She stared at the wedding band, that beautiful and simple design that used to reside around his elegant finger. The pinkish hue that complimented his natural complexion, the absence of diamonds that adorned her own. Beautiful, yet manly. Just like him.

Gentle hands clasped the jewel in her hands, closing her fingers around the symbol of her married life. A symbol of the past. Never again would she fall asleep beside Hannibal in the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets. Never again would she kiss his chest, and rest her head upon his heart to allow the sturdy beat to lull her to sleep. Never again would she find him, clad in that red sweater she adored, cooking breakfast for her.

Never again.

That life was gone.

Heartbroken, Frances wiped the tears from her eyes and met Alana's gaze. She remembered the stunned expression on her beautiful features when Hannibal had been brought to the interrogation room. Alana, who had recommended Hannibal to Jack himself to take care of Will. A man she trusted, a man she admired, a man who had guided and mentored her, shared his unique perspective and pushed her to the very limits to make her a better psychiatrist.

A serial killer, wolf in sheep's clothing who had fooled her from the very beginning.

"Are you the Chesapeake Ripper?", Jack asked, his face serious.

Frances' heart constricted. This was it. Will had discovered him… Heartbroken, the empath had done his duty. And despite Frances' pleas, her husband refused to expose her any further; he would take the brunt of it. One last act of love… or pride. The slight hesitation of Jack's voice didn't reflect in Hannibal's eyes when he responded regally.

"Yes."

Frances wobbled on her feet, Will hoisted her up. He thought she was discovering it, just like he had. He thought she was betrayed by the love of her life, believed her emotion to be shock at hearing the truth. How could he possibly imagine she'd known all along ?

"Did you kill Marisa Schur?"

Hannibal's eyes travelled to the tainted glass. He knew she stood on the other side.

"Yes. And many, many more before her."

Frances fell to her knees, chest reaped apart. Tears sprang from her eyes, and she curled into a ball, sobbing her heart out. There wasn't any fight left in her… no reason to fight anymore. And even thought she should have felt relieved that the chess game was over, that she wouldn't have to mobilise her mind in hopes to outwit her cunning husband… there was nothing but emptiness in her heart.

Soft arms wound around her, the arms of a mother. Alana's good heart reaching out, when her own mind felt so wretched.

Alana who was now handing her Hannibal's wedding band, because he couldn't keep jewels in that horrible Prison for the Criminally Insane. The degradation went to his clothes – that horrible jumpsuit was an insult. They had cut his hair shorter… why ?

Why ?

She wondered, day after day, when her hand rested upon the glass, watching his long fingers when they settled on the other side, his palms facing hers in the futile attempt to touch her.

Why, why, why ?

Months passed, and Frances moved out of Hannibal's house. People had tagged its beautiful front door. Cannibal, it read in bold, fat letters. But it wasn't the reason she had left… its emptiness was so heavy upon her heart. Walking into that house, full of memories, only fuelled the loneliness. His absence was an never ending wound, a well of despair filled with sadness.

Lady Murasaki had offered to take her in, her beautiful features schooled enough to hide the pity she felt for the young woman. Hannibal had pushed her to move on, to leave the country just to be safe from gossipers and people seeking revenge alike.

But she wouldn't leave him.

Gaunt and pale, she kept coming.

"You need fresh air", he pleaded, watching the lines of her face sink with worry.

There wasn't any fresh air in this god forsaken reality. Little by little, the sight of him, trapped in that prison was killing her.

"Did you really think we could have our happily ever after ?", he scolded her, hoping to push her away.

Hannibal was angry, his eyes flashing dangerously. Angry that she accepted her fate, and had given up on fighting back.

"You attached yourself to a killer, Frances !", he shouted one day.

And she'd never quite heard him cry with such desperation. But that day, there was nothing more than a shell, sitting on the concrete floor in front of his cell. She didn't even bother to stand anymore. Cold seeped in her bones from below, and it was just as well. Who needed warmth, when his skin was inaccessible?

She didn't even remember what his food tasted like… but she couldn't forget the smell of him. The tingle of his touch, the peace that settled upon her shoulders when he curled around her. The blissful moments when their bodies mingled as one…

Gone, it was all gone.

Maroon eyes peered at her on the other side of the glass pane. Hannibal watched her as he knelt against the transparent wall of his cell, the golden flecks still dancing in his eyes.

"Would you have preferred another ending ?", he asked.

And she jumped back with a cry, mouth distorted in a silent plea as his dead body appeared before her very eyes. A crimson tide of his blood soaked the cachemire carpet of his office, her favourite shade of red, flowing out of him. Life leaving him, the light dull in his eyes already. Frances' hands cover her mouth to stifle the heart wrenching sobs that shook her, to no avail.

Was death better than prison ?

For a moment, the young woman wondered. Perhaps, yes. Anything rather than this slow, torturing extinction of her senses.

Meow.

Meow ?

With a groan, the young woman opened her eyes. The familiar outline of brocade curtains greeted her. Her heart hammered against her chest, the despair of that disturbing dream still flowing through her veins. Shaking, she burrowed into the sheets, hoping to chase away the coldness of her chest.

Vision, or nightmare ? She didn't get time to ponder upon it.

Meow.

Frances' head perked up. This time, she was sure of it; there was a cat somewhere around that house. The thought caused her brain to overflow with theories. Had Hannibal forgotten to close a window somewhere ? Unlikely. Had Will popped up with a cat in tow ? More ideas swarmed her mind, and she was grateful for the distraction for it pushed the pain away.

Curious, Frances dragged herself out of bed and grabbed her husband's discarded shirt to cover her lace panties. She paused, taking a long, deep breath. Hannibal's shirt smelt of him. The whole room smelt of him… what a horrible nightmare. Frances shuddered, her eyes straining in the morning light before she cautiously trod in the corridor.

The carpet that covered the wooden stairs greeted her feet with its plush, warm strands and she allowed her ears to strain. Hannibal's low voice echoed faintly; he wasn't alone. And despite her curiosity, she could only sigh in relief. One more step, then another, and she could make out the words. Except that they didn't seem to make much sense. Was he actually explaining a receipe ?

"…so glad you like raw meat, Duchesse. It is so difficult to find someone that enjoys the fine pieces like you do."

Frances stilled; was he feeding someone some spare human parts he'd kept in the freezer ? Foot hung in the air, she couldn't decide whether she ought to come down or not. Yes, she knew he still possessed a few morsels. Her ethics screamed at her to intervene… but the dream was so vivid in her mind. She didn't want to lose him… after all, those people were already dead. What good would it make to thwart him again ?

So she took another step, and allowed his smooth voice to wash over her senses. If paradise existed, she wanted him in, because no music could ever be as beautiful, as sensual as his voice. There was no beauty more accomplished that the lines of his face, no pleasure greater than the feeling of his lips upon her skin.

"You will get to meet the mistress of this house. As beautiful as you are."

The compliment called a smile to her lips. Was it a woman ? A child ? Aggressive sizzling covered the rest, but she swore she heard another mewling. Intrigued, Frances eventually reached the door to the kitchen.

What she found puzzled her.

Hannibal danced around saucepans, as was his habit, apron firmly secured around his slim waist. And, three feet away from his shoes sat a beautiful Turquish Angora cat, head held up in hopes of catching more juicy pieces of meat for breakfast.

An incredulous smile lifted the corner of Frances' mouth.

Hannibal had allowed a cat into his home. When did this happen ? Its long white hairs would, without a doubt, spray everywhere in the house. Was the psychiatrist ready to face the apocalypse of a cat, really ? The cleaning employee would no doubt be coming twice a week now.

"Ah, here is the lady of the house."

Frances' attention shifted to the beautiful man that was her husband, finding his eyes. Her raised eyebrows were interrogation enough, but the psychiatrist didn't seem too inclined to respond. The corner of his eyes cringed in amusement before he gestured from her to the cat.

"Duchess, meet the mistress, the lady Frances. Wife, meet our new refugee, Duchesse."

The quiet meow impressed her; was this cat raised by an artistocrat ?

Then it hit her like a freight train, and she couldn't believe he actually remembered that little detail. When she started playing the piano again, she practised on the Artistocats sheet – a childhood favourite. And there it was, the perfect Duchesse, the mother of those three little kittens, in the flesh.

The smile reached her eyes, and she responded playfully.

"Please to make your acquaintance, Duchesse. Where are Toulouse, Marie and Berlioz ?"

The corner of his mouth quirked - the only sign that he was pleased she connected the dots. It only confirmed what she knew; the whole scheme was premeditated.

"Unborn, and we'll keep it that way. Duchess is sterilised already."

Stunned, Frances' gaze travelled from him – he was shedding the apron – to the beautiful Turquish Angora that seemed as tame as the Disney version.

"How… ?"

"Irrelevant right now, since breakfast is ready."

Ah, priorities. Incredulous, Frances grinned. And Hannibal offered his hand as if nothing had changed. As if he had not found the perfect double of Duchesse, that cat from her favourite Disney movie. The cat who sang soprano so beautifully…

And while they partook in the work of art that was Hannibal's standard breakfast, Duchesse decided to curl upon his lap… and he let her, one of his hands caressing her soft fur while he drank his tea.

Frances couldn't get enough of that vision; there was much in common between Hannibal and Duchesse. Independence, a certain air of superiority and that absence of attachments. Cats had no master; they went with the flow… and were spectacularly picky with their food. How fitting, when Will kept loyal dogs in his house – who ate anything, really - that her husband would choose a cat to represent himself. A cat with noble manners, and an air of royalty.

"Have you decided to replace your kitten, in the kitchen, husband ?"

"No. No one can ever replace you."

Hannibal never lied; no one would ever match's Frances in his heart.

And day to day, he strove to be worthy of her. For he knew that no woman could be as cute – whenever he found her curled on the couch - as infuriating – when she provoked him on purpose, or ignored his advice altogether - as chillingly intelligent – whenever she caught on his intentions with barely a glance - as devoted as her – whenever she cooked for him, drew a bath, or just went out of her way just to please him. But overall, it was her odd ideas that always kept him on his toes.

Like the way she balanced her weight, right now, in a mock equilibrium that too precarious for his heart to bear.

Granted; his little woman was too short to grab dishes in the higher cupboards on her own. When he was around, Hannibal took pleasure in fishing them for her, lingering behind to make contact upon her lithe silhouette. The repressed shudders that usually shook her frame were compensation enough for the trouble... but even if he wasn't here to perform the service, did she have to perch upon such an unstable contraption at the risk of breaking her neck ?

Hannibal sighed quietly, fearful that an outburst might disrupt her. But Will had no such qualms as he called to her mockingly.

"That's very Mrs Smith ! Are you planning to kill us next ?"

The psychiatrist rolled his eyes, pleased by Frances' nonchalant shrug – and no a startle - as she left the chair to greet them. The smile she addressed Will reached her eyes. The irony of the empath's words, thrown like a joke, couldn't have escaped her. How she was going to steer Will away from those thoughts?

"Mrs Smith… hm", she purred, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I don't do big guns, you know. I'd rather keep to my sword."

"Yeah, well. I'm sure Hannibal could give you a run for your money, I've seen the katana. He could be your mister Smith."

The psychiatrist circled his wife's tight waist with a wolfish smile. Mr Smith, a killer on demand, was way too naïve, too blunt, too rough to even consider a comparison.

"I love our name well enough", he told Will. Then, Hannibal turned to his wife, catching her eyes. "What say you, Mrs Lecter ?"

The young woman addressed him a lopsided smile, one that spoke of secrets shared, and unbridled love. She didn't answer to that, choosing, instead, to drop a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Her lips lingered in that sensitive spot, causing a shiver to run up his spine and his arm to tighten unconsciously.

"So where is your Duchesse ?"

Will's voice shook Hannibal out of his little world, but his eyes promised retribution for that teasing. Tonight, Frances would cry out his name. For the moment, thought, it was time to entertain his guest… his most prized guest.

"I saw her tail in the stairs", he said.

Frances scrunched her nose at Will and laughed.

"I don't think she's happy with you smelling like dogs."

The empath laughed, and they settled at the kitchen counter to trade stories while Hannibal donner his apron, and started cutting vegetables to compliment the cod Frances had bought. Elina was growing up nicely, and Hannibal feigned interest as the proud father fished out his mobile phone to show picture of his little bundle. Not that he didn't care about Elina… or rather, yes, he wasn't interested at all about the baby, but rather about her influence on Will. Already, his mind was planning, analysing, corroborating a thousand of information to create a map of Will Graham's state.

Tired ? Frustrated ? Happy ? Proud ? Out of his depth ? The tiniest of twitches was stored, and catalogued for further use… or not. Would he ever use this knowledge ?

Hannibal missed being able to prod into Will's mind – their joined investigations, the beauty of his broken spirit, the determination in adversity - but he would never admit it. Especially not in front of Frances; his infatuation with the empath would, for sure, hurt her feelings. Beautiful, bright Frances who watched that tiny baby with sparks in her eyes. For sure, she was already designing new clothes for Elina's summer; he could nearly hear her thoughts as she considered the baby's bald head.

"I'm reassigned to the missing people section", Will eventually said.

The empath would never, ever know the wave of relief that ran through both the Lecter's at his words. But even more than relief, Hannibal couldn't help the pang of sadness that assaulted him. It was official, now; Will had definitely escaped his clutches. There would be no conversations, no therapy anymore with the great Hannibal Lecter. His psychiatrist friend and former knight. His saviour and maker. No pushing Will over the edge. No beauty in joined murders.

All of it because his wife had set foot into his life. The psychiatrist boxed the anger and stowed it away, smiling pleasantly.

"Good, Will. You will save many lives."

Frances addressed him just a glance, one that told him he wasn't too convincing. So she picked up the mantle, and her genuine enthousiasm allowed Hannibal to return to the sizzling fish in the saucepan. He watched as white flesh tore away from the bones, onions caramelised before he allowed them to burn, skin and scales retracted under the intense heat. Control and decay.

The psychiatrist was aware that the conversation was still flowing, and he interjected with quotes that came on their own, relevant and to the point. Sometimes a little far-fetched, but who cared ? He had perfect explanations for every single thought that passed through his mind, for every scrap he allowed his friend to see. And Will would never ask…

Most of Hannibal's attention was elsewhere, revelling in the pain of that loss.

Will, the most beautiful specimen, out of his influence. Frances who refused to bend, refused corruption and kept her inner light even though he'd pushed her to her very limits. Was he losing his touch ? Perhaps the brotherhood of former knights was keeping him in check. Was the love he felt for Will and Frances be enough ? Only time would tell.

"Yeah", Will added. "Alana complains she's not seeing me enough. I hope to have more time at home."

Hannibal chuckled, some of his bitterness sliding through clenched teeth.

"The lot of most married men."

Frances frowned. Needless to say that it had nothing to do with Will not being married. Her eyes caught his, and he marvelled at the golden flecks that danced in her warm irises.

"I miss you, husband."

"So you keep saying", he retorted, his tone cool.

Had the young woman picked up on his mood ? Probably, because she addressed him a worried look, the crease between her eyebrows digging into her pale skin.

"Is there nothing I can do to alleviate your workload ?"

Her genuine concern should have elicited a sneer – Hannibal took very little pleasure in being pitied – but the contact of her hand upon his forearm caused his shoulders to relax. What was it, with this woman, that broke through his walls to easily ? The barest contact, and his body was singing her praise. This is how she'd vanquished him, the very first time. With the touch of her lips upon his.

After an internal struggle, Hannibal offered an olive branch.

"Perhaps you could help sorting out paperwork. I have two half days dedicated to that cumbersome task."

Frances' eyes brightened, and the deal was closed in this instant. Hannibal returned to the fish with an expressionless mask set in place. For once, he was unable to forsee what that decision would entail in the near future.

Yet, it could only break the boredom of his present life.

Mraou :) Please follow, favourite and review !