We are slowly but surely sliding towards the end of that story. I don't expect more than 5 chapters left. Or so... :D

The ice slid beneath her skates. A smooth expense of solidified water, nicked by previous blades. Ringlets spinning, arms outstretched, body unbound, freedom and exhilaration… It wasn't so difficult to be happy, after all.

Frances slid and skidded, turned and jumped, her skirt flying in the wind upon the outdoor skating rink. At this time, the space was deserted enough for her to work on her crossovers. Her injured calf ached, and so did her feet. It was to be expected after a full season without skating. But the pressure of her rigid skates wasn't enough to prevent her from unleashing that wild core.

After a moment spinning in circles, Frances took a few turns counterclockwise to stabilise her sight. There. The two men of her new life slowly circled the rink. Hannibal, as a dancer and a Lithuanian, seemed as much at ease upon ice than on a wooden floor. Was there anything that man couldn't do ?

On the other hand, Will kept his hand on the railing. If water was his element in the liquid state – he had lived on a boat for years – its solid counterpart didn't much agree with him. A Louisiana boy after all.

Skating always kept you on your toes, asking for the balance to rest solely on a foot. This didn't seem to agree with the empath. Frances took off, her cheeks blazing from the effort, eyes feasting upon Hannibal. His traditional slacks clung to his lean form so deliciously. But today, the shirt had been replaced by a turtleneck. Needless to say, that casual Hannibal agreed with her just as much as his three-piece suits.

Of course … what woman would complain when the dark sweater moulded his toned chest so nicely? And from the few stares her two men gathered around the rink, from passersby or awaiting family, she knew she wasn't the only one drooling over his form. A smile lifted the corner of her lips.

Drool all you want, he's mine.

Frances skidded to a halt beside Will, surprising him as the momentum nearly threw her into him.

"Hey!" he jumped, grabbing the side tightly.

Hannibal's absence of reaction sold him; he knew where she was all along. Despite his assurance that he and Tristan were very different people, the scout's awareness never left him. The young woman grinned at Will's protest, prying his hand out of the railing.

"No, no, no…", he rambled, panic raising in his voice.

But she didn't let go.

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

The empath seemed to consider the question jokingly; Frances grimaced and hit his arm. A warm hand brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"Come, there is no need for violence," Hannibal breathed in her ear.

And to quell her protest, he kissed her square on the lips before turning to Will.

"Let her guide you, Frances will not lead you astray," Hannibal said, unable to keep the psychiatrist persona out of his voice.

There was such significance in those words, an acknowledgement that she still was their moral compass no matter what. Catching his eye, Frances nodded her thanks before she tugged at Will's right hand. This time, the empath allowed her to pry it from the railing. By his side, Hannibal offered his arm.

And thus, they started their trek across the ice, Frances skating backwards while both Hannibal and Will faced her. Little by little, the empath gained confidence, his balance adjusting to his guides. Frances smiled, then picked up speed, tugging Will along. He followed, emboldened by Hannibal's unwavering support by his side. On a whim, Frances extended her second arm for her husband. He squeezed it with his gloved one, supple leather that completed his Bond like outfit.

The circle was complete, an uncertain trio reunited by circumstances. This is how it should have been, fifteen hundred years ago. Galahad and Tristan, brothers in arms and friends no matter what. There was so much the scout could have taught the younger man at the time … so much they never got to share. But again, Galahad recoiled at Tristan's bloodlust. Today, he was just unaware of it. Or was he? Had he ever used those empath tendencies to read him?

She wondered. Frances' gaze met his clear blue eyes, and she smiled. Somewhere in this domesticity, she had forgotten that her presence had pushed Galahad, bright and luminous Galahad to kill Freddie Lounds. That she, herself, had killed for Hannibal. That he manipulated both of them, somehow, into adopting his twisted life.

Both of them were surprisingly fine with it… What love could push you to do !

Against all odds, Hannibal had managed to make them family … in a very disturbing way. Had her presence triggered it? What would have happened if Loki had not dropped her in this reality? What had she seen, prior to Thor's visit? The vision of them falling off the cliff at the beach house wasn't forgotten; she stored it in the possibilities of her mind. There existed a reality where Will had purposely brought Hannibal down with him. Another one, close to this alternate one. Another branch ?

Frances shuddered, earning an inquisitive glance from her husband. So she shrugged, and smiled. When Will had enough of circling the rink, Hannibal offered his hand to his lady for a dance.

"Will you let me lead you for a waltz?" he asked.

Frances' eyebrows shot up. Waltz steps were supposed to be easy, but she had not expected Hannibal to actually master it. Who could actually glide in a waltz nowadays ?

"I shouldn't be surprised you know how to."

For a moment, the psychiatrist seemed to summon memories. Uncertainty flashed over his face, and Frances marvelled at that easy expression that gave him a boyish look.

"Well, it will be slow and without variation, but I believe I can. My parents used to dance the waltz at the pond."

Frances stored the piece of memory he's thrown her way like a treasure; they were very few. So few that she fed on scraps of his past. But she always handled them without a fuss to ensure he would give her more, hence her good-natured response.

"I've never practised much. Figure skating was more about turns and jumps than waltzing, but it's part of the basic steps."

Hannibal nodded, then extended his gloved hand. Frances watched him, mesmerised by the way the silk in the fabric softened the cloth around his neck. Of course, the pop music didn't fit the formal mood at all. But she grasped his fingers nonetheless, too eager to dance with her husband to care. The centre of the rink was almost deserted; amateurs always kept to the sidelines.

Somewhere, she could feel Will's gaze boring holes in her back. Other people too, snuck a few glances at the odd couple that made an entrée like Olympic skaters. No doubt that Hannibal's simple, but finely tailored garments complimented her long, flowing skirt and white skates.

The psychiatrist claimed her waist, and lifted their hands with a discreet smile. His maroon eyes twinkled slightly; this held pleasurable memories to him. Suddenly, Frances didn't feel so sure anymore.

"Right, left, right, turn, is that it?"

"Follow my lead," he only responded.

And the psychiatrist proceeded to launch himself forwards, pressing her back through their linked hands. After a little fumbling, she relaxed in his arms, and proceeded to keep her feet in tune with his. They slowly glided until he lifted his leg a little higher, signalling for a turn. Frances shifted her weight, finding herself sliding onwards until his pull caused her to change foot, and on they went again. After a few tries, she fell in the familiar pattern with ease.

Hannibal gave her a proud smile; for once, he was the one leading their life. And she let him. She let him decide on the speed, the direction, and trusted him to dodge the few people that came their way. Pop was still playing, but the rhythm luckily turned tertiary.

"Thank God," Frances quipped.

And Hannibal increased their speed, picking up the rhythm as if it was the best Viennese waltz he'd ever heard. For a few precious minutes, Frances' mind blanked. Her gaze rested upon his face, her legs following him as they glided, together, in the same direction. Her chest swelled with love, her eyes feasting upon the fair features of her beloved husband. Allowing herself to rest, she got lost in the laugh lines, so faint, around his eyes. Lost in his warm gaze, his arms keeping her close, their legs dancing around each other in sync.

Frances suddenly stumbled, and she would have crashed mightily had Hannibal not caught her. The psychiatrist picked her up. Her arms wound around his shoulders so easily, as if she belonged here. Satisfied, he brought her back to the benches.

"Thank you, darling, I just created a great memory," she whispered.

Her breath tickled his neck, and he swore she kissed the cold skin before she rested her head upon his shoulder. Happy, Hannibal only shrugged.

"I owed you a dance on the ice rink, my beautiful."

"Shall we do it again?" she asked, voice laced with hope.

Hannibal smirked; he had thoroughly enjoyed it. Perhaps they could train together. Unbeknownst to his wife, he had not stepped on an ice rink for years after his parent's death. Ice dancing had been a family tradition. Replacing the late Lecter couple was a symbol, a line he had not been ready to cross until the Great Red Dragon nearly snatched his wife away from him.

"I think we might."

The psychiatrist dropped his wife upon the rubber tiles, finding Will fumbling with his phone. The empath sent him a cheeky grin.

"It's not easy to snap a shot with all this moving around, but I think I have a few good ones."

"You have made someone's day," he commented, sliding a look to his wife.

Frances looked up from her lacings with interest, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining happily.

"You also did, husband. And it will be even better with hot chocolate."

Will nodded.

"All right, I'm frozen. One hot chocolate, then I'll head home."

Alana was waiting, after all, with little Elina probably locked upon her breast.

Will set to grab a table at the café nearby, leaving the Lecter couple behind. Hannibal watched him disappear around the corner before he retrieved his lady's midnight coat. Frances smiled when he presented the garment to her and slid it upon her back. Then, as was his wont – or the tradition dictated – he fastened the buttons from top to bottom. Who knew, today, that ladies' buttons sat on the left side because they used to be fastened by someone else? Their maids or their husbands.

If he took a wild guess, probably 5% of the present population. Less? Who cared, for the smile that Frances gave him said it all; SHE knew, and she was the best present a husband could hope for. A woman of old, just like him. Offering his arm, Hannibal trailed to the exit to find that Will had secured a small table, protected from the wind by a massive trunk.

Five minutes later, he watched his wife's gentle smile as she sipped on her hot chocolate with delight. His demand to add whipped cream on top had called a satisfied redness to her cheeks. Frances loved sweetness, except in her wines.

"Thank you, Hannibal, for feeding my sweet tooth."

"A molar, no doubt," he retorted.

The young woman snorted, blowing on the hot drink once more, dipping her lips into the cup with delight. Hannibal followed her suit; it wasn't good-quality chocolate, but he could feel his muscles a little stiff from their earlier dance. It called for a little sugar in his blood.

Will's sudden shudder beside him caused him concern; the empath's blue eyes were unfocused. As if he was having a seizure.

"Will?" he asked, his voice smooth.

His friend didn't move. Hannibal exchanged a worried look with Frances, then set a hand upon Will's arm.

"Will, are you all right?"

The empath slightly moved, his gaze returning to reality. Then he stared at Frances, and squinted, as if he was trying to recall something. The psychiatrist's eyebrows shot up, curious.

"What is it?"

Will cocked his head aside, his eyes lost … lost in the recesses of his mind, picturing images others couldn't see. Just like he did on a crime scene. The psychiatrist's body tensed; was there any danker, lurking nearby? A quick scan of the area quelled his worry. Nothing amiss, nothing that could have triggered Will's strange ability, except Frances' smile upon her warm chocolate cup.

"You used to play the piano for her," Will murmured. "No. the … harpsichord. And she sang."

It was fortunate that Hannibal's mind was so quick, for Will's words should make no sense. But the trickle of sweat that ran between his shoulder blades told him his soul remembered.

"When?" he asked.

Will shook his head, disturbed by the images he'd just seen.

"I … I don't know," he stuttered.

Frances set her mug on the table, and reached for his gloved hand.

"Tell us what you see. The clothing, the people, the room."

The empath nodded, diving back into his vision with too much ease.

"There's lots of golden decoration on the walls. A wide door," he started, his voice distant. "Lots of light, high windows. And you are wearing a dress with fluff around…"

Will paused, his cheeks turning red as he gestured to her chest.

" … here. And the sleeves stop at the elbow with lace and stuff."

Both Hannibal and Frances reacted immediately.

"Louis XV."

Their synchronicity pulled Will out of his reality.

"Uh?"

Hannibal pursed his lips, unsure about what to do with this information. His mind had struggled to wrap around the idea of past lives, pulling at strings to avoid accepting reality of their fifth century meeting. But this was something new altogether. Was Will Graham seeing another instance of them both?

"France, around 1750," Hannibal whispered, his shoulders tense.

Yes. Whenever he studied that particular period called forth emotions that didn't belong; anger and sadness, in particular. He'd attributed that constriction in his chest to his dislike of Louis XV, or the thought that so many people died from lack of proper medicine at the time. But now, another explanation seemed at the tip of Will's tongue.

Could it be …? Shaking his head, the psychiatrist found Frances' eyes. There was hope embedded deep within, and he allowed himself to care for a past that might very well be his. What had happened, then, to cause such sadness in his soul?

"Will, can you tell us more?" Frances pleaded. "Are you here, with us, in the scene?"

"No. I'm not …. No, you're alone. I'm not there."

Confused, the empath took a deep inhale. His eyes sharpened. And then he saw. His gaze passed over Frances, then Hannibal. The scene painted itself, images coming and going, emotions, so strong already, between the two of them. Incredible, how those souls were already linked.

"She danced in private. Because you loved the way she moved."

His lips lifted in an incredulous smile; he had witnessed that exact same scene at the beach house the past Christmas. Hannibal on the piano, Frances dancing for him. They were only reproducing what they had done two hundred years ago.

"We were married?" the psychiatrist asked.

Will winced, taking in the frustration of those two lovers. Then he saw them … the soldiers that took him away, Frances screaming in the background. A braid of his long, dark hair in her hand; the only token of him that remained after…

"No. You were executed … you killed her husband."

Frances gasped, unable to form coherent thoughts. Executed. Hannibal had died, again, leaving her on her own.

"What about her?" Hannibal questioned, his voice faltering.

The vision changed, showing Frances dying in bed with a bad cough. Her sadness was so vivid that it nearly called tears to his eyes. There was no fluff, this time, around her collarbone. Only sunken eyes and hair in disarray around her pale face.

Beside her, a child held her hand, maroon eyes flecked with gold as he swallowed his tears. His prominent cheekbones and those characteristic lips stood out like a beacon. And while Frances asked for forgiveness, the child climbed into bed beside her.

"She died of pneumonia … heartbroken."

Frances bit her lip, her gaze returning to Hannibal. And he read in her eyes that horrible truth; if he was taken from her, she would simply wither like a plant without sunshine. That certainty – that he had once found preposterous – had already happened. This is how she knew, deep down, what would happen to her if she lost him again.

It was little wonder Frances had attached herself to Tristan during her mission in the fifth century. The memory of their love was embedded in her. Affection from her past life, but that lay in Tristan's future … because of her ability to travel back through time. Had they broken the curse, somehow, by marrying in this timeline?

The psychiatrist reached for his wife's hand, his fingers caressing her knuckles. He was there, now. But Will wasn't finished, for he returned from his vision with a piercing stare.

"Hannibal… Her son. He looked like you."

Frances blanched, her fingers crushing his in a tight grip. Sometimes, in the history of earth, she had given him a child. Swallowing the thousand considerations that threatened to overwhelm his mind, Hannibal nodded.

"That makes sense," he stated, leaving Frances' hand to recline in his seat.

And despite his detached, professional statement, they weren't fooled.

"What makes sense?" Will asked.

"Hot chocolate was Louis XV's favourite drink."

What was meant as a jab opened a can of worms as the empath's brow furrowed.

"Yes! Yes!" he exclaimed, turning to Frances with a start. "I saw you, with that exact same smile, inhaling the vapour from your cup."

The young woman fondled with the mug as she caught his meaning.

"You mean it triggered the vision?"

This time, Will started bouncing on his seat with grand gestures.

"Yes. That's it. I just saw you with that ridiculous dress, and your hair piled up…"

Frances shook her head, analysis. For sure, eighteen European century garments must have seemed totally alien to him … and she couldn't fault him. Those layers and panniers were a pain in the… But Will was already turning to Hannibal. She had no issues imagining him with a long, deep green vest and breeches. But he would never wear a wig, especially not with his luscious hair.

" … and then I saw him, playing the harpsichord. You had very dark hair, long, tied up at the nape."

As Will spoke of his vision, the details becoming clearer, Frances seemed to fall into a state of deep thought. Hannibal kept the empath busy, giving her a little space to process those details. She was grateful for it; something in that whole story didn't add up. How could Will retrieve such memories, if he wasn't part of them? He'd shown such abilities regarding the fifth century because he lived in it, but what he described, here, had happened without his presence. And those crime scenes…

Suddenly, the light bulb ignited in her brain. Frances straightened upon her chair so abruptly that her companions started.

"You don't have an empathy disorder, Will," she stated. "You are a medium."

The empath returned a look that would have put flying saucers to shame.

"What? I don't see ghosts."

"There are many kinds of medium, Will. And what you see … those crime scenes as well, you shouldn't be able to gather that information if you were just an empath. There are details that do not pertain to the killer's mind. You see what happened, period."

"But …?"

Frances turned to Hannibal, hoping for his support. Would he dismiss her idea altogether? Fortunately, the psychiatrist was too curious by this new direction to pull the rug from under her.

"Think, Will. Remember the little girl's placement, in the bedroom upstairs? And that alarm code you shouldn't have known about."

"That… OK. It is crazy."

Bouncing in her seat with enthusiasm, Frances started compiling all the possibilities.

"You could…"

The young woman swallowed, halted mid-sentence by a sudden realisation.

Will could know anything about anyone, really. If he just concentrated on Hannibal, or a picture of those crimes scenes, he would see the Chesapeake Ripper.

Fortunately, Hannibal's mind was quicker than her emotions; he had spent so many years hiding that misleading a conversation was his second nature.

"Perhaps you could consider evolving in your assignment, then, and use this gift differently."

Frances nodded vehemently, relieved.

"Find missing people, for example," Hannibal followed. "Interrogate suspects, or work with social services. Anything, really."

This particular idea caused Will's eyes to brighten in hope. Being a father seemed to tug at his heartstrings differently. Perhaps it also dwelt with his missing mother. At any rate, they needed to push him away from the criminal section as fast as possible; he must never watch those Chesapeake pictures again. Who knew when he would master the visions?

Until now, Will had always restricted himself to seeing the crime scene through the eyes of a killer. But he now knew he could step away, and watch the scene from another point of view.

And while they elaborated on the idea, the young woman couldn't help but catch Hannibal's gaze. Will was even more dangerous now than he used to be. And despite the precious information he had given them about their past lives – a vision that shook her badly – they would have to be twice as careful when speaking to him.

It would take just a suspicion to call a vision about Hannibal. One. And all would be lost.