Hey. Not the nicest of chapters, I hope to have betters ones later one that will take you to Italy. This one is pivotal either way, so let's get on with it.

Frances chased the sweat away with the hem of her dress before checking the target. Will and herself were thankful for the sea breeze that brought a little relief from the intense heat. In Baltimore, the weather had gone stifling. The young woman wondered how Hannibal handled the three-piece suit in such weather, but again, the air conditioning helped. In Europe, most homes didn't benefit from this luxury; people adapted to the heat, not the other way around.

— "I beat you"

Frances smiled, retrieving Will's arrows and handing them over. The man now fletched his own projectiles, as per instructions found on the internet and the Keeper of Time's memories of Aragorn's teachings. The empath's aim was now better than hers; she suspected Will to channel his past life when he used that bow. He had improved so easily that he was nearly up to Galahad's level. It was incredible, how Will could summon his past self without boundaries when Hannibal so struggled with the simplest of memories. Two minds, two psyches, too many rules, on the one hand, and an unbound spirit on the other.

— "Yes, you did. And I doubt I'll ever be able to beat you again with a bow. Now, shall we use this blasted gun you pushed me to buy?"

Will had taken Frances to the arms dealer to secure a gun for her, and was in the process of speeding her permit through his contacts with the FBI. They trained, every second week, as he showed her how to take care of the weapon. Cleaning, securing, aiming… Despite Frances' reassurance, Will had still been surprised about her shooting skills. Especially since she disliked the idea immensely.

The distance was still there, though. This strange mood that had settled after the Red Dragon affair, and Frances couldn't make heads or tails of it. Will didn't want to talk about it, Hannibal said he was probably feeling guilty, but refused to share anything that might have been said in the cover of therapy. Given they were not officially therapist and patient, it infuriated her to the highest degree. But Hannibal, much like Will, was a stubborn rock.

— "I … yes. Gun it is. But I'd like a drink first."

— "Great idea, I'm about to melt on the cobblestones."

Both empath and lady burst through the French doors, Will fishing a soda out of the fridge and Frances tutting at the sight of Coke. By now, she didn't even lecture him anymore, keeping the warnings about osteoporosis, acidosis and excess sugar for herself. Hannibal, for one, did not keep his tongue whenever he found such distasteful drink stored in his fridge. The beach house had become their QG, and he was bound to give them a little leeway when it came to their escapades. Chicken filets from the supermarket were tolerated, but he drew the line at Coca-Cola.

Frances fished a little lemonade from the fridge for herself; brown sugar, frizzy water and true lemon were up to her standards. As she settled beside the kitchen counter, sipping on the drink with a sigh of relief, she noticed that Will's gaze was fixed upon her. Something that scarcely happened for he still fled eye contact more often than not.

— "What?" she asked.

At once, Will's blue eyes shifted to the window … to the ocean.

— "I … er. I have something to tell you."

Frances' blood froze in her veins, the glass clanging against the counter as she miscalculated. The young woman cringed, struggling to keep a smile on her face and the gleam of wariness out of her eyes. Had Will found anything about Hannibal's extracurricular activities? Was it the reason for the distance that caused this drift ?

Frances reined in her anguish. Fortunately, the empath seemed flustered enough not to notice her state of agitation. She swallowed her limonade to prevent her voice from trembling.

— "Shoot," she said, hoping to suffuse the situation with humour.

Given their earlier occupation, the expression as well chosen. It fell as flat as a dog in a pond.

— "I'm… I'm going to be a father."

Frances almost sagged against the counter, catching herself just in time to transform her smile of relief in one of happiness.

— "Oh… Oh!"

The young woman then leapt, pulling Will into a bear hug that he returned, a bit out of sorts.

— "How did you even manage that?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.

The empath gave her a lopsided smile, a mischievous light dancing in his cerulean irises and she marvelled at the ease with which he now interacted. Alana had done wonders for him and now…

— "Do you want the talk about bees and…"

A swat landed on his arm.

— "Come on… I never want to hear about you having sex with Alana. You're my brother, I just can't imagine those things."

The statement didn't even seem to register; or perhaps it was true enough to be embedded inside, for Will only waggled his eyebrows.

— "You're one to talk… You and Hannibal. He's fit, for an old man"

What did he mean by that? Was it about the age difference? Or did they show a little more than intended when Will was about? After all, the empath was now a part of their family, and Hannibal was less guarded around him than around strangers. As for her … she made no secret of her affections. Her hands always returned to him … so did her lips. Humph. She needed to redirect that conversation at once!

— "We do not flaunt our animal moments, thank you very much. And we're married. Now, talk. You and Alana been together for 6 months, how did THIS happen?"

— "A lucky accident. We would have waited a few years or so, but fate had decided for us"

Fate. For once, that stupid notion had not screwed up and dealt with good people accordingly. Giving Will and Alana a baby would ensure the empath's mind lingered on other priorities than death and serial killers. It might very well push him away from Jack Crawford's unhealthy consulting jobs. Will's eyes returned to his coke, his hands steady, but his hand scratching at his temple; a nervous tic. Poor man. He had just been on his way to stability when the most destabilising of events landed in his lap.

— "How did she take it ?", Frances asked gently. "How did YOU take it ?"

— "A little shaken, at first, but we're happy."

Happy. Frances raised her glass to Will and tried very hard not let him show how her smile faded. He was right to be happy; Will was about to start a family with the woman he loved, a good, sensible woman who would also be a good mother. And if she shared his enthusiasm, and was eager to welcome a new baby in this family, she couldn't prevent her heart from bleeding. For she would never have it.

Nor the happiness, nor the family. Nor the sense of purpose that parents gained when they welcomed a new being into the world. She and Hannibal had their moments; she loved him, and every single second spent in his arms was a blessing. But she could never surrender to the instinct, the need to have him plant his seed in her womb. To the ecstasy of seeing a child, born from the two of them, grow in her belly. To the beauty of seeing his eyes upon a baby's face, of watching him play with his sons and daughters. Of radiating the happiness of pregnant women, or see a father's pride upon his face. Yet, every time he took her to bed, she felt like begging him to allow her this light in her existence. A daughter, with blond curls and Hannibal's eyes, begged to descend and inhabit their life. She felt it. Would she remind him of Mischa?

Frances blinked, trying very hard to get back to the present.

— "Well. This is … great news, Will. Congrats. When is she due?"

— "End of January"

The young woman nodded, remembering the last Christmas they had spent together in this very house; probably the last. From now on, Will Graham would be a family man. The very thing that had been denied to Jack… and to her.

— "Wow. That's … wow. I'm sure you will be an excellent father, Will."

The empath squinted his eyes, dark curls plastered on his forehead because of the heat, and Frances knew, at once, that her act was not convincing enough. But again, facing an empath … unfair game.

— "Thanks… So, why does it make you sad?"

Damn … how could Will be so perceptive when it came to her, and fail to see Hannibal's true nature? Perhaps because he picked up on her strong feelings – she was such an open book ! - when nothing passed the psychiatrist's walls – delving in Hannibal's feelings was like diving into a mountain lake. Ice, cold, and stillness.

— "Uh?"

— "You are hiding something from me."

Frozen, Frances remained silent. A clear statement that Will was true, but she didn't know how to answer him without lying. No matter what, he deserved the truth; Frances never lied to her friends. His voice was laced with panic when he asked the next question, carried away by his fears.

— "Have you seen anything happening to Alana or me, or the baby?"

The young woman shook her head vehemently; this wouldn't do. With his imagination, Will could summon any crazy theory.

— "No! Nothing, I've seen nothing."

The empath scooted closer, putting his glass on the counter and DEMANDING her attention. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of what Hannibal saw in Will Graham. The ability to command and dominate. Their gaze met, and Frances felt the walls of her mind crumble. Funny, how Hannibal couldn't pass her thick wards with his intense scrutiny, yet how an empathic look could break her so easily.

— "Then what is it? You claim to be happy for us, but your eyes don't lie. Why are you sad?"

Frances exhaled shakily, settling for the truth. She owed it to him, and would go as far as she could.

— "We can't have children of our own. That is all. I have to come to terms with it."

The empath's face immediately crumbled as the truth settled in his mind.

— "I'm sorry, Frances."

And despite the joy and fear of being a future father, Frances cringed because he meant it so badly. She could have banged her head upon the table.

— "No! Don't be. You're happy, stay happy. Don't be sorry. This is the greatest news ever, I don't want to spoil it."

— "Wanna talk about it?" he asked.

— "Me ? No. I wanna talk about you, and your baby, and Alana, and your future family"

But Will Graham had laid a line in the water, his bait fresh and sound, and didn't intend to let it go. If the news of Alana being pregnant made him insanely giddy, he needed his foster Sister to be able to taste this happiness.

— "Maybe you could adopt? Or find a surrogate, or something like this. Modern technology can do wonders now, and Hannibal is not that old …"

The young woman fists clenched, knuckles turning white until she exploded.

— "NO! I said no. It is impossible, and I never want to talk about it again."

Her outburst shocked Will into silence and he was glad that the waves covered the beating of his heart. Never had Frances shouted at him. She brushed her forehead with a shaky hand, tears springing to her eyes before she wiped them away.

— "I know how your mind works, Will. You're going to imagine a thousand different theories. Don't, it's very simple, it's intimate, and cannot be bypassed. You must accept it, just as I do."

The empath nodded, dumbfounded.

— "And I'm sorry for yelling"

Lips pursed, Will dragged Frances into his arms for a hasty hug. Her explanation effectively cut all speculation from forming in his mind, but from that day, more distance settled between them. After all, she didn't trust him enough to recount the whole story. And who was he to ask for trust when he kept something from her just as well. Something that would horrify her, something so huge… She would never forgive him. At least, he could share the burden with Hannibal.

The same evening

Frances' hands ran through the silken strands of Hannibal's wet hair, massaging his skull as she rinsed the lather away. It wasn't often than the psychiatrist joined her in the giant bathtub, and she appreciated the gesture. It had taken just a look for him to know that her heart was bleeding. Another second to offer her to bathe together. Mindful of her aches; considerate like a husband should be. He was so puzzling, sometimes… able to dissect a human body to grace his table, and his palate, without remorse. Yet, he still offered his hand, his time and his consideration without a second thought.

There were scarce, as well, the moments when he allowed her to take the lead and wash his hair. Something about being in control, from what she had gathered. Sprawled between her open legs like a great feline, the psychiatrist hummed his contentment while Frances' hands caressed his body. After massaging his skull, she gently set his head upon her shoulder and reclined in the warm water, her hands trailing across his broad chest, descending across the toned muscles of his stomach and caressing his thighs. Little fingers travelled back up, playing with the wet curls that marred his chest until they settled on their favourite spot; his beating heart. Her hand remained here for a long time, relishing in the fact that he was very much alive. A little miracle.

— "Will and Alana are having a baby.", she eventually said.

Hannibal's breathing didn't even change; he wasn't surprised.

— "I didn't expect it so early"

It she had not been heads over heels in love with him, she might have found his habit to be ten steps ahead infuriating. As it was, the weight of his body over hers, the hum of her skin against his were enough to subdue any feeling of anger.

— "An accident, or so Will says"

— "How does that make you feel ?", his smooth voice asked as he reached for her hand.

The warm fingers encasing her own didn't distract her from the typical question. She didn't want to be treated like a patient; she wanted empathy, and a conversation with her husband. Not the professional coldness he offered to the world. Here, snuggled against his body in a warm bathtub, Frances refused to be treated like a stranger. Fortunately, she now knew how to dodge.

— "What do you think ?", she retorted.

— "Answering a question with a question, wife ?"

The young woman squeezed his hand.

— "Humour me"

A deep sigh caused his chest to dip, and the tall, imposing man straightened himself in the tub. He folded his long legs to turn around and face her, his chest dripping wet, hair slicked back by her ministrations. Once more trapped in his gaze, Frances realised that she didn't mind; she was his, through and through, to do as he pleased. So when he gathered her against his moist skin, her arms wound around his frame easily.

— "Regret. Sadness. Indignation for a perceived injustice", he stated plainly.

His ability to unearth the truth so bluntly never ceased to amaze her.

— "See, you don't even have to ask anymore."

Frances snuggled against his chest, her nose buried against his sternum. As much as she loved lounging in the bath, it removed the faint scent from his skin, leaving one of her senses bereft. She would have to make him sweat a little to get the sweet fragrance of Hannibal back once more. Such a soothing smell; the one of her mate. An alpha male who was perfectly capable of having children… She was the one who denied him this right, after all. And it made her angry, and sad, a little desperate altogether.

— "It hurts you."

Hannibal's tone held a hint of helplessness, so Frances pulled back and looked him in the eye.

— "Yes, I feel it inside. The possibility. I love you so much that I ache to give you a child."

The psychiatrist's pupils seemed to dilate; something feral passed within their depths, mesmerising, as if the beast had been awakened… Frances' hair raised on her arms, goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold, her breath short. Hannibal remained silent for a moment, his hazel eyes searching for an answer deep within. Calculating, perhaps, the possible paths.

— "Frances. I'm old, but it depends on you more than me. Do you want a child ?"

Her heart, already bleeding, became entirely numb, calling her mind to take over. If he felt genuinely touched by her distress, she doubted his proposal erupted only for her sake; Hannibal always considered his interests first. A reflex born from his trauma, the true trait that made him who he was. The Chesapeake Ripper. Perhaps he wanted a child to mold. A successor of sorts. Perhaps he, too, felt the animalistic pull to procreate. Perhaps he only wanted to push, to offer the possibility to corner her into refusing. Either way, it hurt much more than if he had flat out refused. For now, she was the only one to blame; her shoulders taking the burden entirely. Hannibal would never offer to share it, he that believed strongly in the ownership of every decision.

She couldn't even hate him for this manipulative streak; this is who he was. He protected himself first, always, even when he wasn't conscious of the fact.

Lips pursed, Frances shook her head vehemently.

— "No. We can't risk it. Any other day, Jack will be tapping on your door with a warrant."

There, the score was even. There was a reason why they couldn't have children, and it wasn't her fault. Having a psychopath as a father didn't raise sane people in the first place, and the Chesapeake Ripper might be discovered either way. The Red Dragon episode had been proof enough; this wasn't a healthy environment for a child.

— "But that's not the main reason"

Sneaky, clever, insufferable husband ! She hated him, and loved him for it. The perceptivity of Arthur's scout; the man who saw all, even those inner feelings that struggled to stay hidden. Frances backed away in the bathtub, sitting with her legs in front of her. Her cheek landed upon her knee; tears refused to come, she had shed them all on the drive back from the beach house.

— "And I can't risk loosing you."

Hannibal watched, entirely still, her unbound hair as it spread in the water. So small, so lithe, yet deadly. For she had dealt him a great blow without even knowing it; pushing the possibility of a child away because he was too dangerous to be a father. His mind knew, though, that she was only being reasonable. One of the reasons why he admired her, and had not killed her in the first place. Frances always felt keenly, strong emotions raging through her heart. Yet, she mastered them to take the right decisions in her life. Mind over matter, brains over animal instincts.

So why did she call in him the most basic of them ? How he longed to bury himself in her plush, compliant body and see a child grow there, under the silky skin. A pure soul to mold and grow into a piece of art… Frances would be in the way, and stomp her foot down every single step along its set course. They would fight… and she could very well kill him if he threatened their child's sanity. What she couldn't do to protect herself, she would do for their baby. And if he killed her… he would have to run away from here. Will would never forgive him either.

His inner beast growled, his guts twisting painfully. How dare she take his descendants from him ? As the animal inside bucked and reared, his mind analysed a dozen of situations. A blood bath always greeted him at the end of the line. Separation and heartache. This possibility was a dead end, always. They simply would shatter the unstable equilibrium they had worked so hard to create. Unless Frances died soon after birth. Strangely, the balance didn't shift he right way; a child born of his loins wasn't worth loosing her either.

Frances' quiet voice called him back from his mind.

— "I'm going to ask for tubal ligation."

Hannibal cocked his head aside Frances hated hospitals, but she was ready to crush her possibility to be a mother to keep him ? The purest form of love, or the highest form of stupidity ?

— "You hate hospitals"

— "I do. But I'll do it anyway"

The psychiatrist wondered at this show of short-sightness.

— "Frances. You might come to regret it. What if … you have someone else someday?"

The spike of jealousy twisted his insides painfully but the truth couldn't be ignored; he was more than twenty years her elder, and might die a rather sudden death any day. Her answer, though, was plain, simple, and irrevocable.

— "There is no other man for me in this universe. Not even in the others."

The strength of her voice left no doubt; this wasn't a bout of naiveté. Frances knew, deep down, that he was the only one who would ever touch her. If his inner beast was giddy at the prospect, the certainty of it unsettled him. For she was trapped, as the wife of a serial killer. And if she maimed herself – removed all hope for her to create life – he owed it to her to remain by her side.

— "What if I get caught ?"

— "Not even then"

Hannibal crawled on all fours, careful not to disturb the water as he advanced upon her.

— "What if I die Frances ?", he asked, his face now inches from hers.

She didn't blink, meeting his gaze head on. The Keeper of Time giving him a look he recognised; the future was set. Nothing would ever change it.

— "Then you very well know what will happen to me."

Hannibal's breath hitched, his chest tightening slightly. And while his lips captured hers in a langorous kiss, pulling her into his lap, his mind kept rolling. And despite the distress it caused him, Hannibal couldn't help the sensation of complete domination that washed over him. This woman was his, entirely his to dispose of. Her life and her death in his hands, willingly given, not taken by force. It was so empowering, so dizzying that he held onto her for dear life. Never before had he been offered such a gift.

When Hannibal pulled away, his heart beating harshly against his ribcage, his mind was set.

— "I will do it."

Frances frowned, her lips swollen, gaze unfocused.

— "Do what ?"

— "The sterilization. It is easier for me."

He didn't give her time to protest; a word was a word. And so, to soothe the ache this promise created deep in his belly, he dove back to her lips to collect his prize.

Three weeks later, Frances was left at home while her husband underwent surgery. An easy procedure that, in his own words, didn't need for her to hoover or pace around. But Frances was stubborn; she insisted, at first, to remain by his side. To make her stand, because she was responsible for this choice. But then, as they came to collect a perfected poised Hannibal away, Frances had broken down in his arms. Doubts plaguing her – did she really want to quell that possibility forever ? Could her own selfishness justify to mutilate the man she loved ? Her chest had constricted so strongly that she had trouble breathing, and Hannibal, stalling the nurses in his hospital gown, had sent her home with the promise to call whenever he was ready to return.

So there she was, walking around the house like a ghost, feeling like the worst wife ever. Feeling, once more, so alone because she would never be able to tell anyone about this.

The sketchpad lay there, exposed in Hannibal's study. Frances froze in her tracks; she only intended to write her frustrations away when her eyes landed on the picture. Rounded, plush and welcoming. All circles of silky skin, shadows barely clinging to the womanly curves that faced her. Hannibal's sketching was like no other; he poured his heart and soul into it, so much that she could nearly feel him through the lines. Where his picture of Florence had been academic, thousands of littles lines easily reproduced with white thread, this sketch only held curves. A tribute to womanhood… to motherhood.

A hiccup shook her frame; the tears leaked by themselves as she sat, defeated in his armchair. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sketch; a possibility, a dream. One shattered in this very moment. Her eyes traced the fond smile spread over plump lips, the gentle fingers set around a rounded belly, hands cradling the child inside. The large, darkened nipples of engorged breast, resting peacefully over the oversized bump that should have been their baby. What incredible talent dwelt inside her husband; he had captured her likeness so easily, expanding his imagination to what she would have looked like pregnant with his child.

It was so beautiful, so heart wrenching magnificent. Even more so than his powerful body whenever he took her, all manners forgotten. No, this was different. Love and creation in its purest form; the result of a child born from them both.

Frances hid her face in her hands, sobbing like an infant whose favourite teddy bear had been left at school. Screaming, inside, her shame and regret for being a coward, and refusing to bring this child into the world. For listening to reason rather than her heart. Her heart was tearing, a deep hollow settling inside. Cold, heavy and unforbidden; it would never leave. Frances wondered, for once, if it came close to what Hannibal had felt when his sister was killed.

A tear landed on the paper, a little circular stain that horrified her.

Frances sprang from the chair, fleeing to the master bedroom where she remained, numb, watching the course of the sun in the spotless sky. How she hoped that her other self had been reunited with Legolas. Even more, that the original Keeper of Time found love again, built a family, experienced happiness.

Here, now, the world seemed so very bleak.

Leave a little messagen, eh ? Something to tell me what you liked and disliked in this very depressing moment. I've had poeple on wattpad pointing that you can be happy without children. If I do understand this point of view, I also understand the despair that happends if you do want children and are denied. Being a mother, I know what joy it brings to the world, even when you really want to bash their heads.