Colliding worlds (Hannibal x OC)

Sorry, darling

"In the slaughter house. Five hundred yards to the east."

Those were her only words. Frances nodded, spooked by the exchange, and took off at a full run. With her slippers on, she was absolutely silent. Emerging in the sunshine, the young woman found the slaughterhouse easily enough. She managed to dodge the gardener's attention at she followed a patch of grass behind the house, diving between bushes until she found herself before the building. The doors were wide open, grunts and squeals from pigs rose from within.

For a moment, Frances wondered if she'd been mislead. Still like a marble carving, she listened as voices filtered. Mason was there, his languid tones easily recognisable. Another man answered, his voice too low for her to pick it up. Slowly, the young woman progressed further into the warehouse structure. No one in sight, but a set of stairs. One by one, she took them, careful to balance her weight to keep the wood from creaking under her weight.

The sigh that greeted her at the top of the stairs was strangely comforting. Hannibal was there, hanging in a straight jacked, barefeet dangling off the ground. But from what she could tell, there was no blood in sight, and no rictus on his beautiful face. Which meant she still had time to make a plan. Mason was there, out of sight, but not out of earshot. He was speaking to the other Italian guy, talking about giving him Hannibal's 'cojones' as a gift.

Frances tensed. The Italian's anger might very well lead him to end Hannibal's life. She needed a plan, for she ignored if other men waited on the platform. Her hesitation was her downfall.

"Drop it."

Mason's bodyguard, that mountain of a man, stood a few feet down, his gun aimed at her chest. She saw red. Stupid, stupid, stupid ! Frances huffed, then threw the gun in his direction, hoping to distract him. The mountain only dodged, then smiled. His rounded face accommodated the expression with ease; he seemed so approachable, so full of life. How deceiving.

"Climb", he ordered.

And Frances went up, emerging at the top of the platform only to find Hannibal's mask firmly in place. His eyes, thought, told another story. Tristan's eyes, hooded, and guarded, with that spark of fire within.

"Ah", Mason drawled. "Mrs Lecter is here."

She said nothing, her eyes travelling around to map the situation. Two henchmen, one with a gun, another – the Italian - with a knife. And Mason Verger, who might not be much of an opponent aside from this bulk. She was unfortunately very outnumbered, and disarmed. And Hannibal, hanging there, would be killed at the first skirmish. She needed him to even the odds...

"Dr Lecter here is hanging by a thread, my dear. As I told you, I have an offer."

Frances straightened, and the man laid at her feet the most disgusting proposal she'd ever heard. Mason wanted to perpetuate the Verger line... at any cost. She'd be the mother of his son, and in return, live a lavish life.

The young woman closed herself to any emotion, letting his words wash over her without even hearing them. One quick glance at Hannibal was all it took for her stomach to twist; his mask had fallen, and he looked truly appalled. A child, in her belly, that wasn't his ! After what they had done, after the renouncement and all its aches. Impossible !

She saw the moment his features closed off, his greater control calling for her to do the same. Mason was still talking, though.

"You look so gorgeous, and that hair colour would look fantastic on my Verger heirs."

"It's not natural. My hair is bland as hell. So am I. I use a lot of make-up."

Something twinkled in Hannibal's eyes, some kind of amusement at her words. Only he, that called her beautiful at every turn, could possibly catch the irony of her words.

"Ah, could have fooled me", Mason retorted. "But the offer still stands."

Frances turned to him with a frown. She stood, now between Verger and his goons and her husband. Strangely, Mason kept his distance. Somehwere in the middle of his psychosis, the spoiled brat could feel that Hannibal was was dangerous. Even in a staighjacket, the murder in his eyes, the full extend of his incredible will was enough to have Mason hesitate. Incapacitated, yet so powerful.

She shouldn't have been so proud. Yet, she was. Proud as hell.

"I know how he manipulated my sister, how he manipulated you. Be free of his influence..."

Hannibal interjected with amusement.

"Too bad my will doesn't leave you anything."

Frances snorted, her mind running at full speed. The end was near, and she had not found a way to shield Hannibal's body from bullets yet.

"A young thing like you, I'll spoil you, you will want for nothing. Dr L knows it; he's not treating you well."

Frances' eye narrowed, turning fully to Hannibal to interrogate him further. But the psychiatrist only begged her with his eyes to play along. It wasn't difficult to call forth her anger; she had so much to be angry about. The red dragon, Venice, Will's murdering streak, Elina, her motherhood ! Once more the victim of Hannibal's games.

Would it be easier to end it now ? To kill him, and be done with him ? For an instant, a sheepish expression flickered on his face. Fabricated for the part, or real ? It raised her hackles once more; would she ever be able to trust his reactions, his emotions ?

"Ah, I see you are starting to see reason. See, Your husband unwillingly let slip that you might have cause to be angry at him. What was it ? Unfaithulness ? Perhaps he'd been collecting other lovely maidens along the way, eh ? Or perhaps control over the doll that you are..."

A knife was handed to her by the Italian, and she took it gratefully albeit the bodyguard still held her at gunpoint.

"See, you just need to nick his throat. The pigs will take care of the rest."

The pigs ! What the hell ? How did he intend to kill Hannibal, really ? This was plain torture. For a moment, she thought her mask would slip. Frances unrooted the last remnants of anger in her guts, deep within, to keep going. In the background, she thought she head a siren blazing. But the noise of the pigs, and Mason's voice covered it easily. Perhaps she was delirious.

"Free yourself. You'll have all the money you want here. You'll be free. I don't care for a wife, I just need an heir."

Frances raised the knife, wondering if she could throw it fast enough not to get shot. Impossible. She knew only one man who could manage such a feat, and he was currently tied in a straightjacket. Verger was bristling now; the sirens echoed in the background once more, coming closer.

"Or, you can turn against us, and he dies from a bullet. You kill him, or I do. Slowly. Painfully."

So this was revenge. Pissed, Frances sent a very angry look to Mason, then turned to Hannibal. Will was coming, and she needed to stall.

"I have many, many reasons to be angry. You lied again, husband. Playing games, eh ?"

This little 'eh' was Tristan's mark of fabric whenever he talked to his Hawk. She'd written about it; there was no way Hannibal could ignore it. His eyes lit up, and he played the game.

"I..."

"Hush", she interrupted. "I don't want to hear excuses. This was the last time."

And she meant it with all her heart. If something similar happened again, she'd have to take action. Leave, or worse... Behind her, Mason was beaming, encouraging her. Poor guy; played by the circumstances, ignorant of the conversation that was going on before his very eyes.

Hannibal's eyes were set upon her face, unblinking. She refused to be distracted by the dried blood above his temple; he might sport so much worse in a few minutes. Refused to allow his soulful gaze to trap her. Refused to see the man inside the shell, the pieces of him that were untouched by the trauma. Frances lifted the knife.

"I'm sorry, darling", she told him, her tone contrite.

Tadam ! So, I think Frances had finally had enough :) This being said, I survived my first Stand up paddle session today on the seaside, so I'm happy to be here to release this chapter. Leave a comment, pretty please ?