Hello my darlings. I have been busy with other stuff for a while, but Hannibal was tapping at my door to write another chapter so there it is. I hope you'll enjoy it, even if it is fairly domestic. It is especially dedicated to chocolate, and food in general. Cheers.

Stunned, Frances turned to Hannibal with a bewildered expression.

— "You invited Will, here?"

After all, she'd never heard of his beach house; it could have been an efficient hideout in case things went awry.

— "Yes. I thought you would enjoy spending Christmas Eve with your family."

Tears wells in her eyes, and she tightened her hold on Hannibal with a happy sigh.

— "Thank you, my darling. It means a lot to me."

— "Christmas is about spending time with people you love…"

Pulling back, Frances watched her man's guarded eyes. People you love. There was a double meaning here. The psychiatrist lifted a hand, his finger massaging the spot between her eyes.

— "I see from the crease between your eyes that you ponder whether to talk, or not."

The young woman bit her lip; trust Hannibal to catch her hesitation. Still … she didn't know if broaching such subject was wise; breaking the mood would be heresy. But she never lied to Hannibal; it was bad enough she had to lie to everyone else.

— "I don't know if I should tell you"

— "Humour me", was his impassive response.

Frances sighed.

— "Very well. I am surprised because … well … for a while, I thought you were jealous of Will."

It was a stupid notion, and she expected Hannibal to scold her for her childish fantasies. Especially since … well, he didn't love her, did he? But when his eyebrows knitted together instead, she knew her intuition had once more aimed true. Hannibal's lips pursed slightly.

— "How on earth did you pick up on that?", he asked, his eyes serious.

This was the boldest, most surprised exclamation she had ever heard him utter.

— "Your eyes never lie to me, Hannibal. They conceal, sometimes. But they don't lie"

— "You are a good reader", he said.

Then his tongue darted above his lower lip, his gaze turning to Will for an instant before he smiled.

— "There. Laid bare by a woman twenty years my junior. You will never cease to amaze me, my beautiful."

— "Hannibal…"

The psychiatrist cocked his head aside, as was his wont when he was observing… assessing. Calculating. Frances watched, fascinated, his detachment to such a sore subject. Plunging her deep gaze into his, she grabbed both of his hands.

— "I love you. No one else. I loved you, lost you, and found you again. I am not interested in Will, not interested in the 3.5 billion men in the world. You are my one. Period"

The tall man caressed her knuckles gently, giving her a fond smile that melted her insides.

— "I am glad, dearest. Dismiss my concerns, they are those of an old man. And now, let us great our guest."

It took all her willpower to let this go; she knew the problem wasn't only about his age and fitness, but rather about his cannibalistic tendencies. But there wasn't much she could do about it. If, someday, she walked away from him, they both knew the reason. Hence the needed change of subject.

— "I understand the fish and Chablis now"

— "Yes. You are both pescatarian."

Frances took a deep breath, trying to chase the fears away. He was so thoughtful that she sometimes forgot, for a split of a second, that he also was a killer. To her, though, he played the part of a devoted husband and she loved him all the more. Her hand caressed his cheekbone, the memory of tattooed arrows lingering before she whispered.

— "Hannibal … thank you, for everything."

— "Nothing is too good for you, my beautiful. But I still have a few surprises up my sleeve, don't rest on your laurels."

The young woman raised her eyebrows playfully. For now, though, she needed to welcome Will into the house.

Dinner was a great moment when Hannibal could once more display his level of skill in the kitchen without any issues regarding meat provenance. Frances let herself be lulled by the flames of the fireplace, the lights from the Christmas tree and the voices of her two favourite people in the world: her husband and her brother in arms. The Chablis had been delicious, of course, and matched the fish dish so perfectly.

But despite the relaxed atmosphere, there was always a part of her watching her words. This was her life now, protecting the interests of a killer. Lying to everyone but him. Fortunately, Will didn't bring the Chesapeake ripper on the table tonight. And as they huddled on the sofa, Frances folding her legs inside the skirt, the empath even dared speaking of his fondness for Alana. Realising how deep Will's feelings were, and judging the lack of reaction from Hannibal – he already knew – Frances nearly bolted out of her seat.

— "Wow, why didn't I know that before?"

Will send her a sheepish smile. Funny, how after a few drinks he was able to relax enough to sustain her gaze.

— "I didn't want to burden you with sappy stuff."

— "Damnit Will, we're friends!" she exclaimed while swatting his arm.

Hannibal smirked then, sending a sly look to his future wife.

— "Now, now, dear, there is no need for violence."

Coming from him, this was a rather loaded statement. But rather than taking the bait, Frances expressed her indignation.

— "You bet there is!"

She took a mock deep breath, and shook Will's sleeve vehemently.

— "You listen to my ramblings, I listen to yours, right?"

— "Being the Keeper of Time is hardly ramblings, Frances."

— "I'm not … not anymore. Anyway. Your feelings about a woman, especially that woman, are important. Please speak to me Will, only for the sake of making me think about merry things."

The empath nodded, and Hannibal's eyes twinkled. She had him there, with only a slight manipulation to appeal to his heart. Smart woman.

— "Anyway, talking about Keeper of Time's business… I think it's time for presents."

— "Is it, my beautiful?"

The psychiatrist stood from his armchair, a shadow looming in the living room where lights had been dimmed at the minimum to preserve the spirit. He offered a hand to Frances, then gestured to Will to join them. The three of them walked to the Christmas tree, and the young woman suddenly felt self-conscious. After her genius idea of present for Hannibal's birthday, she had fallen out of inspiration this time. Most of her time had been dedicated to Will's, leaving her with only a small token of affection for Hannibal – an embroidered handkerchief. Well. Better next time.

Before presents were handed, Hannibal tugged on her hand.

— "Will you sing, my beautiful? One of those songs you graced us with in the fifth century?"

Frances froze. The three of them stood there, side by side, like a family in front of the Christmas tree. A notion that, fifteen hundred years ago, had not even existed.

And if the wind howled tonight, they were lucky, this time, not to be at the mercy of the icy weather. Still … it reminded her of this Ave Maria she had sung in a snow-covered forest. No, too difficult. She had not practised for a while, and wasn't in the mood. But another song might fit the mould. Nodding, the closed her eyes, and started singing, trying to channel Looreena Mc kennitt the best she could.

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

for Jesus Christ our Saviour

Was born on Christmas Day

Neat, her voice was clear enough to reach those notes without issues. The rest would go easily then.

"To save us all from Satan's power

When we were gone astray

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy

O tidings of comfort and joy"

Both men were silent, Hannibal's eyes closed as she sang, drinking in the clarity of her voice – hell, she was a soprano after all. So she went on.

"From God our Heavenly Father

A blessed Angel came;

And unto certain Shepherds

Brought tidings of the same:

How that in Bethlehem was born

The Son of God by Name."

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy

O tidings of comfort and joy."

Hannibal squeezed her hand then kissed her cheek.

— "Thank you, my beautiful. I can never have enough of your voice."

Frances blushed, her eyes dipping to contemplate her shoes when Will interrupted her musings.

— "I remember it. We were riding, all together."

It was amazing how Will recovered memories so easily. Probably the gift of empathy that allowed him to pick up on the souvenirs of his soul. Frances nodded.

— "Yes. It was one of the first days, before that blasted Bishop came about and … ugh! Horrid man. Anyway. Can we maul the tree now, husband?"

Hannibal's eyes twinkled in mirth, amused by her wording. By her liveliness who brought so much into his lonely life.

— "Do what you will, children," he teased.

— "Hush, you. It's not because you are all level-headed that you have to spoil our fun."

And Will marvelled that such a young woman could speak thus to the eminent psychiatrist, and never get scolded for it. His expression seemed rather amused as he knelt by the tree, and pushed a little box in her hands. By her side, Will had found the book they had pulled together, Frances' writing and Hannibal's drawings, all printed and bound with a leather cover. A quick peek told her the empath was already engrossed in the reading, heading to another era.

So Frances returned to box, her gaze curious. Of course, Hannibal didn't let anything show and she tore the paper away, revealing a sober jewellery box. Opening the lid, she found a set of twin rings of great quality in both white and pinkish gold. The smallest one held three little diamonds, while the biggest one was polished. Frances' eyebrows creased in confusion, and Hannibal chuckled.

— "See what it reads."

She picked the smallest one up – the one she assumed was for her – and turned it around. The lighting wasn't adequate, though, and she stood to bring it under the kitchen light a few meters away. Hannibal was by her side instantly, his tall frame hoovering over her shoulder. Inside the ring were carved those words in neat letters:

Frances & Hannibal, 476 AD

Her breath itched, and suddenly, she was nose to nose with the man she had claimed as her own. His low, seductive voice caressed her ear and she closed her eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

— "We've considered ourselves husband and wife for a while now. I think it is time we carve it in stone."

Frances bit her lip, giving up the pretence as a droplet fell from her eyelashes. Hannibal caressed her cheek, wiping the moist away with his thumb.

— "Yes," she whispered.

He kissed her plump lips gently.

— "I have an appointment at the courthouse on the 24th of January. Does that suit you?"

— "Yes"

And, discarding the rings on the kitchen table, she buried her face into his neck, her arms tightening around his chest. Tears flowed freely, sadness and joy to, at last, cheat death and finally be married. After a while, Hannibal pulled away slightly, lifting her chin to give her a chaste kiss.

— "I was hoping to see you smile, my beautiful."

— "I am, I will… I mean. It is overwhelming to be able to marry you. But I am happy. Thank you, Hannibal"

His hands cupped both her cheeks, trapping her in his intense gaze. Frances' stomach churned as she watched him, mesmerised by the intensity she read in his eyes. For once, the barriers had fallen, and she contemplated the relief of being accepted in their depth. The relief of being loved, even if he considered himself just as bad as Tristan used to. A monster to some.

— "It is I, who thank you, for not giving up on me"

Staring in those orbs, she saw both men at the same time. The cold Hannibal today, the wild Tristan of the past with his mane of dark hair and braids.

— "Always, Hannibal."

Nodding, he brought her to his lips once more, and for a moment there was only the warmth of his body, the softness of his tongue and the strength of his arms around her. Before she could loose herself in the kiss and start shedding control, Frances bounced back to the living room. Will barely lifted his head from the book when she announced the good news.

— "24th of January, at the courthouse. You'll be here ?"

— "Uh? Oh, right, good. Yes, sure."

And if Frances might have been crossed with anyone else for such a lack of reaction, she understood for Will was sitting, speechless, on front of the picture Hannibal had drawn of him. Frances sat beside him on the floor.

— "Amazing, uh?"

The young man caressed the paper in disbelief.

— "Yeah. It is incredible. Did I really look like this?"

— "Yeah. To the last hair on your beard. He's so talented. Too bad I can't have a drawing of himself."

Speaking of the devil. Hannibal appeared with a tray of camomile for the night, and Frances send him a fond look.

— "Can't you do an autoportrait?" Will asked.

Hannibal pursed his lips, resuming his seat in the armchair with Frances' wrapped present in his lap.

— "I didn't get to see my face much at the time. Mirrors were scarce, as you probably know."

— "And he's afraid to draw himself with a wild mane, braids and a beard," Frances quipped.

The psychiatrist mock glared at her.

— "Wife…"

— "I'm not sorry for the beard, it tickles less", she started playfully.

But Will ignored the banter entirely; he was too engrossed in his idea to notice.

— "No, I mean. You said he looked very much alike, with more or less fifteen years difference."

— "I assure you, the age is subjective," Frances said. Then turning to Hannibal "You don't look a year older."

— "Then you could draw yourself, right? And add the rest, clothing and beard by Frances' instructions."

William's eyes were full of hope, and Frances' wondered at the motivations behind this request. Why was it so important for him to get a picture of the last knight? Unfortunately, Hannibal didn't seem disposed to grant his wish.

— "I fear I cannot render the likeness of my past self."

— "But …?"

Frances landed a hand on Will's arm; something was bothering Hannibal, but he was too polite to say so. She wondered, sometimes, if he was still struggling with acceptance. Since most of his memories were suppressed, perhaps he had trouble reconciling with this piece of him. The wildness of Tristan, without any boundaries, might send his mind reel. After all, the knight of old had had licence to kill on behalf of Arthur; there were no laws to prevent him for spending his bloodlust on poor Picts or bandits. There, today, Hannibal was bound by law and morality… and her wishes. So she ought to give him a little support.

— "It will never be the same, Will. There are too many details, I don't think I could spot half of what he called forth to draw you."

The empath sighed, getting back to his reading.

— "Yeah, maybe you're right. Anyway. Thank you both, this is amazing. I'll have to find a place where Alana doesn't find it, she's already quite antsy as it is."

Frances frowned then, exchanging a wary look to the psychiatrist.

— "About what?"

— "About us three. She knows I'm hiding something, especially after that little stunt you pulled in Jack's office, Hannibal."

The two men shared a loaded look, the reminiscence of a confrontation where the psychiatrist had shown teeth, and Will backed him up. Frances' eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she almost missed Will's next words directed to her.

— "And I've been stupid, I've put your name under 'Timy'. Of course she had to ask about the nickname."

Frances sniggered then.

— "Timy, that's a good one."

— "I see nothing gets past Alana," Hannibal's smooth voice sounded.

Frances nearly scoffed; nothing except that her mentor was a serial killer who cannibalised his victims…

— "I wish you had not been such a good teacher," Will mumbled.

— "If you wish to get involved with Alana, you will have to get used to her insightfulness."

Hannibal's neutral warning sent Will into a sea of musings. Was he ready for a relationship, really? Frances watched the interaction with interest; she had no doubt she was taking a peek at the dynamic of their private sessions. Hannibal caught her gaze then, and she decided to reach for him. The tall man grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap. Thus was restored the balance in the room as Will returned to the book.

It was a quiet morning. Snow had stopped overnight, but the thick coat still caught the sun like a thousand little mirrors. With the sea crashing underneath, Frances had found her paradise. She found Hannibal in the kitchen, of course. Adorned with the traditional apron over a very plain shirt – wow! –he was preparing a breakfast fit for a king. The eggs were untouched; she suspected him to wait for her to perform his egg trick. She loved that one.

Without lifting his head from the stirring, he greeted her.

— "Good morning, my beautiful"

Of course, he'd sensed her presence. Ever the predator; couldn't let her surprise him. She doubted she would be able to, ever. Frances trod to her man, her hand landing at his nape as she kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered for a moment, then slid to his jaw for another sensual kiss. His hands stilled, waiting, until Frances squeezed his forearm and went to prepare their morning tea. Then he resumed his cooking.

They both worked in companionable silence for a while, he perfecting the batter for pancakes and she rinsing and brewing the tea. A Christmas special edition, her favourite. Then, once tea was ready, Frances watched as Hannibal flipped the pancakes around. Each time he marked a pause before the sizzling saucepan, she extended the cup for him to take a sip of the fresh brew. His sensual lips moulded around the steaming cup, and she marvelled that he accepted it.

Hannibal's conventions had conventions. Rules, etiquette, manners. Everything in his life had always stuck to the teachings of his late parents; he was born a noble after all. But here, with Frances, he accepted the breach of etiquette for the symbol it represented. Everything that was hers, was his, and vice versa. By sharing their cup of tea, she conveyed her love and willingness to mingle with him. Much more than offering her body in a fit of passion. It was a token of their shared life, their shared interests.

When Will's foot hit the first step of the stairs, both of them tensed. Waiting. The soft tap tap, confirming their friend's descent, forced them to relax. Neither wanted him to realise how aware Hannibal was.

Will popped up in the kitchen, finding a domestic scene with a very relaxed atmosphere. He would never doubt the predator that cooked behind the counter. His eyes were slightly red, and he looked a little worse for wear as Hannibal greeted him.

— "Good morning Will. Did you sleep well?"

— "Ah, yes. Just… not enough"

— "Nightmares ?"

Frances noted as Hannibal was careful not to say 'again' in front of her – preserving patient's privacy. But she knew better. This time, though, it wasn't the dreams that had kept Will awake.

— "No. I just couldn't stop reading our story. You've done an amazing job recounting it, Frances"

The young woman smiled shyly.

— "Thanks"

— "The details are so incredible, and I could almost feel the snow on my face. I just remember so much stuff now"

The empath settled beside Frances on a bar stool, munching on a chocolate bar. Seeing her curious look, he offered a piece of the treat.

— "Hershey?"

Hannibal smirked; he knew what was coming. Even from here, he could smell the horrible stench of butyric acid that characterised this recipe. He'd been told it was an acquired taste, but being European, he just couldn't stand it. So he counted to three in his head … but Frances burst before that.

— "Eeeeeew ! Why does it smell like vomit? Eeeww, how can you eat that?"

Eyes twinkling, Hannibal turned around, watching as Frances' nose scrunched in disgust and she batted the offending piece of chocolate away. Will popped the piece into his mouth, giving a smug smile at her disgruntled face.

— "You are both insufferable, but I understand why you are together."

Hannibal butted in then, skirting around the counter to slide a hand around Frances' waist, looking at his future wife.

— "Yes, keen sense of smell, shared memory, and good taste."

— "What else?" Frances added.

— "Certainly not coffee," Will grumbled.

Hannibal squeezed Frances' waist once more, then turned to their friend.

— "Let me fix that for you," he offered.

But Frances beat him to it.

— "No, I'll do it. Sorry Will, this stuff just … yuck."

The young woman shuddered then, eyeing the eggs that still stood over the counter. A sly smile quirked her lips up.

— "Are you ready for the omelette, darling?"

— "Yes. Let us have breakfast"

And while she prepared coffee for Will, Frances watched, mesmerised, as Hannibal threw the egg in the air. It landed on the spatula, breaking neatly, its content landing in the bowl. Will's eyebrows rose at the display, and he squinted, waiting to see if the second egg would behave just as nicely. Of course, it did. And the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th just as well.

— "I never get tired of that egg trick," Frances beamed.