Hey, it's been a while I haven't returned to Hannibal. Let's see where our lovebirds are going. And I have to admit that I had trouble writing a part of this… I'm getting old, perhaps, or too sensitive. Being a mother, the very idea of eating a child. Ugh !
Sinking… sinking to the depths of the Ocean. Slowing her breath down, calming her racing heart to use as little oxygen as possible. Blue, deep, dark blue everywhere, and something calling at her on the surface. Something important… No. Someone important. Someone needed her, but she couldn't join him. No. Sinking, sinking deeper. She needed to…
Air ! Her lungs screamed for it. The great red dragon awaited - tail full of hard scales - for the moment she would resurface. No, she was as good as dead if she listened to her lungs. Oxygen became scare, the need to breathe unbearable. Yet she sunk lower and lower into the warm water, blue becoming dark as spots danced before her eyes. Dizziness, nothing made sense anymore. She was drowning.
It was just as well; dying would be the easy way out. After all, this life was just temporary. A mistake. It only brought pain… pain, frustration and fear. Frances closed her eyes, surrendering to the darkness. A protector no more.
"Bang! Bang"
Two shots caused her head to snap. Her mouth opened, a reflex, to inhale precious oxygen. Only water came through. A great splash. A hand grabbed her, forcing her out of the comfort of death. She struggled, but the grip was too strong. No ! She couldn't come up … she couldn't !
Her body broke the surface, her mouth opening wide to gulp the much-needed air into her lungs. A set of clear blue eyes, dark curls plastered over his face…
Frances started awake.
Hannibal's hand snaked around her waist, crushing her to his chest.
— "Shhh, my beautiful. It was but a nightmare."
The young woman opened her eyes, watching Hannibal's reassuring smile. The psychiatrist looked at her as if she was the most precious gem of history, dark eyes gleaming.
At the corner of his lips, a trail of blood trickled… It grew, becoming a steady stream that tainted his skin and the Egyptian cotton. Frances sprang on her knees, her heart leaping out of her chest. Blood, everywhere. His blood. Pooling in a never-ending crimson shroud, the circle wider and wider around his still frame. Yet Hannibal smiled, oblivious to the life flowing out of him.
Frances fell backwards, screaming her distress. She couldn't breathe.
She started in bed again, her chest painfully constricted. Tears sprang from her eyes, her lips mumbling 'oh my god, of my god', her stomach lurching painfully. The pressure increased tenfold on her sternum, core muscles reacting to the dry heaving. Cuddling into a ball, she didn't register the calm voice that tried to shake her out of her trance. Her brain simply couldn't filter it. Her arms shook, her lips trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she struggled to draw breath. Her lungs refused to expand, the tightness squeezing the life out of her.
A large, gentle hand landed over her upon her sternum; she grabbed it like a lifeline, squeezing the proffered fingers like a stress ball. Warmth flooded her sternum as skin made contact all along her back. Another hand engulfed her forehead, a soothing, beautiful voice repeating its mantra until she could understand it. The moist of his breath upon her the skin of her neck. The tightness receded slightly as she panted, her body uncoiling little by little, gaining more contact with the warm, giant cuddle her husband was offering.
For it was he; the saviour that dug her out of her hole. After a moment, his tone changed and he eventually addressed her.
— "All is well, my beautiful. You are safe and sound, and so am I"
Frances frowned then had she ranted about her vision in the midst of her panick attack ? Deflating in his arms, the young woman cuddled against his body, and drifted to sleep anew. Exhausted.
But Hannibal didn't. Aware of the toll his misadventures had taken on his wife – it wasn't her first nightmare ever since the Red Dragon - he was considering his next move. Perhaps a honeymoon was in order. A break, a real one.
He would have to give his patients a proper referral. Margot Verger, for one, wouldn't be too happy about it but her situation smelt like… trouble again. And after seeing Frances almost die in that pool, he wasn't too keen on causing mayhem. A pity; Margot would have been good sport. He had been forward to pushing her to kill Mason. But he had made a promise to care for his wife, if not before God, to himself. And care she needed. And air, and a radical change.
She was getting in the swing of things again. Sure, the ice-skating was out of the question; her calf was healing properly, but not enough to resume such a strenuous activity. She had dismissed the physiotherapist just as well. She knew which moves to work and didn't need a guy to ogle her while she did the same stupid exercise over and over again. Of course, the man was cute. Probably 35, and a little pushy as well. She'd known all along the physio liked her, and had put boundaries bigger than bunker walls. But the guy just didn't want to understand. Maybe he was horny, maybe he wanted to thaw her Ice Queen persona, maybe he was just plain stupid. For beside the fact that she absolutely loathed morons that couldn't take hints, the man was going to get himself killed. If Hannibal heard of his subtle harassment towards his wife…
So she had dismissed him, and blocked his number, choosing to walk and exercise her calf by herself. Avoiding the subject had been easy; her husband never asked about her schedule. Frances shared what she wanted. It was just a matter of dancing around the things she kept herself entertained with. Or at last, that's what she hoped. Neither of them had returned to the swimming pool. Traumatic memories and long slices upon Hannibal's forearms were in the way. Frances didn't mind much, the smell of chlorine now caused her stomach to twist painfully. The images came day and night, haunting her. She doubted she would ever be able to return to the swimming pool … ever.
The young woman gathered the Egyptian cotton sheets in her arms to pull them into the laundry basket, humming another Opera air she was learning for Hannibal. At least, her voice still worked properly. The limp had become such a habit that she wondered if it would feel weird when both her legs started functioning again. The huge lump of fabric discarded, Frances watched the bed seriously, her tongue peeking between her lips in that serious expression children showed when concentrating hard. The mattress needed to be turned around to avoid doing lumps in their respective space, but it was heavy. And Hannibal not back yet. But she wanted to make the bed with pristine sheets and her new embroidered hem before he came back, so… Well, a little sport could only be fun, right?
Frances attacked the matter cunningly, deciding to slide the mattress around, bit by bit, instead of hauling it up. It took a little time, and effort, and some damn way to position her calf not avoid from hurting the muscle altogether. After five minutes, she was already panting. Stupid blood loss! Her iron levels were still too low, even with the supplementation Hannibal had prescribed. The young woman took a break, settling upon her knees – in seiza – before she could complete the turn. One quarter left, and she would be able to finish the task. Phew.
Wiping her brow with her sleeve, she proceeded to pull at the tremendously heavy furniture, grunting in the effort. The exertion felt good, but her head was swimming a little. Then, a body nearly slammed into her, hands reaching for her arms. Panic immediately seized her. Frances jumped back, heart racing, and stumbled upon the misplaced mattress. Pain made her cry in pain as her calf harshly slammed into the bed frame, stars exploding before her eyes. A booming voice rattled her nerves.
— "Good grief, woman! Are you trying to kill yourself?!"
Frances blinked from her slouched position upon the mattress, recognising Hannibal's voice, but not his frantic tone.
— "What part of 'rest' don't you understand? You almost died for God's sake!"
His anger slammed into her like a brick wall, causing her to hyperventilate. Miffed by the harsh rebuke – she was only trying to make their love nest looking nice for his return – the young woman straightened. There was a wild look in his eyes, something deeply disturbing, a loss of control she'd never seen. But his tone stung, and sarcasm dripped out before she could soften the blow. Cutting, and cruel.
— "I'm aware, husband. Twice, in the span of a year thanks to your friends. Not my highest score, but I wasn't roaming an alien planet so I'd say it counts double"
Retaliation came swiftly, but not in the form she expected as pure wrath seemed to break through his usually poised demeanour. For a moment, Hannibal had left, leaving Tristan in its wake. Burning, simmering Tristan who shouted for the first time.
— "Don't you think I know it? By my fault!"
And damn, what a voice! His cry shook her from head to toe, a great tsunami turning her world upside down, stealing her breath away. And when, at last, she surfaced above the stormy waters, the wave retired to leave her ashore, bereft… silent. Facing a man she thought she knew.
Hannibal's hands were trembling, fists wound tight, his jaw clenched. His eyes, though, wouldn't meet hers. And even if he stood tall, she could read the shame in the dip of his shoulders. Frances inhaled sharply; this wasn't about turning the mattress. This, was his outburst of fear after nearly losing her to the Red Dragon. None too early…
— "I…"
Her voice was trembling. It wouldn't do, for Hannibal's gaze fell upon her face. Features locked, he was every bit the fearsome scout. Unapproachable, unattainable, and torn to shreds. His chest was panting, his breaths uneven and her heart ached for him. For them, who would never be true lovers with a blissful existence. She was on borrowed time here – her guts never lied – and he needed to understand that.
— "Hannibal. It's probably the universe trying to settle its score."
— "It is no laughing matter."
The psychiatrist felt his limbs tremble, his lungs constricting in panic. He never panicked, what the hell was wrong with him? Why did she speak of her death so easily, so carelessly? Didn't she realise how deep she had settled in his heart? In his mind? Frances was slipping … slipping away from him, from this life and this world. He needed to act, soon. To get her out of this environment that sclerosed her.
— "Come," she eventually said, offering her hand. "Tell me what you fear."
His inner wolf recoiled, the biting words nearly tumbling over his lips before he could catch them. But Hannibal was a cold, controlled man. His insides rolled, and he took her hand instead of biting her head off. When was the last time anger had taken hold of him like this? Settling beside her on the mattress, it was with a surprised ease that he told her the plain truth.
— "I never allowed myself to care about someone since Mischa. I fear to lose you like I lost her."
There never was a shorter résumé of his broken psyche. What he didn't expect, though, was the question that followed.
— "Who was she, Hannibal?"
The psychiatrist started then, searching Frances' warm gaze to find the truth. She had not a clue about what made him … him.
— "My sister. How come you knew about me, but not about her?"
— "You are … quite famous in my world, movies were made."
She cringed at that, and grabbed Hannibal's forearm, her mind roaming the excellent but chilling "silence of the lambs". Antony Hopkins was so far away from the man before her, the man holding her hand now, both trembling from the previous exchange. Frances swallowed thickly, her fingers caressing the scar upon his wrist, tracing the line that disappeared under his cuff before adding:
— "I never read the books, and they don't speak about it. Tell me?"
Hannibal nodded, remembering his promise. Someday. That day was today, after Frances nearly died saving his life. She deserved the truth of his story, and so, sitting on a bare mattress that hung awkwardly around the bedframe, he told her of Mischa, of their parent's death and the horrible events that transpired afterwards. Of the people who ate his sister because they were starving. Or his own delight at eating her lovely, pink flesh; the best piece of meat he had ever tasted because his stomach had been empty for days.
Frances cried, torrents upon torrents of tears that could never reach the extend of his grief. He was numbed to it by now, the big, gaping hole and trauma buried under constructions of a controlling mind, broken shards that made him a peculiar psychopath without an ounce of guilt. He had trouble remembering the heaving of his stomach that day… Yet, even if he didn't feel the need to shed a tear, Frances cried for him. She channelled all the sadness he could never voice, the grief he could never share, the anguish that rested within, and festered. And he wondered how different life would be if he had been able to cry it out at the time.
The Ocean breeze rustled Frances' ringlets around her face, bringing her the contentment she always drew from the iodine smell. Sitting over the low wall that marked the terrace limit, Will and Frances enjoyed a moment of peace while Hannibal fixed some drinks in the beach house. Until the empath insisted that she be treated for PTSD, and the young woman's chest started constricting at the flooding memories of Hannibal's blood dripping on the tiles.
— "You need to see someone, Frances. What happened in your life, all those missions, you'll drown in it"
The young woman shook her head, amazed by Will's refusal to see the obvious. Apart from Hannibal, what professional would hear of time travel, monsters and battles of another era without committing her ? Of King Arthur's knights ? There wasn't anyone qualified to be her psychiatrist, and she knew her husband was unsuitable to treat her. Too close, first. Too manipulative as well; she wouldn't be able to trust him with her mind. How sad it was, that the man she loved, her husband, sworn to protect her, couldn't be trusted. This was the sad truth. Hence the deflection.
— "Yeah, perhaps."
Her shoe kicked a rock, sending it flying over the edge of the cliff to the rumbling waters below. The sound of the sea, even subdued, always caused her body to relax. It even allowed her to ignore Will's bristling by her side.
— "Perhaps ? No, I'm sure. Killing Garett Jacob Hobbs was horrible…"
When Frances' eyes landed upon him, the empath couldn't help but swallow nervously. She was so unnerving sometimes, like a hawk watching its prey. Not unlike Hannibal.
— "I have killed many more than… that you can ever imagine."
Many more than Hannibal. Kicking the thought away so that Will couldn't read it on her face, she wasn't surprised when a glass white wine appeared before her eyes. Warm chocolate met amber eyes, a loaded look of warning and thanks all the same. Frances smiled, taking the glass of – one sniff – burgundy from him with a dip of her head. The psychiatrist always knew when to pop, as if his danger warning drove him to prevent people from exposing him. As if he'd kept one ear out, just in case. Tristan used to do this; always aware of his surroundings, no matter what. The scout surfaced, sometimes, in Hannibal's demeanor. Like… right now.
— "Did you keep count ?", his smooth voice asked as he situated himself by her side, his warmth seeping through her flank.
Frances inhaled sharply, catching a whiff of the oak fragrance of the wine mingled with Hannibal's heavenly scent. To Will, his question might seem professional. But she knew he wanted to compare the score. Sneaky man. His cunning floored her more often than not, and she was the only one in close proximity to know how clever Dr Lecter could be. One foot away, Will dipped his lips into the beer, his clear blue eyes awaiting a response.
— "No. I never thought to count. A lot were monsters, orcs. Others… you were here to witness, even if you can't remember…"
Will shuddered, for he couldn't erase from his mind the vision of Tristan and Frances laying waste on the battlefield.
— "I do", he eventually said, fingers playing with the rim of his beer. "You were efficient"
Frances tried to recall, battle by battle, the identity and numbers of her kills. From her days as a gladiator in ancient Roma, to missions offworld with SG1 and the last battle against the Saxons beside Arthur's men… It was just too uncertain to make a count.
— "Saxons, Haradrims, gladiators. I just don't know. Some I sliced, some I know could only die from the wounds I inflicted. But in battle, everything goes too fast."
The images of her charge, tucked behind Tristan's body on his gigantic warhorse, came to mind. Her sword had wreaked havoc on the field, but she had no idea how many had been incapacitated by her blows. Between the horse' hooves, the momentum and the poor precision of her blade… who knew ?
— "Tristan would have counted I'm sure", Will grumbled.
The memory of an elf and a dwarf counting their kills aloud didn't erase the harsh reality of Tristan, the man who could have killed any human being without batting an eyelash. Of Hannibal, now, still able to do so in the 21st century. And even if Wil's grumbling reminded her so much of the grumpy Galahad, Frances couldn't smile. By her side, Hannibal's arm was sliding across her waist, grounding her in reality. He knew her so well… it was frightening how far she laid in his clutches. She felt so safe in his arms that he could have ripped her throat out with his teeth without her moving an inch. The young woman took a sip of the delicious wine, a hum of appreciation passing her lips.
— "What year, darling ?", she asked.
Hannibal's slow rumble echoed in her ear, causing a shiver to crawl up her spine.
— "96. Can you guess the domain ?"
The young woman scrunched her eyebrows, oblivious to the fact that she was discussing domains in the midst of her kills. Becoming, little by little, attuned to her killer husband. Will was forgotten, the gourmet bubble engulfing her entirely. A little moment of peace where her senses stretched, the taste of oak heavy on her tongue, the smell of Hannibal so close that she wanted to lick his throat, the warmth of his arm and back making her skin hum.
— "Savigny ? Or Montrachet… I can't decide"
Hannibal hummed in satisfaction.
— "Well done, wife. Puligny - Montrachet"
And this parenthesis closed, Frances got back to the subject at hand. Turning to Will, she was surprised to find his gaze locked into the Ocean. Had this time lapse lasted so long, or was he just preserving their privacy ?
— "Anyway, I never asked Tristan. But I think I killed more guys with a MP90 than on hand to hand combat."
— "You know how to use a MP-90?" Will exclaimed, dumbfounded.
As per his book, European ladies did not take crash courses on rifles. Frances' eyebrows rose on her forehead; had he forgotten her involvement with the US military ? SG1 never would have accepted she tag along if she didn't know how to fire an assault rifle.
— "Yes, of course. And a few others, MP-7 for example. Easier to handle, but less powerful"
The empath studied her for a moment, in deep gaze watching her face before he seemed to come to a conclusion.
— "Maybe you should get a gun. It could have turned the tables, that day, at the swimming pool…"
How grateful she was that he never finished his sentence. A great shiver ran through her frame, and she felt Hannibal's hold tighten around her. An attempt to anchor her, to prevent the images from coming. She barely caught a glimpse of his crucified body before Hannibal's hand cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze. Deep amber eyes watched her; a challenge, a question, a certitude. If she acquired a gun, she would have an advantage over him. But he knew, as did she, that she loved and respected him too much to ever shoot him. If they squared off someday, it would be a fair fight. And so, his lips quirked imperceptibly and his eyes cringed at the corner. Yes.
— "Why not", she nodded.
She then turned back to Will, knowing that talking about firearms would, for once, go way over Hannibal's head.
— "A Berretta would be nice."
The empath cocked his head aside.
— "Personal preference ?"
Frances lips quirked in a fond smile; it was directed to another and Will knew it. The memory of an old friend who had disappeared from her life the moment she set foot in this world.
— "O'Neill's favourite. It would be a tribute to the numerous times he watched my back. He probably shot plenty of Jaffas just to protect me."
Will's eyebrows scrunched and he wiped his sweaty brow – the sun was quite adamant to turn his skin to a crisp today. How unfair that his skin was prone to burning, when both Frances' and Hannibal's only tanned golden. Ah, Lithuania my ass !
— "Sorry, hum, I just can't remember what a jaffa is"
— "Servants of the Goa'uld, those snakes that passed as Gods and enslaved people ?"
— "Right. You need to write is as well"
Frances took a sip of her heavenly wine, the strong fragrance greeting her palate. The sturdy presence of the man along her back permeated through, mixing with the effects of alcohol. The heat of his close body mingled with the warmth of this late may sunshine, lulling her into a sense of safety as she considered the idea. After all, writing was her best shot when it came to healing. Cocking her head aside to catch Hannibal's gaze, she gave him a questioning look.
— "What do you think, husband of mine ?"
The psychiatrist gave her a curious glance, one that said he was considering many implication that had not even brushed her conscience.
— "Given they don't exist in this world, it shouldn't be much of a risk", he eventually declared.
So this is what he was considering. Her safety, once more, from a government that wouldn't have taken well to having its secrets laid bare. Frances nodded, kissing the corner of his sensual lips – and swearing she would taste them fully and thoroughly before evening. Damn, with his shirt opened like this, he exposed himself to serious nuzzling.
— "Writing it is then"
— "And a gun", Will concluded. "Perhaps a Glock 19 would suit better"
Frances groaned; she hated firearms, even though it was the first weapon she had used in the span of her adventures. Yet, it would never hold a candle to her elvish blade. She had to admit that it was easier to kill from a distance and never see the result of a well-placed bullet. Actually, her colleagues had found her rather skillful with a gun… Her aim was true, better even than with the bow provided she wasn't on the move, or too panicked. But she didn't want easy. Frances loathed to take a life, every single spark extinguished haunted her like Garrett Jacob Hobbs haunted Will. She needed the state of anger and purpose to push her to kill a man. With a blade, you had to look your opponent in the eye before he died by your hand. A moment, suspended, where both lives hung in the balance and you had to choose between your opponent's life, or yours. And Frances needed that; this memory, embedded in her heart, to pay tribute to the people she killed. To ensure it wasn't for nothing, that her purpose was true. That, somehow, she wasn't playing God.
A hand caressed her neck, a smooth voice reaching out for her.
— "We live in the US, Frances. We have to adapt"
Trust Hannibal to read her like an open book, and offer reassurance and sound thinking to sway her. Europeans wouldn't think, even for a second, to get a firearm to defend themselves. Kickboxing or martial arts would do for those very wary of their surroundings. But a gun… Those were saved for law enforcement.
— "I'll train with you, if you want" Will added, hoping to make her feel more secure.
Did he think she was afraid ? No, he couldn't get it. She was afraid of herself with a gun, not of the weapon itself.
— "You don't need to. I'm a good shot. I'll get the permit."
Will seemed taken aback, and Frances realized just as much of her past life she had been keeping from him. She couldn't help it; secrecy just came with the job, it was embedded now. And with Hannibal being the Chesapeake Ripper, every single word that passed her lips was calculated a thousand times.
— "So you've shot people with a gun ? Not with a MP-90 I mean ?"
A few memories danced in her mind, none of them too overwhelming. The way she had pissed Hathor, the Goa'uld goddess, by sending a bullet into her shoulder. Hum, that one was actually good.
— "Frances ?"
— "Once or twice, but never close like you did. Never face to face."
Will's eyes clouded a moment and Frances bit her lip; way to remind him of a traumatic event. Hannibal butted it at once, using his curiosity as a distraction. A very morbid distraction.
— "You have killed with a blade, face to face."
Frances twisted around, meeting his gaze squarely. Finding admiration swirling in those mesmerising depths. When he looked at her like this, she just wanted to ravish him. But his question called for an answer, and she nodded.
— "There was Tobias… not with a blade. Because he would have killed you. And my first kill, a slave, in Rome. I had quite a breakdown after this."
— "His life or yours, I imagine"
And where she knew Will would only consider Hannibal's detachment a professional side effect – what a clever idea, the cover story of psychiatry to behave like an automat – she knew he would miss the sparkle of pride and lust for blood in his eyes. Detachment had made the psychiatrist, not the other way around. Would Will ever see it ?
— "Never in cold blood then."
Hannibal's words, coated in honey, were dangerous enough to raise her hackles. Something passed in his eyes then, especially when his gaze left her to find a spot over her shoulder. Frances turned around, frowning at Will ; the empath seemed to be avoiding eye contact again. Stressed out from her mention of Garett Jacob Hobbs ? Her deadened voice answered Hannibal's question, eyes still fixed upon Will.
— "No. Never in cold blood."
— "So gun it is. You can train and do the maintenance with Will whenever you meet for your bow sessions"
— "Ah yes, maintenance. Sure. Fantastic, I'll own a gun"
Hannibal's lips quirked up, his eyes dancing with an inner flame as his next words hit her.
— "But it will not be travelling with us."
Bombshell dropped, the psychiatrist watched his wife's features brighten, the tense lines around her eyes easing away at the perspective of an escape. His chest flooded with warmth, her happiness and relief hitting him much stronger than he thought possible. It always amazed him, this co-dependancy that he had fled his whole life. Her happiness permeated his heart the same way his moods affected her. For the time being, it wasn't so bad. Colours were brighter when shared, food tastier, and his heart less dry than it used to be.
— "Travelling ? Where to ?"
Hannibal kissed her temple gently, searching to hide his flustering as a wave of belonging washing though him.
— "Wherever you want, my wife."
There wasn't a second of hesitation.
— "Italy. I want to get back to Italy."
And there was nothing more satisfying than Frances choosing the very country he so longed to see again. He gazed at her lovingly, unsure about the reason why she watched him with such awe. As if he was a walking miracle in her life. Truthfully, this moment of intimacy was more loaded then the day he asked to marry her; she seemed so full of hope ! Time seemed to still as they both contemplated what it meant for the future until Will's voice broke the charm.
— "Wait, are you going ? When ?"
Hannibal turned to the empath, sending him a reassuring glance.
— "September at best. I need to organize referrals and it is no easy feat. And I want to ensure that you are safe before we enjoy a little rest"
Will swirled the remaining beer in his glass before his eyes settled on the ocean.
— "All right. Good. You've earned it, really. I will be fine"
He didn't quite see it coming, but the next moment, Frances had nearly tackled him over the edge in her enthusiasm to hug the life out of him. And despite the undignified way he saved his own glass of wine and circled her waist at the same time, Hannibal found that he didn't mind at all.
Hey, long time no see. I've had a few favourites, thank you for that. 37 follows, that's a good score as well :p Would newcomers be amenable to leave a little word ? Old ones as well, don't feel shy. Come on, put that number of reviews to shame (40, for 115k words !) eh ? I'm sure you all have thoughts worth sharing, even if you vomited right after reading this :p