Colliding worlds (Hannibal x OC)

Death

The brusque movement caused a few tomato slices to jump from the blade and land on the floor, splashing her legs in the process. Pissed beyond measure at her clumsiness – she'd poured water over her lap earlier, and hurt her shoulder on the door as well – Frances barely refrained from yelling, releasing a string of annoyed curses instead.

— "Holy mother of... God damn it. I'm such a ... cruche (dumbo)!"

The blade shook in her hands. The world seemed intend on making her miserable. Releasing a heavy sigh, Frances realised that her vision was blurring. She was tired ... so tired. The sadness consumed her entirely, or was she coming down with something? Frozen in the spotless kitchen except for her clumsy handiwork, the young woman tried to calm her nerves with deep breaths.

A set of warm hands suddenly pried the knife from her grasp, the touch familiar and oddly comforting. Then, the tall presence dragged her into an awkward embrace. Frances breathed in Hannibal's familiar scent, his soothing fragrance surrounding her as his arms wound around her small frame to provide comfort. She returned his embrace faintly, her mind miles away from the kitchen, wondering why his presence brought such relief when he could break her neck in a heartbeat. But Hannibal had always cared for her until now. The sturdiness of his tall frame and hard muscles provided a safe place for her to break down. Yet, she didn't.

His hand eventually led her to sit on his favourite chair, on the other side of the counter. Frances's body didn't even react, following his lead without thinking. Then a glass appeared in her hand. A slight sniff told her it was rum, the only strong alcohol she ever drank. Then Hannibal's amber eyes locked with her; he was crouching in front of her, his hand caressing her thigh, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort.

— "Drink to her memory, Frances. You are allowed to grieve for a friend."

The young woman nodded, taking a sip of the drink. It was, of course, the best rum she'd ever tasted. Even more since she'd dropped several vanilla pods inside. Yes, she was mourning for Bella, the only female friend she had made in forever. Not in public though, neither in front of him. She didn't know why, something to do about his sturdiness. Her self-preservation asked to show no weakness; nit was stupid really, for she knew the predator in him could sense her distress. But Hannibal ... he seemed so unaffected. He's come for the funeral, of course, to support his friend Jack Crawford. Yet, nothing had changed in his routine nor his facial expressions. As if the beautiful soul of Bella has not left the world ... or never entered his.

— "What about you?" she asked.

Hannibal stood, his tailored cream shirt flexing around his shoulders as he reached for his own drink on the kitchen counter. Waistcoat and jacket discarded, dark honey hair flowing freely across the left side of his face, the psychiatrist almost looked casual. The impassive mask, though, reminded her how dangerous and controlled he could be.

— "I was not gifted with the amount of empathy you have, Frances."

Hannibal took a sip of his own poison – Whiskey – eyes daring her to delve deeper. And she did. Not out of malice, or reproach, but out of love.

— "How do you feel?"

There was not an inch of judgement in her voice; this was the reason why Hannibal considered answering her question truthfully. No matter who he was and the people he killed without remorse, Frances didn't regard him with contempt or disgust. She tried to understand him, a little like Will Graham tried to wear his skin on crime scenes. Coating the whiskey around his tongue, Hannibal licked his lips before answering.

— "Bella was a fine woman, but no friend of mine."

— "What about Jack's pain?"

— "I am sorry for his loss. My mind sympathises, but my heart ... it is too far away from me, do you understand?"

Silence greeted his statement, and for a moment, Hannibal wondered if he had gone too far. What would happen if the young woman decided he was a heartless bastard and decided to leave? Many times already, he could have sworn she would walk away. Frances was strong, stronger than most, yet she kept coming back to him. She fought with him sometimes, teeth and nails, unafraid of his nature, standing up for her beliefs. Weakness that she would return to him, or admirable resilience? Hannibal had yet to decide. For now, he could almost hear the wheels running in her mind; she was absorbing the information to paint a picture of his mind, to understand his way of thinking. Mapping his own weaknesses in terms of empathy, assessing how far he could go. And accepting it, adapting once more to his peculiar psychology.

And once her analysis was over, she searched for his gaze and held it so intensely that he nearly shivered.

— "Would you cry over me if I died?"

The statement nearly shocked him... Nearly, but not entirely. It was a valid question, to which he had no answer. Frowning, he searched his mind to form an honest statement. He knew his hesitation could only hurt her. Still, she couldn't be oblivious since she had felt compelled to ask, and he tried his very best to never lie.

— "I would miss your wit, and your presence. I would miss your skin, and your company... I would probably cry, yes."

Probably.