me a word, I'll comply happily :)

It had been four days since Frances had woken up in hospital, Hannibal holding her hand as he slumbered in the seat beside her. She was still tired. Too tired, but she missed him so much. She missed intimacy, his body against hers. Ever since they had met – again – not a day has passed without him making love to her. Sometimes twice when they could linger in bed. Her words to Bella, many months ago, were truthful. Hannibal was a very passionate man, and she wondered if their frequent intimacy helped him keep in check the bloodlust. It wasn't enough, though, as he went swimming once a week – a hobby to which she partook with pleasure. There was nothing like soaking in warm water in a desert swimming pool.

Except for the feel of his skin against hers. And today … today she couldn't contain it anymore. And when her eyes opened, her body sprawled on her belly, to find his golden-brown eyes gazing at her, they probably conveyed a message that couldn't be ignored. Something akin to flames danced behind his carefully composed gaze, the beast awaiting to be unleashed one way or another. It was always there, hidden behind the air of nonchalance and indifference. So obvious, so plain that she wondered how the others failed to notice it. Today, passion won over anger, love over destruction as Hannibal gently brushed loose strands around her face and kissed her lips.

— "Lay still," he ordered. "I will take care of you."

And so he did. Climbing upon her bare back, replacing the cover over them to keep her warm, he lowered the entire length of his muscled body over her lovely curves. Skin upon skin, from head to toe, that set fire to his blood. His lips travelled her back reverently, from her nape where he brushed her hair away, to her small waist. His hands worked their miracle, massaging the tense muscles that rippled below her silky skin, washing the pain away, wishing it to flee with the winter winds. And while he made gentle love to her, relishing in every whimper, every moan that passed her lips, he couldn't help but marvel at the sensuality of his wife. Her lower back undulated against his as she failed at lying still, and every one of her slow moves sent pleasure along his spine. Lying once more all over her, bodies safely intertwined Hannibal cradled her head. His long fingers played with her tousled hair, his lips sealing upon her temple as he conveyed the extend of his affection. She reached for his neck at an impossible angle, arched backwards as her hips unconsciously met him. Elegant fingers curled around his nape, pulling him closer again until their bodies touched from head to toe.

There was something strangely soothing in her quiet nature, her cries so scarcely gracing his ears even in their lovemaking. Once in a while he managed to unleash her, on those days they both needed the exertion and he pounded into her like a mad wolf. His pride relished in moments when she lost all sense and moaned his name, her cries rising in intensity until all control was relinquished into his hands. Frances unleashed by his ministrations, the most beautiful sight in the world. Even more than when, after months and months of scheming, he managed to push a patient to kill. Even more than seeing Will's walls unwind under his guidance. The purest, and simplest beauty, the love in her eyes as, every time, she pulled him close and thanked him for making love to her.

— "Thank you," she whispered when he lowered himself upon her, their bodies spent.

— "You are most welcome. It is I, who thank you," he always answered, marvelling that she would thank him after granting her his most fervent wish.

And for a while, everything was quiet, the first rays of late autumn filtering over the heavy brocade curtains of his bedroom. And he stayed over her, forearms bearing the brunt of his weight, her back against his chest, their frantic hearts beating in unison. His breath upon the side of her face, his lips tracing the curve of her cheekbone until he lowered his head upon hers, cheeks touching in the most intimate of embraces. There, then, Hannibal was happy. And when he settled beside her, she was already asleep.

For the first time in ages, the psychiatrist allowed himself to doze off again, even if the light called for him to rise and shine. It was, after all, a special day today. The fiftieth year of his venue to the world … so much had happened in those years … so much. But what he couldn't have planned, though, was the sweet solace that washed over him as his arm lazily rested upon her waist. Scooting closer, Hannibal drifted back to sleep, hair tousled, so close to her that his breath fanned upon her face. Her warm presence welcomed him into Morpheus's embrace once more, the slight humming of her skin him strangely soothing. Yes, for once, Hannibal was at peace.

It was but several hours later that Hannibal heard the shower running. Breakfast was nearly ready, he turned the sausages around – pork, mind you. It was their little secret; Frances ate meat, only if she got to buy it. An involuntary smile lifted the corner of Hannibal's lips; once more, the young woman would appear in the kitchen just when the dish is ready. It might be luck, or fate, but she always found the way to be here at the right place, at the right moment in his life. Busying himself to pass the tea – nor too cold, nor too hot to keep the bitterness at an acceptable level – Hannibal realised that another voice was overlapping the opera piece he had been listening until now. And for sure, once the sizzling of sausages died, the doubling of the soprano line became more obvious. The psychiatrist shed his apron and carefully climbed the stairs; La Bacarolle echoing in the house from now two different sources. The words seemed to tumble easily from Frances' lips. The Offenbach opera was French after all; it shouldn't surprise him so much.

Hannibal stopped in the corridor, fearful to interrupt his wife for she had never graced him with her voice. And what a voice! The line of the soprano seemed to tumble from her lips so easily, the tone quality of her vocal chords perfectly adapted to the melody. And even if some notes were slightly off, even if she sometimes stumbled in the words, or took some liberties, it still echoed harmoniously in the bathroom. Frances had finished showering now, her singing sometimes interrupted as she probably got dressed, or put some cream, or performed one of the tiny acts a woman would do when preparing herself for the day. He did not know much about it; Frances had very few rituals. A little cream, a brush in her hair, and make-up when she felt too tired to forgo concealing the circles under her eyes. She would sometimes roll her hair in a bun and clip it with the tiniest of hair pins which defied even Quantum physics laws. No one could possibly tame such amount of hair with the smallest of hair clips. Anyway. She had fewer material and cosmetics than himself. Hannibal pursed his lips; the privilege of age perhaps.

Somewhere in the back of his mind danced the reminiscence of an Ave Maria interpreted so beautifully that it had laid his heart bare. It had been her, the Keeper of Time on a fateful winter day. A piece much more difficult than La Bacarolle as her emotion poured forth. Hannibal frowned, wondering why his memories were so scarce compared to what Will now recalled from Galahad. Perhaps because Will, being was an empath, accessed the buried parts of his soul more easily. Perhaps because Hannibal's mind was damaged beyond words, his emotions so suppressed than nothing escaped the heavy walls expect what he allowed. Still, it annoyed him that another man would remember more of his wife than he did.

Despite her reassurance, he could not get rid of the image he'd stumbled upon the previous day. Frances nestled in Will's arms, both contemplating the wild landscape that soothed their overactive brains, both empathic beings to the core, humbled by nature yet not bothered by their own insignificance. Surely Will would be better suited than him by her side? An old, sophisticated, cannibalistic serial killer? A man who lived in town to keep everything under control? A man who could rip a beating heart to preserve its taste? The door suddenly opened to reveal his future wife. The woman reining in his bruised and battered heart. She adorned a pair of cachemire pants he had gifted her recently, the soft material emphasising her lovely legs while showing nothing. A stay-at-home outfit, but not negligee.

Her eyes widened at finding him in the corridor and Hannibal immediately caught the new light in her eye. Determination, love and strength. Frances was back, dragged from her self-imposed depression. Perhaps the reason for her singing in the first place, celebrating life and love. Hannibal addressed her a crooked smile, his hands itching to caress her upper thighs to assesses the softness of the fabric.

— "Hello beautiful," he gently coaxed, eyes appraising.

— "Hello handsome," she purred.

Her hand landed on his chest, the red sweater that she loved on display, before it gently slid to his collarbone. Skin upon skin caused his body to hum, and Hannibal grabbed her waist to push him flush against him.

— "Feeling better?" he teased.

Hannibal didn't wait for her answer as his lips claimed her in a passionate kiss. Surprised, Frances wound her hands around his shoulder to keep her balance, arching backwards to push her chest flush against him. Passion and desire suddenly fuelled their souls, leaving them both breathless.

— "Much better now," she answered, her fingers caressing his cheekbone reverently.

And Hannibal almost forgot how, just a moment before, he had feared she might be better suited for Will Graham. No. Frances was too classy, too cultured, too noble for any other than him. Who could appreciate, more than himself, the beauty of her voice as she sang opera? Surely not Will Graham. She was his. 'Mine!', screamed his insides. Tightening his hold on her waist, the psychiatrist had to hold the growl that threatened to break through. The beast, always there, always hidden, was the proof that he wasn't a psychopath. Hannibal had feelings, they just never broke through the wall unless he accepted it. And they were different from the common human.

— "Are you all right, darling?"

Frances was frowning, her eyes searching his, and Hannibal loosened his hold slightly.

— "Yes. I am glad to see the color returned to your cheeks"

— "Hum. OK"

She didn't believe him, but refrained from pushing. When Hannibal didn't want to talk, nothing short of torture could get him out of his shell. And even then… She wasn't quite sure it would work. The man had such a high tolerance for pain… His smooth voice broke her out of her reverie as he gently guided her downstairs.

— "You said you could sing, I should not have been surprised to hear you perform such a piece but I still was."

Frances flushed, trying to hide her face in her hands but he would have none of it, simply keeping her arm trapped around his until he settled her at the dining table. Then he knelt beside her chair, his fingers caressing the back of her hand.

— "Why don't you sing more in the house? It is lovely."

The young woman bit her lip. She sang … a lot. This was the reason why her voice was still clear and her technique proper. Never in his presence though; it was quite impossible to surprise her, and she always knew when the front door opened. Music or not, vacuum cleaner or sewing machine. With his ways, she simply could not afford to be surprised. Anything could happen, from a serial killer entering the house to the FBI storming in. The slightest tremble of the house, the air whooshing in or out always told her whenever Hannibal returned home. Then, each and every time, she would shut up and still, listening intently as he shed his coat in the entrance. This, and she knew Hannibal's penchant for perfection. Despite her talent, Frances had no qualms accepting her shortcomings when it came to singing.

— "Well, I always stop singing when you… you come home"

Hannibal's eyebrows shot up, and Frances couldn't help but marvel at the myriad of emotions that seemed to permeate him now. As if he had managed to cast his heavy walls aside for her sake.

— "Why would you do such a thing?"

— "I am afraid you will judge me lacking," she whispered, ashamed to admit her fears.

Hannibal stood then, the slightest of disappointment passing through his amber eyes. His hand caressed her collarbone for a moment before her bent over and kissed her cheek.

— "I certainly will not. Your voice is beautiful, and classical becomes you."

The psychiatrist was about to leave the room when her voice called to him.

— "Do you sing, darling?"

— "God no! I don't" he answered, a smirk adorning his sensual lips. "But I am the lucky recipient of your voice, and will worship it."

— "Flatterer," she chuckled.

— "Never," he retorted playfully.

Then he scurried away, bringing tea, sausages and many other dishes he had prepared while she slept. La Baccarolle had now surrendered to a less familiar air and Frances watched, fascinated, the ballet of Hannibal Lecter as he presented the brilliant breakfast that was to grace her palate. Always so mouthwatering … it was truly incredible how this man was capable of producing beauty. Even his crimes, as horrifying as they appeared, contained beauty in the most gruesome form.

They shared the meal like many others before, pleasant conversation and praise flowing from Frances' mouth. Gone was the cloud of sadness wrapping her like a shroud; it had been replaced by fierce determination. Her good disposition had returned by the grace of … he didn't know. A realisation, perhaps, that they were both still alive, still breathing and still together. Hannibal refused to delve deeper; her mind, after all, wasn't his to prod. And even if he couldn't help it; instincts and knowledge couldn't be suppressed, the psychiatrist tried very hard not to dismantle her… Most of the time… only when he couldn't use it to his advantage. Habits die hard.

Her good mood, though, allowed them to pass a pleasant moment that he cherished. Partaking in a good meal, with classical music in the background and her lovely features smiling at him, her regard plainly written in her eyes… This was the best of mornings. Was it a coincidence that he got his wife back on the first day of his fiftieth year? Hannibal didn't know. With Frances, he had gotten used to being surprised. She didn't say much, but could store information for days, months and he suspected, years, only to use it at the most convenient of times.

Today was no exception, for even if he was quite sure she had forgotten his birthday altogether – with her nearly dying of pneumonia he couldn't care less – the young woman surprised him once more when she dragged him upstairs after the dishes were cleaned. The bed was neatly made, covers pulled up and smoothed so that the little white packet laying at the centre stood out. Hannibal froze for a moment; he couldn't remember the last time someone had bought a present for him. Wine at dinner parties didn't count. The psychiatrist wasn't one to advertise his private life to anyone. Anyone but her. Still, he didn't even remember telling her the date. How had she known?

— "Happy birthday, darling"

Mouth slightly agape, Hannibal couldn't contain his surprise. Or wouldn't contain it, for he very well could have but found that Frances was happier when he let his emotions run free.

— "How did you know?"

The young woman gave him a fond smile, brushing his fingers with hers.

— "I might have peeked at your ID once."

Hannibal's eyes twinkled in mischief, his features schooled once more while his inner self roared in delight; there was potential for slyness in his wife after all. But then, his attention returned to the present. It was but a small thing, a very flat packet, and his curiosity peaked. What had the woman got him, he that possessed everything he ever needed? Beside her, Frances fidgeted slightly. Nervous. Of course, she would be nervous, just as much as when she sang. His opinion was law in the house, and his good graces rarely bestowed such was the level of his requirement. Hannibal was demanding whether it applied to his work or those of others. He just couldn't help it, nothing short of perfection would do. Just like his father before him.

The psychiatrist wondered, for a scant moment, how he had grown to feel loved in the first place with such a father figure. He, for one, knew that he would wreak havoc in any child's mind. He simply wasn't suitable for the part. Ever. Fortunately, Frances knew it as well. Children were off limits. It was a pity, really, she would be magnificent with a rounded belly, his child implanted in her womb. Worth sketching. But it was not to be. A gentle squeeze upon his fingers set him in motion, and Hannibal sat on the bed, picking up the present in both hands, prodding it. It was small and supple. A scarf, perhaps? Beside him, Frances settled in a siren like pause, her big doe eyes fixed upon him with the slightest of smiles. How long before she actually screamed at him to tear the paper up?

But the young woman waited patiently as he traced the patterns upon the present, lines of folded paper intertwining in an attempt to render it less stern. She had obviously put a lot of effort into this. At last, Hannibal unwrapped it, fishing out a piece of grey cloth – raw silk – that he unfolded gently to discover the back of a waistcoat. The piece was elegant, the stitching different than his regular tailor, meaning it didn't come from him. Had she, by any chance, made it in the sewing workshop he had set for her? Would it fit properly, or would he have to wear it to please her looking daft? Hannibal kept the lines of his face carefully neutral. Clothes; this was a loaded present.

All interrogations fled his mind when he turned the piece around. Struck speechless, Hannibal could only run his finger over the embroidered landscape of Florence, a thousand of silky white threads creating the most stunning of drawings … one of his doing. The embroidery was obviously done by hand; the stitches were too uneven for a machine. Which meant…

— "Do you like it?"

Hannibal was too stunned to answer this statement, his eyebrows completely lost into his hairline.

— "Did you do it yourself?" he eventually asked.

Frances nodded.

— "The embroidery, and the waistcoat. All by my hand, with a little help from your tailor regarding the assembly"

Hannibal's eyes returned to the piece of art he was currently holding, the embodiment of one of his sketches sewn, thread by thread, each one of his lines represented by a stitch. How had she come to this? To recreating a drawing into a garment?

— "It is extraordinary," he said at last. "The idea and the realisation. I am speechless."

— "Hardly. Speechless only applies to very specific circumstances."

And the mischievous smile on her face said it all, the twinkle shining in her lovely chocolate eyes a promise for the future. An ingenious plot to deviate the conversation to a safer subject than the sheer amount of time and love she had put in this present. Frances never knew how to take a compliment. Still, she urged him:

— "Try it on darling, I want to see if I got it right."

So this was what she was unsure about. Great minds think alike… Hannibal shed his red knitted sweater on the chair, passing a shirt upon his toned upper body. He took his time buttoning it, sensing her impatience as she held the waistcoat for him. One single glance at the inside told him it was doubled with a good fabric – not the horrid polyester cigarette paper ready-to-wear shops used to lower the cost – the montage mastered as well. How had Frances become so proficient at making formal attires? One or two more years and she would make his suits…

The waistcoat now rested upon his shoulders; he buttoned it down – save the last one, of course – marvelling at the fabric as it kept its countenance below his nimble fingers. There. It was perfect. Hannibal opened his arms for Frances to see him, all dressed up, eyes twinkling. The garment fit suspiciously well – like one of his favourites red plaid ones – and she confirmed it. The sneaky woman had stolen it to reproduce the pattern, ensuring that it would fit snugly.

She had pulled all of her pieces with great care and thought, and he was truly bewildered by the result. Sizing, assembly, fabrics, embroidery … a project well though and carefully planned from head to toe. Checkmate. A brilliant and unconditional checkmate. He that enjoyed wearing tailor-made garments had just been gifted the most incredible of pieces. For a moment, Hannibal just stood there, taking in the drawing that rested upon his breast, light upon dark grey silk.

— "Do you like what you see?" he asked her as she circled him.

Frances pulled gently at the buckle in the small of his back to adjust the waistcoat, and let her hands wander around his body with a sly smile. Her fingers graced his shoulders with a caress, trailing down his back to slide below the waistcoat. Nothing but thin cotton now separated them, and she wound her other hand on his belly as she dove below his left arm to face him. Regardless of the embroidery, Hannibal always cut out an impressive figure in a suit. With his collar still open, it was an invitation to mischief. Yet, seeing him wear his own design, that impressive sketch of Florence. Well … it was a sight for sore eyes.

— "As a matter of fact, I do."

Hannibal gathered his wife against him, his intense gaze plunging into hers to convey the truth behind his meaning.

— "Thank you, beloved. This is a work of art, and it means a lot to me. It is the most incredible present I have ever been offered"

Frances beamed at him, joy and pride radiating from her lovely features. She was so beautiful! Hannibal sunk lower, bringing her to her toes to meet him halfway and for a while, no more was said about the waistcoat as tongues were otherwise engaged. Then the waistcoat joined his red sweater upon the back of the chair, shirt and pants in tow as Frances dragged him to bed. A quarter of an hour later, she rested her chin upon his heaving chest, her features set in an impish expression as her hair tumbled in disarrayed waves around her face.

— "Now, darling, I think you are speechless."

And true to her word, Hannibal only managed to chuckle as he was panting too heavily to formulate a full sentence.

Aren't they cute together ? Hannibal still has his edge, but he's accepting to be tamed... sometimes. And there's nothing like good sex to unwind a tense man :p