So, I might be flirting with the T rating here but hey, nothing is explicitly described so…

To Koba, thank you again for a wonderful review. I'm keeping you on edge with that one, and since it was my aim, I'm happy to have you point it out. Yes, they are cute, yet still circling each other like predators. Second guessing all the time. A complicated relationship given that Hannibal is a man whose mind is not set with the same values as normal people. I have derived his affection for Will to another, because he seeks acceptance from Will, he wanted to make him embrace his darkness. By meeting a woman who loves him despite knowing his secret, it tips the balance to something much less destructive than the TV show. BUT, Hannibal is still Hannibal. Unpredictable Hannibal… Anyway. I think you will be surprised by the ending of this story. You'll let me know, I'm sure, so I'm looking forward to it!

Hannibal set his fountain pen down with a sigh. The familiar tightness behind his eyelids announced the arrival of a headache that he refused to invite any further. For the moment, there was no way to predict how this game would evolve. Will Graham was nowhere close to piecing together his involvement in the demise of Garett Jacob Hobbs… Hannibal, though, suspected Abigail to know that he was the caller that sent her father into a murdering fenzy. And the recent discovery of Nicholas Boyle's corpse, courtesy of the same infuriating teenager, had cornered him into revealing to Will the unthinkable; Abigail had killed Nicholas Boyle, Hannibal helping her hide the body. For the moment, Will believed his intentions to protect the young woman… But the more he worked with the FBI, the better Will glimpsed into his secrets. Abigail would need to go lest she blurted out something that sent him on the right track. Witness protection program maybe?

One false move and it would be the end. Any action, any new murder could tip the balance. Hannibal felt it as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, and for once, he wasn't in control of the pieces on the chessboard. Too many alternatives. As for Freddie Lounds, her mad fixation about Wil being a psychopath was strangely soothing … although absolutely off mark. By digging in the wrong direction, the journalist tilted the balance in his favour … and it also meant she had felt the same potential in Will that he had. With the right pushes, he could have been sent him over the edge and made a brilliant murderer out of Will Graham.

But Frances had seen to it that he was treated for encephalitis, his sanity protected, his purity preserved. Her arrival brought solace and difficulties at the same time, and for once, Hannibal resented her for kicking her sandcastle. She, like an overbearing mother, has killed all the fun. Without her, this whole ordeal would be in his control, and Will going along the path of madness.

But he couldn't, not any more. He had promised, first, to stop playing with people's mind. And most of all, despite his resentment, Frances was his responsibility now. He didn't want her to face the American media for being the wife of the Chesapeake Ripper nor the FBI for being an accomplice. Her inability to lie would bring her straight to jail. This was not to be borne; no prison cell would ever see a hair of his wife. No. She took a risk by sticking by his side; Hannibal needed to protect her. And she wouldn't survive loosing him again.

The concerns of a very standard family man, after all. Or nearly normal, for the considerations of others were probably more down to earth than hiding your own murders.

Had Hannibal not controlled his body from the tips of his toes to the last strange of hair, he might have huffed in frustration. For Frances danced in his mind, worry for her well-being, for the responsibility of keeping her safe gnawing at him while he played the complicated chess game of murder-and-seek. Is that how the rest of the world felt? This unwelcome angst and constant worry about another? Children, wife or husband? It was not to be borne!

Hannibal's deep eyes, turned amber by the fire, returned to the letter he was writing. A simple referral for a patient whose psyche was too fragile to handle his imposing presence. How ironic, to be able to discern the slightest of emotion on others, to know exactly what they needed to steer them in the right direction, and be unable to feel them himself. The ultimate humour for the all mighty God above.

The psychiatrist signed the letter, his hand practised as his fountain pen drew the words like a work of art. Broad strokes and fine strokes, just like his father taught him while he fondled with his quill as a child. Despite technology, Hannibal never lost the fondness for writing by hand. Like his wife who enjoyed stitching with a needle in hand, he found the moves soothing. The application of ink to a blank page creating a pattern of words, words becoming a sentence, sentences creating an image in the reader's mind. This was true power.

His mind returned to Freddie Lounds … how could the stupid journalist be manipulated to his advantage? Should he allow her to write Abigail's book? Certainly not. The horribly rude woman must remain away from Abigail's fragile mind.

knock knock

Hannibal didn't start at the noise; he recognised this quiet way of making the visitor's presence known. Low enough for him to ignore it if he was busy.

— "Come in, wife"

The tone was stern, tired and Hannibal righted himself. Ever since he tried to open the door to his emotions – scarce as they were – his anger ran a little more freely. Did she truly deserve it? Her demands deprived him of his favourite sport, but he was free to reject it. The responsibility fell upon his shoulders and he reined his expression immediately, dark eyes focusing on the scarcely lighted room.

The door opened gently, Frances' lovely face peeking in. Her eyes took in his state at once. Choosing to ignore the simmering anger hidden behind his stone expression, she coaxed instead. In French, as usual.

— "It is late, darling. Won't you come home?"

Home. Their home. Who would have guessed, nary half a year ago, that his house would have become home to another? A quick glance at the clock told him that, for once, he had lost track of time as he worked. Seeing the hesitation on his face, Frances offered an alternative.

— "Would you like more time to finish whatever you were doing?"

— "No. I'm too tired to think straight, I will clean up now."

Frances doubted it; whatever the situation, Hannibal always remained consistent. His brain simply ran too fast, too far ahead no matter the urgency. A pure mind unfazed by emotions.

— "All right"

She seemed unsure, standing beside the patient's chair now. Her high heels were slightly muddy and despite the dim light, the flush of her cheeks was unmistakable. Hannibal paused, taking a moment to contemplate the additional colour that complimented her pale skin.

— "Did you walk again?"

— "Yes"

Hannibal broke eye contact to close his notebook and set his fountain pen in the drawer.

— "Why?" came his curious voice.

— "I enjoy it."

For a moment, everything was silent as they gazed upon each other. The crackling of the fire basked the room in a fleeting light, his desk lamp the only other source. Frances walked up to him and, taking his hand in hers, tugged to dislodge him for the armchair.

— "Come, Hannibal. Let's have a drink"

The idea held some appeal, and the psychiatrist allowed his wife to lead him to the divan where he reclined. His eyes followed her graceful gait as she disappeared under the arches, long calves emphasised by the ice skating and the elegant heels she was wearing. For a while, Hannibal just watched the fire burn, wondering if his life was going to take the same route. Until Frances walked into his life, it didn't matter much if he had to dodge the FBI and disappear from the United States. There were plenty of escape plans ready to be set in motions. But now … he had a wife to cherish and care for. Losing everything again, losing Will's friendship could only bring her more grief.

The woman in question appeared silently by his side, handing him a glass of whiskey. The psychiatrist raised his eyebrows at her choice of liquor; a strong, stiff drink that she didn't enjoy herself.

— "You look like you need it," she said, settling beside him on the divan.

Hannibal raised his rounded glass to her, inwardly giddy when he saw how her eyes devoured him from head to toe. Reclining a little more, the psychiatrist uncoiled his lean body upon the plush surface.

— "To your perceptiveness, my wife"

The first mouthful burned his throat, taking his thoughts away from the mess he had created in the first place. Her eyes never left him, lingering on his lips as they moulded around the glass.

— "I'd be a poor wife if I couldn't decipher your state of mind."

Hannibal paused for dramatic effect, his hand going over his bent knee, eyes twinkling.

— "Many of my acquaintances have poor wives."

Her mouth opened and closed then, the comment discarded as she watched him raise the glass again. Perhaps she had decided that pointing how different he was from his acquaintances was useless; no one better than him could measure the abyss that separated him from other people. Even Frances, despite her great empathy and attempts to understand him at every turn, didn't get more than half of what went through his mind. A peculiar, very abnormal human on this planet. One that had walked its paths fifteen hundred years ago in another skin.

— "To your health, my husband"

Then Frances scooted closer, sitting on the edge of the sofa as her hands landed upon his face. The contact sent tingles under his skin, warmth diffusing under her palms. Hannibal closed his eyes then, giving her full control. Frances started a soothing massage – probably a Japanese technique of shiatsu – to relieve his tense muscles. Her warm fingers worked gently, caressing his skin with tenderness and love. From head to temple, temple to cheekbones, Frances pressed and caressed. Then she descended around the muscles of his mouth and he authorised his jaw to slacken under her touch, lips following the movement of her deft fingers. A soft kiss greeted them, light as a feather before she started working upon his chin and neck.

Hannibal allowed the massage to lull his mind to a blissful state until she started tugging at his tie. A small smirk quirked his lips up as he heard her frustration; a full Windsor knot was much more difficult to unbuckle than the standard four in hand. If he didn't help, he might very well end up hanged.

— "Let me," he purred, hands overlapping hers.

As his nimble fingers loosened the knot, he felt Frances' lips linger upon his cheekbone. Good; she wasn't upset over the failure. Her plump lips left the softest of caresses before she dipped to his jaw, flicking her lovely tongue across his sharp chin. Hannibal reclined into the divan, his body relaxing under her ministrations.

His collar was exposed now, tie discarded, and slowly, her mouth nuzzled his throat, then lingered in the hollow just above his chest. As she tasted him there, waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned slowly. Her hands slid below the fabric, soft and warm against his skin; her mouth followed the trail downwards. For the smallest of moments, Hannibal wondered how his perfectly ironed shirt would handle her attentions before discarding the idea altogether. She was now playing with his belly button, her little nose tickling the sensitive skin before diving further down. Needless to say, that he loved where this was going. Neither of them was believers than sex solved anything, but it could occasionally relieve some tension.

Frances played with the belt of his pants, fingers caressing his flesh below the fabric before she came back up to give him a searing kiss. Her lips were so soft, so inviting that he wound his free arm around her shoulders to taste her a little longer. By then, she was entirely sprawled against him, quite aware of his awakened desire. Frances gave him a sweet smile and pulled back to contemplate his relaxed features. The fire painted him in shadows and light, like a painting of old and she couldn't help but find him magnificent.

— "Drink," she said.

And he obeyed, gulping another mouthful of whiskey before she pried the glass from his hands and set it down. It felt nice to let her take charge, for once. Usually, his little kitten only responded to his whims, be they tender or domineering. Yet, the Keeper of Time always knew when to lead, and today was the day. Today, Hannibal experienced the comfort of shedding the mantle. She kissed his lips once more, pressing her body against his in such a sensual manner that his hips titled upwards to meet her. Control … surrendered. Damn body who betrayed him! A mischievous twinkle brightened her warm chocolate eyes before her tongue traced a trail down his chest. Further down … way down.

She pushed him into the comfort of the psychanalyst divan, and when her lips engulfed this very sensitive part of his anatomy, Hannibal knew he would never see this sofa the same way again. She worked his body like an artist would play the violin, her hands caressing his exposed skin, her mouth gentle and loving, coaxing him into surrendering control. And surrender he did, his head falling backwards as he accepted her power over him. His long fingers laced into her fiery mane, relishing in the softness of her curls as she gave him all her attention. In this moment, she didn't feel so young anymore.

There was nothing remotely vulgar in this embrace, the gift she was bestowing upon him so sensual, so intimate that he nearly forgot in own name. Moans and grunts escaped his lips as she pleasured him, his mind absolutely unable to form coherent thoughts. How good it felt, for once, to allow his brain to blank while his body was worshipped. He cried out in release, but she didn't let go until every single muscle has relaxed entirely. Keeping him enclosed, accepted, not discarded away. This wasn't mating, this was love. Then she buttoned his pants anew, and came to rest upon his chest, listening to the staccato of his heartbeat with satisfaction. The crackling of the fire was the only noise beside the heaviness of his breath, and Hannibal stroked her hair while she shared her warmth.

— "Thank you," he eventually whispered.

The young woman lifted her head to give him an almost smug look. Her hair sat in disarray, victim of his hand's wandering in a moment when control had slipped off; it gave her an untamable appearance. Something closer to the truth than her regular curls or her classy clothing. But he, only, knew to what length Frances could go for him. For she was a shy woman in the bedroom. Still, she endeavoured to give him as much pleasure as he gave her. And today, she knew she had been efficient. Oh, she was proud of herself, his little kitten, leaving him panting on the sofa like a marathonian. God knew she was the only one who would ever see him so vulnerable. Frances pecked his lips, then lifted an eyebrow playfully as she rearranged his shirt.

— "See, apart from the occasional wrinkle, your suit had not suffered from my ministrations."

— "My shirt couldn't be further from my mind at the moment."

— "I don't think I believe you, Dr Lecter. The thought must have crossed your mind."

A full bloom smile decided to settle on his features despite his effort to quell it. How well she knew him, his little lady.

— "All right" he relented. "It has."

Her lips teased the corner of his mouth, letting him know that his weird way of thinking didn't bother her in the least.

— "Hannibal?" she breathed.

— "Yes, princess"

The title seemed fitting. Neither derisive, nor mocking, but truthful. There was so much nobility in that woman, so much acceptance given away that she should have been royalty. For the moment though, she could be his princess, and it was more than enough.

— "Every time you feel like killing someone, claim me."

Her words would have appalled a lesser man, but Hannibal was analytic first and foremost. A different mind for a different man. Hence the absence of venom in his voice, the emotion replaced by genuine curiosity.

— "Are you selling your body to me?"

Frances snorted, shifting slightly to reposition her body alongside his.

— "Hardly. There is nothing I enjoy more than being your sheath."

Hannibal was no stranger to this Japanese image where a warrior's wife was considered his sheath. The safe place where the sword could be put at rest. Once more, Frances aimed true by calling forth such a notion, calling to a culture they both admired. His knuckles gently grazed her cheek, his eyes firmly set upon her face. Wondering how in the world he deserved such understanding. Realising that despite all the worries it brought him, being loved unconditionally was worth it, especially when that woman was a legendary warrior. She had such a capacity to love; her heart knew no boundaries. Hannibal nodded then.

— "The Japanese way, yes. The sword…"

— "… is more than adequate"

Hannibal chuckled this time, tugging at a strand of wild hair. Yes, he knew exactly how she loved every part of his anatomy. They were just perfect for each other in every sense.

— "I was going to say eager to return to its resting place."

Frances nodded, looking him in the eye once more. Gone was the playfulness, giving way to a more serious expression.

— "If I put conditions on your hobbies, I need to provide the means, right ?"

— "I'll keep that in mind."

And Frances kissed him once more before settling upon his chest again, a happy sigh passing her lips as she curled in his warmth. Hannibal tightened his hold upon his kitten, half expecting her to mewl and purr in delight as she drifted to sleep in his arms. Reaching for her head, he tucked her below his chin in a tender gesture. Life was certainly sweeter now.

As usual, if you enjoyed reading this, please leave a little review ! Comments feed my muse. Let me know your likes and dislikes.