September 2008
The light filtered through the heavy curtains of deep blue, causing Frances to stir lazily. It felt so good not to have an alarm clock ready to spill them out of bed at an ungodly hour. So incredibly wonderful to turn around and snuggle against a warm chest, Hannibal's steady heartbeat firm against her palm. Frances buried her face in his chestnut curls, inhaling deeply to surround herself in his fragrance. His arm tightened around her with a hum, and they both relished in the embrace for a long time before the psychiatrist lifted his head.
— "Good morning, my beautiful"
Frances shifted, resting her arms upon his chest to take in his sleepy form. His light brown eyes were already sharp, but the tousled hair gave him a more casual air. As if the conventions embedded in him from childhood had not settled in yet.
— "Good morning, handsome," she responded, reaching for the loose strands to smooth them away from his face.
Hannibal gave her a soft smile; her regard always caused his chest to swell with pride. And he had to admit that those days, filled with nothing but their goodwill, allowed for the bond between them to tighten. He lived to please her, and it gave him more time to learn who she was. For in the past year of their acquaintance, he had brushed an outline of her character. Yet, the events, Bella's death, the Red Dragon, Tobias' murder attempt, Will's encephalitis had not left them much time to concentrate on their marriage. Needless to say that Frances, at barely twenty six, had more to offer than a pretty façade. He learnt more of her every day, and she let him. She let him delve deep in her mind and memories, paint an outline of her character, knowing that he could use it against her whenever it pleased him. A willing suicide, putting her trust into his hands as if he was the sun, and she, a flower dependant on his moods. A humbling surrender.
Hannibal wanted to build memories, and share his just as much. And in between those delightful moments passed in bed, he found her more alive here, in Italy, than she had ever been in Baltimore. A housewife she could be, but it only engulfed a little part of her character. Italy suited them both; their ancestors were calling back to the origins.
Hannibal gently dragged Frances in the walk-in shower – one of his housing criteria had been the bathroom. He loved those moments where his senses could spread out; her sensuality ensured that all five of them would be stimulated properly. He watched the water trail along her soft curves, reddish hair sticking to her skin as she worked a lather between her little hands. She didn't understand why he called her my beautiful; now, she shrugged it off as one of his eccentric views of the world. Of course, Frances knew she was lovely enough: high cheekbones, refined features, long ringlets of fiery hair, curves over a lean form. Charm to the dozen, she wasn't a classic beauty, per se.
He'd seen many beautiful women try to land in his lap... They didn't reach her ankle. What made her utterly enthralling were her postures. The slight bend of her strong calf – sculpted by the ice skating - as she called him her. The way she held her head, like a classical dancer, her slender neck always poised. The delicate set of her hands as she gently wiped his chest with the soap, massaging the foam into his curls with a gentle, yet firm hand. That intelligent gaze, sparkling with mischief whenever her quick wit found some amusement. The sharpness of her jaw when resolve set in. Did she even realise how alike they were ?
In her veins flooded the same blood as his. Blood of a gentlewoman, for she was not excessively polite like servants tend to do. Just the right amount, ensuring compliance and dominance without ever realising it. She exuded the same air of nobility. And if past lives really existed – which he didn't quite doubt now – he was quite sure Frances had lived many a time as a noble. Just like he had, after dying, probably reincarnated in the lineage of chieftains. Count Lecter had just been the end of the line. He was the last… and it would remain so.
Frances' hand caressed his skin gently, calling his mind back to here and now. And he watched cautiously how her muscles played along her golden skin as she washed him, her breasts brushing the sensitive skin of his back when she locked both of her arms around his tall frame and laid her head against his shoulder blade. Hannibal's hand grabbed hers, squeezing her soapy fingers in gratitude for the love and care she bestowed upon him at every turn. She wasn't his first lover; at fifty, he had a long row of women who has shared his bed, and his life for a while. But he certainly had no regrets asking her to be his wife. If felt good to be loved from the heart, so unconditionally. Foreign, as well, but thrilling.
He turned around in her arms, capturing her wet lips in a searing kiss before letting go.
— "My turn, now, little wife"
Frances smiled, climbing on her toes to swipe her tongue across his lips. Needless to say that it took them slightly longer than planned to get ready.
When at last, they were dressed and groomed, Hannibal offered his arm to his lovely wife and they took the grand staircase down to the reception. Ready to visit every corner of Firenze, his beloved city.
Seven days were not enough to convey his fondness for the place that had welcomed him so many years ago. The one where he had found inspiration, and become Il Mostro di Firenze. And, strangely enough, while he told Frances about it – in front of the 'Primavera' painting from Boticelli – he detected a certain pride on her chocolate eyes… right before her morals kicked in. Was she starting to see the world as he did ? Was he permeating into her ? It seemed that, showing her his vision, sharing their lives without interruption from the outside world, she was starting to soak him in.
She revolved around him, and he, around her. Two suns, who didn't know who led the dance anymore. For once, he was content to let his ascendancy loosen in favour of his wife. Of course, his age, experience and intelligence would not lessen; his brain kicked in everything he did. From the smallest of whiffs to the most insignificant stone, Hannibal couldn't help but think. He found that Frances welcomed every one of his tergiversations, going to great length to understand his train of thought and managing more often than not without the slightest effort. But he didn't feel like a teacher anymore. After the strain of the past months, after seeing her savagery, her inner strength, the multiple layers of her mind, Hannibal found that he welcomed understanding rather than domination.
He wanted a companion; the one he attempted to find in Will when she stepped into his life. Frances welcomed him with open arms. Listening, watching, touching, kissing, loving him. A never ending momentum that brought him a measure of peace he had never experienced in the past. As if, for a moment, he had found his place in the world.
It was just as well, especially when her little tongue flickered like this around the Gelato he had just bought for her. He'd never been much of an ice cream admirer, but Italian gelati could outshine any ice cream in the world. The taste was a reminiscence, a call to childhood. Seated in view of the Ponte Vecchio, a throw's stone away from the Galleria, Hannibal suddenly felt twenty years younger. And he wondered what he might have become if Frances had been by his side in those decisive moments.
Would she have accepted him ? Fought him tooth and nails ? Sold him to Inspector Pazzi ? Would she have seen the beauty where it lay, understood the colours of his world like she seemed to do today ?
It was no use speculating over it; those days were over. And she was here, now, his little voice. And while her tongue flickered again around the ice cream, he leant over the diminutive table to steal a kiss like a commoner. What those lips could do to him… mmm. It had been a while since she didn't have him crush the sheets in the feverish throes of passion, her tongue taking care of him. Would he have to ask ?
Hannibal sighed contentedly, setting his sunglasses back to shield his eyes. Yes, Firenze definitely was his favourite city.
Venezia welcomed them at the end of September. Still warm, but devoid of the masses of tourists that transformed into an unwelcoming furnace in august. Their accommodation consisted of a town house, the likes destroyed in the James Bond Casino Royale, albeit it didn't overlook the great canal. Its private garden, perfectly groomed, held a few stairs that plunged directly into the Venetian sea.
Frances watched as embarkations of all types criss-crossed the Adriatic, happy that warm evenings didn't raise the smell of empty canals like the furnaces of summer did. Her first visit in Venezia didn't hold many good memories; tourists and smells had been enough to repel her thoroughly. The muddish colour of the sea did not hold much appeal either; Venezia wasn't a good place to bathe. Perhaps in the outskirts, where the horizon was more open and the waters not so crowded. But again, she'd never quite loved the northern Adriatic. Whether in Venezia or Bibione, she found the waters too calm, too murky, too tame. Frances needed rocks and waves, power and wildness.
But here, now, stowed away like an lady of old in a quiet house that was built centuries ago, she still found a measure of peace. Hannibal knew how to spice up any place that held history; architecture, bridges, costumes, the slightest street name caused him to erupt in a flurry of anecdotes. His edeitic memory resurfaced so easily in those moment, and she took the measure of his powerful mind. For even if she tended to recall unsignificant things she'd read, here and there, and stow it away for years, she didn't remember all. Hannibal did.
Fifty years of knowledge were stored in his brain, and yet, he never shied away from learning more. More powerful than a walking encyclopedia, for aside from knowing poems, lores, and history by heart, he also knew how to link it. How the human psyche had caused this or that particular event to go south, how the Dogeressa's lover created a scandal, how people's mores had turned the tide of history. It was remarkable. Even in her short life, even after meeting Kings and knights, Hannibal won the competition of the most knowledgeable man she had ever met.
Such a pity that he didn't teach history; he'd had quite a fan club. But Hannibal wasn't cut of this cloth, the casualty rate in his class would be stronger than any para training in the military. Mediocrity simply couldn't coexist. Frances sighed, her hand running along the linen shirt she had stolen from him. She felt honoured that he had not discarded her.
Speaking of the devil… silent feet approached her, crunching the grass under his nimble toes. He had been speaking with the tenant of the house barely ten minutes ago, sharing confidences and whatnot. She didn't turn around to greet him, waiting for him to make his presence known.
Sketchpad in hand, the psychiatrist settled in the stairs beside her, his back to the wall. His hand draped over his bent leg, a picture of nonchalance and regality as the beige shirt swayed around him. Caught in the breeze, his silky strands fell upon his brow, obscuring his right eye that still peeked at her behind its curtains of blond and ash. The setting sun outlined his cheekbones, the orange hue lightening his amber eyes with molten gold. So beautiful…
His gaze roamed over her, taking in her casual appearance. No make-up, hair loose upon her shoulders, ringlets of fire contrasting against the white linen of his shirt. Her features relaxed, so beautiful in the sunlight…
The words of the tenant came back to him, and his hold slightly tightened upon the sketchpad. "I shouldn't… my boss would kill me, but I must tell you. There's a killer in the streets, he rapes women and kills them. They… they always have long hair". He had thanked the man profusely, promising to prevent Frances from wandering around. Not that she couldn't take care of herself, but the idea of another man laying his hands upon her, even if it was the last thing he did before she broke both of his arms, made his blood boil. Had the Red Dragon not been shot by Will, he would have cut his arms himself for daring laying a finger upon her.
Frances was his. Period. And seeing her wear his clothes brought the possessiveness to a whole new level. The beast was pleased.
— "Your frame takes this shirt to a whole new level of elegance, my beautiful"
Her eyebrows rose, her cheeks tinted pink by the compliment.
— "You do look awfully handsome yourself, I dare say", she responded.
— "Chiesa della pieta' will hold a Vivaldi concert tomorrow night. Would you like to attend ?"
Frances nodded her assent, her gaze returning to the sea. Hannibal made a note, in his mind, to get two seats for the concert and drag her out for dinner beforehand. But it wasn't the reason he had reached for her today. No.
The psychiatrist handed the sketchpad to his wife, the drawing of her rounded belly turned to the sky. Pain shot through her eyes, pain that echoed to his. He didn't hate himself for rubbing salt into that wound, shame only belonged to inferior being who couldn't embrace their greatness.
— "You had shed tears on your motherhood", he stated.
Frances pursed her lips, her gaze returning to the murky waters.
— "So have you", she responded, her tone as neutral as his.
Hannibal's lips nearly quirked up; this was why he respected her so much. She had seen through his attempt to unbalance her, looking for his motivation, turning the subject back to him. She had pried, with oysters pliers, to extract the substance of his words. And nailed it.
— "Yes. I have"
And this little admission caused her eyes to widen slightly. Hannibal gracefully closed the distance between them, settling upon the stone step right behind her to enclose her in the safety of his arms. Frances reclined against him, letting his awkward affection and reassurance soothe her aches as he turned another page. Showing her, for the first time, his most personal sketches. There were many, many other of herself. Some of Will, some of random places he remembered. The next page caused something to stir deep in his heart, and his knuckles turned white on the sketchpad. For Mischa smiled at him, her chubby face devoid of any anguish. Happy.
— "Mischa ?", she asked.
And Hannibal could only swallow the lump on his throat, thanking his pickiness to have chosen an intelligent woman to share his life. Her hand hoovered over the child' cheeks without touching it. Another thing for which he was thankful – touching always smeared the grease of the 2B pencil.
— "You share she cheekbones. Her eyes were blue ?"
Clear, like a summer's sky. Almost translucent, sometimes.
— "Yes. Inherited from my father"
— "Beautiful", she whispered.
… but she would always remain a child in his eyes, for she had not been granted the chance to grow up. Frances seemed enthralled by Mischa's gaze, her eyes taking in the drawing and its incredible details.
— "Would you rather like my eyes blue?", he suddenly asked.
The young woman blinked, turning to watch his face earnestly. Her delicate hand grazed his cheek, and Hannibal closed his eyes on instinct. Grounding himself in the touch.
— "No. I wouldn't want you changed, you are beautiful as you are, Hannibal."
His chest clenched painfully, so tightly that he wondered if he was having a cardiac arrest. Frances' arms wound around him, careful not to tousle the sheets of the sketchpad. She hugged him gently, caressing his hair, wondering, perhaps, what had triggered this bout of uncertainty. She would never know… never know what her acceptance meant. To hear that she didn't want him changed, that she loved him as he was almost too much to bear. He had not felt such emotion since Mischa's death. For the first time in his long life, someone saw him, loved him, and accepted all parts of him. Even the ones she didn't agree with.
— "Will you sing for me ?", he asked.
Frances pulled away, searching his face for a moment. Her golden flecked eyes bore into his soul, asking for his mood.
— "Which one ?", she asked.
— "Our wedding song"
An incredulous look greeted that statement, her lips pursing; what a demanding man ! But again, even if he enjoyed hearing her sing 'A la claire fontaine' because it reminded him of times past, Hannibal enjoyed Opera more than a good meal.
— "Do you have any idea how long I had to train for that one ?"
Hannibal dropped a kiss at the corner of her mouth, a small encouragement. Yes, it was a difficult piece; she had been sneaky enough to slaved over it behind closed doors. The present was all the more precious for it; he would never forget that day. That voice, surrounding him, laying her love at his feet in a language only he understood. A light in his life.
— "Take it a little lower", he suggested.
A discrete smile lifted the corner of her lips, her warm chocolate gaze betraying her fondness for the stubborn man she had chosen to marry.
— "Va bene, amore. Andiamo sul' ponte Vecchio" (Very well, my love. Let's go to the Ponte Vecchio)
Hannibal's features brightened slightly; her italian flowed so easily for someone who had studied it for barely a year. Once more, her talent with foreign languages reminded him of himself. She moulded into the accent so easily, and used her impressive memory to soak into idiomatic expression. Just like him. They had, after all, three common languages, albeit she fell short in latin, and of course, Lithuanian. He'd had to teach her… hoping she wouldn't try to reciprocate with elvish.
The psychiatrist' nudged Frances nose with his own, closing the sketchpad on the step to slide his hand into her locks. They parted like water, smooth and disciplined against his fingers. His head dipped to capture her lips in a gentle kiss, his tongue swiping at them in delight before he let his forehead rest against her.
— "Si, bellisima", he murmured.
A peck on his lips, then she pulled away with a smile.
— "Ah, I've been upgraded"
The psychiatrist smiled at the jab – Bellissima would translate as 'very beautiful' – when she turned away, her gaze joining his in the sea as she settled in his arms.
— "It's the language of all passions, after all", he whispered in her ear.
Frances shivered then took a deep breath. Her hand grabbed his, knuckles caressing his darker skin before she started singing. And when her voice gently rose over the still waters of the Venezian bay, Hannibal stored this intimate moment in his memory palace, giving it a full room.
A little present for new Year. Pleaaaaaaaaaase review ? As a present for my new year ? Pretty please ? Just say what's in your head (aside from 'I ate an apple today')