The sound of music reached him when he ascended the stairs, ready for a shower and a change of clothes. Pausing for a moment, Hannibal chose to climb to the second level, if only to let his wife know he was home. Since he doubted she ignored it, Frances would appreciate the courtesy … and a kiss. Today was, after all, a special day.
He couldn't help but listen to the words – slightly off tune – that tumbled out of the lead singer. Telephone, a French group in vogue in the 90s, disparaged the Cinderella fairytale. And he had to admit that, even if the music was rather crude and simplistic, the lyrics caused his lips to quirk. Cinderella, the junkie … supplanted by sleeping beauty. Typical French cynism.
When in her den, Frances sometimes played the French radio through her computer. It was, for her, a way to keep in touch with whatever happened on the other side of the Altantic. One last attempt to keep her integrity, by tapping into childhood memories. And despite the twenty years that separated them, it wasn't this particular disparity that created the biggest gap.
Their background couldn't be more different. Frances, daughter of socialist teachers, growing up in a loving house with little money. He, the heir of Lecter Castle, sheltered by an uncle who bore the title of Count and owned a domain worth several millions.
And while Frances listened to pop songs in the 90's, Hannibal had already been waltzing and playing the harpsichord. Evolving in the highest circles of society, with Lady Murasaksi to guide him. And when he compared their very different circumstances, the psychiatrist couldn't help but wonder how his wife had gained this poise… and her manners. Nothing, in her childhood, could have taught her this. Nothing could have brought her to be the Keeper of Time either.
And so, this is how he had come to give more credit to reincarnation – aside from the scarce memories of Tristan. The 'nature versus nurture' becoming a more intricate blend than the standard ethical view; could nature be influenced by the past nurture? If not, how could one explain that a woman born in the working class bore herself like a princess? And fought like a general? That her smile, if welcoming, could freeze a man to death, like the noble ladies of old? That she could throw herself in battle without giving in to the flight instinct?
Hannibal's silent steps reached the second floor, and he poked his head in the opening of Frances' sewing atelier … only to find her, half-naked, clad in the most delicious lace corset. Dentelle de Calais, for sure, with suspenders that kept her stockings in place. The silk shone upon her long legs, emphasising every curve, especially the toned shape of her calves.
Hannibal's mouth dried; she was such a delight !
Of course, Frances was humming to the tune, ironing her silk dress for the evening. The deep, peacock green colour would compliment her pale skin and reddish hair. And there seemed to be quite a great amount of fabric; flare skirt, without a doubt. Frances wasn't one for the siren, sultry look.
It seemed devoid of adornments; the lace would be worn beneath for once. A concealed surprise for her husband, hidden from the rest of the world. And what a surprise! The lace corset left everything to the imagination … a quality he had no lack of.
Hannibal closed his mouth, catching her twinkling gaze as he smiled.
"Your lingerie gets more addictive every day, my beautiful."
Her answering smile warmed his cold body – it was still below freezing outside.
"I had to hunt this in Washington," she responded, smoothing a wrinkle carefully. "There is no Aubade shop anywhere in Baltimore."
"The French always knew how to make appetisers."
There was no mistaking the innuendo, but Frances kept her cool demeanour as she bent over the ironing table. Her breasts, deliciously rounded, seemed about to spill over the corset, calling for his attention. Yet they remained firm in the face of adversity, and behaved when she inhaled deeply, keeping to their lair inside the lace garment.
How difficult it was to look her in the eye; Hannibal couldn't help but feast upon the sight of her bosom. Yes, his grandmother's necklace would adorn her pale skin beautifully, donning that delicious expense of flesh with a touch of luxury. The fact that he had not seen those pearls for forty-five years added to the significance of the gift.
Would Frances realise how precious they were to him? He knew his wife to be partial about anything that came from the sea. Hopefully, she wouldn't ask too many questions; he didn't want to have that conversation yet. The latest parcel from Lady Murasaki – his aunt and former lover – was a subject he didn't want to breach on their first year anniversary. The letter unsettled him, and he didn't quite know what to tell Frances about his aunt's scolding.
Yes, Lady Murasaki was displeased he had married without even a warning. Was it jealousy, or fear for his too young wife? Would she try to pry Frances away from him, or direct her annoyance to her ?
"Hannibal ?"
The psychiatrist shook himself out of his reverie.
"Forgive me, your beauty is so enthralling that my mind couldn't help but wander."
Frances tilted her head aside, an interrogation written upon her features; she wasn't fooled. But a smirk lifted the corner of her lips.
"Believe me, you haven't seen the best of it."
And so, she lasciviously straightened and, stowing the iron away, turned around. Hannibal's jaw went slack. Beneath the dark lace of the corset peeked a mischievous interlacing of ribbons that adorned the see-through panties. His blood ran south at once; the contrast of her creamy skin with the delicate black lace giving him oh, so many ideas !
The psychiatrist prided himself in his ability to always remain level-headed. But right now, he really didn't want to. He that always felt cold, inside, was now relishing in the boiling of his blood. It took barely two steps for him to wrap a possessive hand around her waist, and attack her mouth with as little restraint he could muster. His tongue pushed her delicious lips apart, calling hers in a dance he was familiar with. Already, his other hand was caressing those pieces of skin still available to the touch.
"You look good enough to eat," he eventually growled, leaving her swollen lips.
The young woman stood on her tip toes, her eyes sparkling – good, the temptress was affected as well – before she kissed his nose. The warmth of her hand permeated through the thin cotton of his shirt.
"You will unwrap your present after the performance, darling. Hurry before we are late."
And Hannibal could only nod; lateness was horribly rude, after all. Yet, he started the shower with an extra spray of cold water.
The interlude was proving less annoying than usual. Perhaps because the opera – Romeo and Juliet – was performed with heart and skill. Perhaps Frances was getting used to those fake smiles, and the presence of Mrs Komeda that had softened in the past year. Visibly, the middle-aged woman had missed them while they were gone. Perhaps it was the gift, bestowed by her husband, that warmed her heart entirely.
The pearls sat at her neck, and Frances couldn't help but feel proud to wear such an important family heirloom. She recalled easily Hannibal's low tone and his misty eyes when he had clasped them around her neck. Somewhere, in the depths and layers of hurt and broken mental structures, a peek of the boy had shown. And his smile, wistful, when his warm hand had touched the necklace upon her collarbone…
"What do you think, from a feminine point of view?"
Frances blinked, turning to the man who had been trying to catch her attention for the past five minutes. Tall, blond, handsome enough to know women fell at his feet, he was addressing her his best toothpaste commercial smile. And she had no clue what they were talking about; her mind was far too ensconced in Hannibal's moods… and his absence at her arm. Lost in her little world, Frances addressed a sheepish look to Mrs Komeda.
"I doubt Frances would agree with your analysis, Mr Danek," the woman quipped, her dark straight hair bobbing.
Mind running a mile a minute, Frances tried to catch a glimpse of her husband – who had gone in search of champagne – to avoid responding. But the financial director just wouldn't let it go, and his hazel eyes returned to her.
"Ah, but I thought that women solidarity applied to this case."
What the heck were they talking about? Juliet, probably … who had faked her death without warning her lover, the end result being rather catastrophic. Talk about a plan gone wrong… The Keeper of Time laughed inwardly. Shakespeare really loved drama, but he wouldn't have lasted a minute in real life. Fortunately, Frances was better at laying plans than the poet. Not to say that it always worked…
Mr Danek's was still waiting for a response, and she roamed her mind to find a platitude that might apply to any situation. Fortunately, a smooth voice saved her from making a fool of herself.
"My wife has the strangest habit to stray from usual paths."
Frances' posture relaxed; she could smell Hannibal's familiar cologne, feel his warmth beside her, and she addressed him a beaming look. The psychiatrist handed her a glass with flourish, his eyes cringing at the corner. Frances nodded her thanks and leant into him, calling for his other hand to snake around her waist.
There, all was well in the world. So when the couple turned to Mr Danek, they found him a little crestfallen.
"Oh, I didn't know you were the infamous lady that claimed Dr Lecter."
Frances took a sip of her glass, waiting to see if Hannibal wanted to handle this. Heeding his silence, she addressed Mr Danek a proud smile.
"Yes, I am. I guess people are still talking about it, even after a year."
The tall man nodded grimly; he didn't even attempt to disguise his disappointment. Hannibal squeezed her waist and kissed her cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than should have been acceptable in public; he was stating his claim once more.
Frances' obvious delight didn't escape the financial director who kept small talk flowing for a minute before excusing himself. Mrs Komeda tutted slightly, exchanging a knowing look with Hannibal before her attention returned to Frances.
"That dress is delightful, my dear."
And her green eyes conveyed her appreciation. As a brunette, the older woman was adorning a long crimson dress that emphasised her lean features. Compared to the others, Mrs Komeda didn't flaunt her riches. The novelist, nearly seventy years of age, wasn't vain enough for strass, insane amount of sequins and ridiculous adornments. It was little wonder she appreciated the simplicity of Frances' dress, even though its price was still five times higher than anything she had owned before entering Hannibal's life.
But the cost resided in the quality of the cloth, something that Hannibal could appreciate. A good seamstress and proper fabric had created a dress fitted for her. A dress that didn't scream "look at me, I'm rich", but rather the understated quality of nobility. And those pearls only emphasised Frances' simple gown.
"So, is this how you celebrate your first year anniversary?", the novelist asked. "No dinner party ?"
There she went again. Hannibal smiled at her pout, and Frances kept silent. She knew what her husband used to serve at those parties, and wondered if he would ever indulge in the pleasure of having guests without serving human meat. Fortunately, Mrs Komeda didn't let her linger on the fact that she might be depriving him, once more, of another hobby.
"Well, I understand the need for a more private celebration on this occasion. With my first husband, we didn't emerge for a week on our wedding anniversary."
This time, Frances outwardly laughed. If she had not seen eye to eye with that woman in the first place, she was starting to appreciate her frankness. In the sea of courtesans and powerful people, Mrs Komeda didn't mince her words. She understood why Hannibal appreciated her company.
"Unfortunately, I still have patients."
The brunette scrunched her nose in disgust, turning to Frances with a meaningful look.
"And you let him out of the house?"
"I doubt I could keep him in," she quipped. "Hannibal is very civilised, but he still weighs fifty more pounds than I."
And Frances couldn't help but remember how some bruises had yet to heal after their early January fight. If she attacked him, would she even win? Hannibal was more brutal, more powerful than she ever would be. Her only saving grace was her technique.
"True. And when that man wants something…"
Both women shared a meaningful look, before the novelist returned to her line of thoughts.
"Anyway. So, tell me, no lavish gift ?"
The young woman met Hannibal's gaze, finding his eyes watching her with fondness. Smiling, she kissed the corner of his mouth.
"I was spoiled with a family heirloom. Those pearls are worth the world to me."
Mrs Komeda nodded thoughfully.
"This is a queenly gift."
But none of the Lecters acknowledged her, lost in each other's gaze. At last, Hannibal gave his wife a soft smile before he condescended to return to Mrs Komeda.
"My grandmother was Italian. So was Frances' great-grandmother. It seemed fitting she would inherit those pearls. Something born of the sea for which they all shared the fondness."
Frances kept her snort silent; what a loaded statement! Hannibal's smooth tones still graced her ears, and she listened as he charmed the brunette woman.
"Like all coastal people, Italians had a mixed relationship with the sea. I think my wife illustrates that mind set perfectly."
Mrs Komeda lifted an eyebrow over her glass, wondering what she was missing.
"Does she ?"
Frances smiled.
"Ah yes, I am addicted to the sea. I could spend days watching the waves, and forget to eat and sleep."
"A dangerous hobby", the novelist concluded.
And the only sign that her husband slightly tensed was the sharp shape of his shoulder, clad in his tuxedo. She listened to his voice, waves rolling over her, charming and dangerous. Just like the sea that surrounded her; the only element that tamed the fire of her hair, the fire within.
Water had always called to her. Dangerous, and refilling at the same time. It was little wonder she had nearly died within its depths.
An hour passed in drinks and laughter; Frances was proud to cling to Hannibal's arm as they were greeted by old acquaintances. But after a few rounds, Dr Lecter eventually whispered to his wife that he was quite up to "unwrap his present". Cheeks ablaze – perhaps the third glass of champagne had eventually gotten to her head - Frances allowed her husband to lead her to his Bentley.
They had just closed the front door when Frances' phone started blinking in her bag. Hannibal frowned as he hung his coat; she usually kept it silent at this hour. His interrogative gaze, darkened by the lack of light in the corridor, only earned a concerned pout from Frances as she fished the device out of her bag.
"There are only two people that set it off when it's silent mode," she said, her voice urgent. "And one of them is right before me."
This sent the warning bell into his mind. Was Will in danger ? She lighted the screen and typed in the password. Hannibal watched raptly when Frances' tense features morphed into an incredulous smile.
"What it is?"
The young woman didn't respond, choosing to give him the mobile instead. And while his brain tried to make sense of the picture he was seeing, Frances slid below his arm and snuggled against his tall frame.
Fascinated, they both watched the sleeping face of a newborn, safely tucked in Alana's arms. And despite the pang of regrets that greeted them, Hannibal and Frances alike couldn't ignore the warmth that spread in their chest. A new life!
"Elina was born on the 24th of January. She weighs 7 pounds and measures 19 inches. Baby and mother are safe and sound and hope to see you soon."
"Elina," Hannibal murmured, the memory of Mischa's first days as fresh in his mind as if it was yesterday.
Frances nodded, mesmerised by the little bundle.
"She looks so tiny."
And her words were barely a whisper in the darkened corridor.
"That's a pretty average weight for birth."
"I don't speak anything other than metric," she deadpanned.
Hannibal chuckled, squeezing his wife by his side while he converted.
"3.5 kg, and about 49 cm. Good for a newborn."
Frances' eyebrows scrunched in the darkness, but Hannibal had no issues seeing her puzzled expression.
"I don't remember what my little brother weighed…"
3.250 kg. This had been Mischa's weight at birth, and he remembered it. Just as much as her blond curls who always bounced merrily.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Frances concluded.
Hannibal nodded, watching as she dropped the phone into her purse, and unfastened the first buttons of her midnight blue coat.
"We can visit on Sunday."
Taking a step forward, he chased her hands gently, eager to complete the task. Frances sent him a questioning look, her face so close that he could smell the champagne in her breath. The psychiatrist approached slowly, his deft fingers working on the third button when his forehead gently touched hers.
"In the meantime, I'd like to convey that even though today is Elina's first day, it also is our first year anniversary and I was promised a present in form of a wife."
He felt, more than he saw Frances' lips gently curve. The darkness covered his lustful look, and his hands pushed the heavy woollen coat from her shoulders. Breath short, Frances titled her head upwards, giving his fingers the perfect spot to grab her nape and dive for her mouth. His tongue swiped at her delicious lips, his arms surrounding her, providing a safe place where she could surrender. Frances moaned against his mouth, her little tongue entwining with his, calling forth his animal instinct. The slack became uncomfortable and Hannibal groaned. He hoisted her little frame against his, her long silken skirt spilling over his arm.
"To bed, little fairy," he rasped.
"Yes, husband," she breathed in his ear.
Hannibal was hell-bent on unwrapping his present, and making sure that his wife had nothing to complain about when she fell asleep this very night.
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