Hey, I've twisted the scenario a little, mixing scenes from season 2 and 3 to keep the fantastic swimming pool scene but arrange it regarding all the stuff that didn't happen because of Frances' arrival. Also… it is horrible but the Red Dragon is called Francis Dolarhyde. See my point ? Francis and Frances, ugh. I've tried to make it clear but you'll have to read carefully to avoid confusion between the big bag ugly and my OC.

I've been asked for more... there is it. Anyway, I hope you're ready for a little action. This is going to rock.

France was driving. Faster than usual which was a feat according to Will. Despite her decent level of skill, he always grabbed the top handle whenever she was on the wheel, something about her energetic driving. Unfortunately, she had not seen him for a while. 'Busy', 'in class', 'on a case', or 'exhausted' were the many pretexts he had found to skip their weekly lunch for a month now.

But she knew better. Now.

Will had been working on the case they called 'the tooth fairy' at first, and had become 'the red dragon' now. A psychopath who killed families. A psychopath who, incidentally, had called Freddie Lounds' attention… A man who had been Hannibal's patient years ago… And none of those two idiots had judged that she should know about it.

Hannibal's doing, no doubt, especially since Will avoided her. Frances took a harsh turn, cutting the line of upcoming cars who protested loudly. Teeth grinding against each other, she was trying hard not to panic. Her anger at being kept in the dark flooded her body with adrenalin; if Hannibal was still in one piece, she would kick his ass from Monday to Sunday ! For the moment, thought, she could only speed up on the motorway, intent on closing the distance from ice rink to swimming pool in less than twenty minutes.

Her mind revisited that dreadful moment, half an hour earlier, when one of her colleagues had approached her with a disapproving frown.

— "Look", she tutted. "After attacking you, she's now rambling about your husband. She's a despicable woman, that Miss Lounds"

Frances' blood run cold, reading about Hannibal's involvement in treating Francis Dolarhyde, and failing. Freddie had accused him of bringing forth the killer's instinct in the Red Dragon, and to now work with the FBI to catch him to atone for his mistake.

— "Don't take things to heart, dear."

Frances searched for the date. Posted today. Her face paled. Contrary to her colleagues who had gone back to arabesques, she knew of Hannibal's nature. Freddie was probably right, and might have launched the Red Dragon upon her husband with her article. Anger rose like a tide. Anger against Freddie for exposing Hannibal, against her husband for keeping the secret, and against Will for avoiding her. All of them would pay !

Frances breathed in slowly, thanking the colleague who had, unwillingly, triggered the chain reaction in her mind. The urge to pack her things and run back to Hannibal was strong. What would he say if she burst into the swimming pool now, breaking the routine ? Simple and efficient, she usually dropped him off and picked him upon her way back from skating class. It left him an hour and a half to soak into the water and perform his laps while she danced her worries away on the ice. It felt good, to glide upon the rink before the closing of the season.

As she drove, she knew what Hannibal would probably say about her panic. 'There is nothing to fear from Francis Dolarhyde. I made him who he is today.' But despite the lingering bitterness of such a fact, Frances wasn't convinced. She parked not ten feet from the swimming pool entrance; the sun had set already, and the neighbourhood was quiet.

A quick call to Hannibal, unanswered, rose the alarm tenfold. If he was still swimming, he wouldn't answer her call anyway. And at this hour, she knew it would be deserted; Hannibal enjoyed doing his laps in peace. Sliding from the driver's seat, she hurried to the building entrance. Her inner sense of danger spiked when she found the sign 'closed' on the door. It was, fortunately, easily opened for only the bottom lock was engaged. A little leverage was all it took for Frances to prowl into the dimly lit building.

At the front desk, the receptionist seemed asleep, her head resting upon her arms. A dire mistake… for her blood pooled from her skull to the floor in a large puddle. Dead. Frances tensed and picked up her phone. Damn her for not getting this gun permit already ! Never the tune had seemed so long as she waited. Then, at last, Will picked up the line.

— "Will", she whispered. "Take Jack and come quick to the swimming pool on Glen Ave. Yes, 131. The receptionist is dead and Hannibal doesn't pick up"

The empath sprung into action on the other side of the line, and she cut the communication before he could lecture her about staying where she was. Abandoning her handbag in the entrance, the young woman trod gently through the corridors, passing the ladies locker room like a shadow. Nothing. Not a noise, neither the barest shuffle of clothes. Deserted. Slowly, the young woman progressed in silence, keeping all senses alert and following a pattern she had been taught in Interpol… Before she got dumped in another dimension, that is. She kept to walls and openings, passing the door that led to the ladies' showers like a ninja. Her fingers grasped the panel gently, pulling the door close behind her without a noise. Then she heard a voice, declaiming its piece like an actor at theatre. A low, rumble, laden with menace. A grating sound, smugness and anger laced within.

Great, a big bad.

Frances took a few more steps, balancing herself on the inch wide tile that bordered the wading pool where people were supposed to rince their feet before getting to the pool area. She didn't want her feet to get wet, nor risking making splashing noises. Slowly, carefully, she bypassed it while clinging to the wall. The voice went on, speaking only once in a while to another who couldn't, or didn't respond expect for a few grunts here and there.

Her body turned to ice; she smelt it before she even saw it. Blood, fresh blood and its distinctive iron and copper fragrance. Frances carefully peeked over the corner to distinguish the scene. Her heart stopped as she swallowed an anguished cry, yet she couldn't prevent a whimper to pass her lips and tears to run down her face. Pure, cold dread paralysed her, taking hold of her body and preventing her from breathing. A panic attack ! Clenching her hands to her chest to ease the pain, Frances grit her teeth tightly. It couldn't be ! Her hands trembled as she wiped her brow from the sweat that gathered at her hairline. She couldn't loose him now… blood, there was so much blood already.

Hannibal was strapped to a rod, as if crucified, his toned body exposed as he stood in his swimsuit. A rope tightened around his neck, his arms stuck to the wooden pole with heavy tape, he stood in equilibrium over a bucket that threatened to topple over. But despite the urgency of this situation – his feet struggled to keep him upright - it was nothing compared to the crimson river that flooded the tiles. For his forearms were slit from wrist to mid length; a deep cut that allowed his blood to flow freely out of his body, painting the stairs upon which he had been erected like a painting. Probably an ironic tribute to the Chesapeake Ripper. A gruesome sight that send her in fits of apoplexy.

Frances bit her cheek to refrain from dashing out like a madwoman. She needed to calm down and think. If that man, the Red Dragon as he called himself, had been able to overpower Hannibal, she would need all her wits to beat him. Pulling back, she rested her back upon the wall. She took one slow, deep breath, then another. Little by little, her brain started working anew, overpowering the crippling fear. Then determination set in. Hannibal would live to see another day even if she died to ensure it.

Despite the pain pulsating in his wrists and the chaffing of the cord, Hannibal had not given up yet. Life, as it was, was still of interest, partially because of the young woman who had insufflated a new meaning to his days.

Still, the situation was dire. Needless to say that pain and blood loss were taking their toll. Soon, very soon, he would pass out and die without a ripple. The great Chesapeake Ripper vanquished by a man with a tranquiliser gun. An insane criminal Dr Lecter had forged himself; some would claim Karma was a bitch, other that he had it coming. And for once, Hannibal almost regretted pushing the boy over the edge. What he had become, an insanely strong and deranged man, would deprive his beloved wife from the husband she so cherished. For once, yes, for once, Hannibal felt guilty of leaving her behind. He accepted it now. When Frances would return from her ice skating classes to pick him up, she would find his body drained and hanging from the ceiling by a coarse rope. How would she handle loosing him a second time ?

Hopefully, the Red Dragon would leave before she came. He still had half an hour left after all. Perhaps he should kick the bucket himself and decide to put a term to this mise en scène. Albeit he had to applaud his former patient; dying like Jesus Christ on the cross was ironic when he had worked so hard to impersonate the devil. Equally charming and corrupting, Hannibal had pushed several of his patients to embrace their darker side, inch by inch, the result of many hours of pushing, prodding and coaxing with unorthodox methods. The Red Dragon was such a man; needless to say that his retribution for Hannibal's betrayal – working for the FBI to catch him – would have been better appreciated if not dealt upon his body. But Dr Lecter could still appreciate the attention, and the spectacular tableau. Yes. Even as he faced death, Hannibal wasn't impervious to beauty.

The pain pulsated in his whole arms now, the sensation keeping him awake while his head started to lol. It wouldn't be long, and the Red Dragon, aka Francis Dolarhyde, gently watched him fade away. But shadows that didn't belong in the dimly lit room called for his attention. Hannibal's blood froze, recognizing a familiar trail of fire sticking to the back of the room. She was here. She was going to die… for him. The exact opposite of Badon Hill, when he had died to protect her. And if he could have accepted it – welcomed it – nary three months before, Hannibal realized that he didn't want to bury his wife. Not yet, not so soon after he had made her his. If she died one day, it would be by his hand in his loving arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal followed Frances, careful to continue panting and wobbling on the bucket to refrain from calling attention. Not that it was difficult. The cord chafed his skin raw, the tape burning the fragile skin of his inners arms as he faltered. He refused to lock gaze with Frances as she progressed, her bare feet silent, to the bench where the gun rested. Still, he couldn't miss the horrified expression that marred her features. If she survived… her mind would be scarred for life. Yet, she kept going, silent as a cat. So strong, so determined… so stupid, to throw herself at the Red Dragon who would break soon enough.

Hannibal rasped, trying to keep Dolarhyde's attention. Unfortunately, the Red Dragon was an instinctive creature, almost mystical; he sensed her right away.

Hannibal could only watch, powerless, as Francis turned around at the very same moment his wife took hold of the gun. The man lunged and she barely had time to aim. She should have fled, his insane wife, at seeing such a beast coming for her. Why didn't she, when her survival instincts screamed at her to run ? But she stood her ground and pulled the trigger.

An inhuman cry echoed in the poolhouse as the bullet lodged in his attacker's shoulder but he continued his course, more enraged than a wounded boar. The madman slammed into Frances, sending her flying on the hard tiles while the gun slid the other way. A whimper told him she was in pain, a simple sound that tore his heart as she rolled backwards. But the Red Dragon was stronger, if not faster; hopefully the bullet in his shoulder would give her a chance. In a moment, he was upon her, his fist colliding with the side of her face. Frances tumbled backwards; eyes glazed over at the strength of the blow.

Hannibal struggled to keep stable, to keep eye contact with the fight, hoping to support her with all his might. If Frances didn't get her bearings, Dolarhyde would beat her to death before his very eyes. For the first time in his life, Hannibal felt the need to recoil from this violence rather than relish in it. Yet, he didn't relent to the cowardice to close his eyes. If she was to die for him, he would honour his wife by supporting her to her last breath, be it only with his look. Already, the Red Dragon was advancing.

— "No !", Hannibal cried, nearly loosing his balance.

— "Don't!", she screamed back at him with urgency.

She was right. There was nothing he could do but concentrate to stay alive. To watch this uneven fight, though, was unbearable. But his kitten wasn't ready to relent. Her analysis done now, the bruise already darkening on the side of her face as the Red Dragon decided to taunt her.

— "Came to save this old scheming man ? He made me who I am, he's not worth it"

Frances sniffed, wiping blood from her nose.

— "He's my man. Back off", she growled.

Had Hannibal not been on the verge of passing out, he would have smirked at her possessive streak. Perhaps Franklin had been right, perhaps the kitten was a panther after all. And hope bloomed in his chest; his wife was strong and efficient. Even more so than he was. With her training, she might very well triumph and beat Dolarhyde.

The Red Dragon actually laughed at her words; Frances launched her attack then and Hannibal internally rejoiced. Intelligent woman, using the moment of distraction to her advantage. Catching Francis off guard, she landed a hard kick to his ribs, and an elbow in his face, cracking the side of his jaw. Any man would have howled in pain and doubled over such was the strength of her attack. Francis didn't. His resistance took her by surprise, and she hesitated a second too long before trying to swipe as his leg. He retaliated with the power of an insane beast, chasing her foot away while his fist caught her plexus. She backpedaled with a woof and Francis grabbed one of her arms roughly.

Frances fell to her knees with a pained cry until his fingers enclosed a fistful of her hair.

— "Bye bye, little girl", he told her.

Then he shoved her in the pool with flourish. Frances disappeared underwater with a splash. Second passed before Hannibal caught the faint sound of her head breaking the surface with relief; she was alive still. But then, the Red Dragon closed the distance to wave his gun in front of his own face, smirking at his crucified prisoner. Panic suddenly flooded Hannibal's body, the adrenalin kicking in as he gathered his voice to shout.

— "Go ! Go !"

For the first time in ages, Hannibal lost all rationality. For he knew, deep down, that she couldn't escape the pool alive. Not when Dolarhyde was already aiming. The soft sound of ripples told him Frances had dived. Several gunshots echoed, deafening upon the sensitive ears of his fragilized body. Hannibal trembled upon the casket, his feet loosing the battle as dumbness started to overcome his muscles. Adrenalin was the only thing keeping him alive.

Dolarhyde swore then; his gun wasn't powerful enough to penetrate below the few standard feet. With the low lights in the pool, Frances might very well escape his notice for a short while. But Hannibal was also privy to her low performance in breath-holding; at some point, she would have to emerge again. In thirty seconds, forty-five at best… The clock was ticking. In his mind, Hannibal started counting. Powerless… The longest seconds of his fifty years of life.

The Red Dragon circled the pool, a smirk upon his face, his eyes returning, every so often, to his prisoner. Hannibal gave him his most heartfelt glare, knowing it was useless. Thirty seconds. His blood still ran freely, less strongly now that his pressure was rapidly crashing down. Not quickly enough; he would take more than ten seconds for him to pass out. He would have to witness her death. Perhaps… perhaps he could kick the bucket, and hang himself to distract him. Would it save her ? For another thirty seconds… and then. She would follow him in death, murdered in water. Her element after all.

There. The barest of ripples moved over the pool as she emerged, taking a long deep breath before plunging back. Hannibal didn't see her; his heart was beating so hard that it might have jumped from his chest. No gunshot. Where was she ? Suddenly, Dolarhyde swore, ripping the metallic ladder from its hinges in a fit of rage. So she had used the protection of the ladder to take her first breath, mimicking its shadow to remain unnoticed. Despite his forces leaving him, Hannibal couldn't repress the smirk that bloomed upon his face. His wife was as sneaky, as cunning as he was.

But the countdown started anew, and with it, the fear that it might very well be her last breath. Literally. 40… 39… 38…37… The Red Dragon stood, gun aimed at the pool, his eyes roaming the full expense of the water. Her best shot would have been to appear at his legs and pull him in, but the man had forseen it and placed himself right above the spot of underwater light. At this distance, the bullet couldn't miss. The closest she emerged to him, the more likely she would die. 20… 19… Hannibal wobbled, his vision getting darker by the minute, his breath shortening. His own blood drew a river at his feet, a crimson tide, so beautiful. Perhaps they were destined to die together this time although he would have preferred her arms around him. 7 … 6…

Time was up. A great splash echoed in the swimming pool, her legs kicking out to create noise and volume. Francis aimed at the spot as her head emerged further away to take a breath. Three shots and a heartbreaking cry of pain. Hers. Red blood tainting the swimming pool as Frances sunk underwater. Hannibal's heart skipped a beat. Fatally wounded or not, she was probably going to pass out. Then, if the gunshot had not killed her yet, she would drown. Perhaps now was time to say goodbye and surrender to death. Perhaps they would find each other again. Hannibal closed his eyes in defeat.

The strain of his windpipe being crushed by his own weight jolted him up and his body twitched. The bucket had rolled out of reach; Hannibal was truly and thoroughly hanged. Survival instinct kicked in, his arms struggling to reach his constricted neck. But both limbs were hopelessly strapped, and Hannibal could only sway as the pressure increased, air becoming scarce. His burning lungs insulted him profusely, but he couldn't shrug to respond – not my fault. How irrational his thoughts as he died, the lack of oxygen registering in his brain. Then gunshots echoed, deafening, as several voices yelled at the same time. The thump of a body falling to the tiled floor, and hands hoisted him up, relieving the pressure upon his sore throat as a booming voice scorched his sensitive ears.

— "Call 911 ! Alana !"

Powerful and angered, he knew this voice. Jack. It was Jack's sturdy body that kept him aloft in an awkward position, one of his hands trying to loosen the death grip of the cord around his neck while the other held him fast upon his rounded shoulder. As oxygen started flowing his brain anew, Hannibal's body twitched in pain and panic. Frances ! She was still down there in the pool. Struggling like a mad man to open his eyes, Hannibal caught sight of a dark mop of hair in the distance.

— "Will !" he rasped.

— "Where is Frances ?", the empath shouted as he jogged up to him.

Hannibal struggled to form consistent sentences and kicked himself for his weakness. How powerless he was, the esteemed psychiatrist, unable to help his wife buried below three meters of water! The great Hannibal Lecter defeated, hung over a shoulder like a piece of meat.

— "Stay still, Dr Lecter, I got you"

Of course Jack would assume he was rambling about his wife, like a man about to die. But Will knew better; he knew how Frances would jump to his rescue and possibly die in the process. She had been the one to call him, she must be somewhere ! Hannibal's throat was so sore, his body shaking from the strain as he summoned his forces to answer.

— "The pool !"

Never had his voice felt to foreign to his own ears but Will was on the move instantly. Hannibal sagged, his vision darkening by the second. He heard the splash followed by an uneasy silence. More than five seconds already… until the surface broke again and Will yelled.

— "I got her ! Alana, help me"

And then, the most beautiful sound in the world graced his ears. Frances' cough, and the subsequent desperate intake of breath mingled with a wail of agony as they shuffled to extract her from the pool. Alive ! She was alive ! Hannibal would have cried in relief. Lucky, stupid, stubborn woman ! She had fooled the Red Dragon brilliantly and fought like a berserker. Now, she was probably paying the price of her wound if he believed the pained whimpers that reached his ears. He just wished he could see where the bullet had torn her lovely flesh, if only to assess her chances.

For a moment, Will tried to calm her down as she thrashed around.

— "Frances, it's me. It's Will, you are going to be allright."

Summoning his last forces, Hannibal opened his eyes anew. Propped awkwardly against Jack's shoulder – damn the man was strong, he was glad he never got to fight him - he could barely distinguish her form sprawled against Will. Then the empath handed something to Alana, a pocket knife, and the young psychiatrist filled his vision as she walked up to him. Hannibal grunted; he wanted to scream at her to move aside so he could assess Frances's state, but it was useless. His body was shaking uncontrollably, so much that he had to grit his teeth to refrain from biting his tongue. Will's voice was hesitant, worry and panic rising the longer the paramedics lingered as Alana worked at freeing his neck and arms from their bonds. The rod clattered on the tiles, his arms free at last but he had no control, all muscles limp from the strain. Jack laid him on the ground like a rag doll, cushioning his head with a towel and laying a jacket upon his shaking form. Needless to say that Hannibal recognized the symptoms of shock quite easily… the coldness though… Blood loss. Death.

Will's protest fell on deaf ears as Frances yelled in pain, and despite the agony it caused her, Hannibal was glad to see her progress towards him. A wounded panther, limping so furiously that Will gave up trying to restrain her and picked her up to bring her by his side. Apparently, the bullet had lodged in her calf. Good; she would live. Her eyes didn't leave his, slightly glazed over by the pain. She, too, was in shock. Her plastered hair and clothes should have been pitiful upon her slender frame – she had yet to put more meat on her bones – but the sight of his wife, alive, was enough to send his mind in turmoil. Will set her on the ground beside him, and her arms latched around his wrists at once. Hannibal winced; the wounds were tender but it still bled.

— "How much blood did you loose?", she asked, struggling to remain upright.

Will came to support her, hands upon her back as she swayed. Hannibal had issues focusing, his eyes looking for hers in reassurance. If he was to die, let him gaze one last time upon her loving features.

— "How much ?", she repeated, panic barely contained.

The psychiatrist didn't respond. He was too tired to do so. But his stubborn woman wouldn't let go of his wrists, keeping whatever blood was left from flowing out. Once or twice, she threatened to topple over but held fast, her warm hazel eyes locked with his. On his other side, Hannibal felt Will's hands replacing Frances.

— "Lay down, I'll do it"

How ironic, after the day where he, Hannibal, had replaced Will' shaking hands upon Abigail's neck as she bled out. An injury that had happened by his fault, for he had been the man warning the killer of their coming. To push Will to the edge, just like the boy that became the Red Dragon.

What goes around comes around.

Today, his little game might very well cost his life. And Will was there, more confident than this fated day, as he tried to keep him from bleeding out. Frances nodded to Will, awkwardly laying down on the tiled floor while Alana wrapped her in another towel. The sounds of wailing sirens started to echo in the distance, and Hannibal received with delight the slight kiss Frances bestowed upon his lips. She smelt of chlorine and blood; so wrong upon her skin that usually exuded her sweet womanly fragrance. Keeping his other wrist in her hand, she scooted closer to embrace him. At once, her warmth diffused against his skin. His heavy eyelids started to drop, and she gently tapped his cheek to keep him awake.

— "Hannibal, I can give you some, we're the same blood type."

The grunt didn't even escape his lips as his eyes closed. While he lost consciousness, Hannibal wondered how she had gathered that he was an A+ like her. That woman would never cease to amaze him. Her cold blood, her wits, her unending pool of love… the length she went for him, almost getting herself killed in the process. Even now, partially drowned with a bullet in her calf, she was still taking care of him. Reality would send her crashing down soon enough.

— "Hannibal", she warned.

But the scolding fell on deaf ears as for the first time in years, Hannibal accepted to loose control, embracing the darkness that couldn't be kept at bay anymore. No matter what happened now - he had succumbed to stronger than himself - he knew that Will would look after Frances. And she was Mrs Lecter now; she would want for nothing and inherit his possessions. Perhaps she could be happy without the shadow of his crimes looming over her. Yes. It was for the best. As he surrendered, his body shutting down from blood loss, Hannibal could feel her warmth surrounding him and her love supporting him.

— "Hannibal !", she screamed at him. "Don't you dare leaving me !"

Her grip tightened on his shoulder as she shook him. A useless attempt to bring him back.

— "Hann… Tristan ! Not again… not again…"

Then, the world ended.

Jack watched with a thumping heart the slumped body of the young woman holding Dr Lecter's wrist. Her own wound was still bleeding profusely, their blood mixing with water on the wet tiles of the swimming pool. Barely conscious, she didn't release her choke hold upon Hannibal's wound. The damn woman had more strength – inner strength, because he did not doubt her physical abilities – than he thought. Even if, this time, she had lost the hand to hand encounter with the Red Dragon, her sheer determination still impressed him. And seeing her, now, a mere body beside her husband's prone form… it stirred something in his chest. This was love of the purest kind. Would Dr Lecter survive this ordeal ? He certainly hoped so, because he didn't want to pick up the pieces.

The wailing sirens were closing in. What took them so fucking long ? Dr Lecter was probably out of reach now, for God's sake ! It wasn't good enough. They were needed NOW ! Lifting his eyes to Alana, Jack ordered.

— "Get them here"

Alana Bloom tore her wide blue eyes from the bodies littering the floor and took off running. Hopefully, they would be able to save the lady; her wound wasn't lethal. Perhaps revive her husband... Will was shaking now, perhaps from the strain of his uncomfortable position over both Frances and Dr Lecter. His eyes didn't leave them, slightly glazed, as if in morbid contemplation.

Jack knelt beside Will, unsure about touching him right now.

— "It's a striking image", he murmured to the empath.

Will gulped, his memory assaulting him with images of Badon Hill's battlefield. Frances, slumped over Tristan's body, her blood pooling over his armor, mingling with his in a steady flow. His still heart under her palm, his soul freed from the vessel of his body. Her grief… so intense that it made his heart bleed. They had failed. Both he and Hannibal. Failed at protecting her once more.

— "Yeah, a little too familiar."