Greetings and Salutations! As you are aware, I don't own Hannibal, but I do hope we get some *action* in season 3. Anyway, thank you for reading this story! Please tell me what you think

The Golden Locket

The music was not what she had expected, the band lazily sliding through their music, indulging in too much wine prior to their performance. Her eyes concentrated on the alto saxophone player, tonguing the reed of his instrument like it was his first time kissing a girl, his mouth slobbering over the piece. Short, pitchy noises emerged from the device, his fingers fumbling over the instrument. She held her own drink, non-alcoholic, remembering the true reason they had come to a jazz festival, of all places.

In spite of the time they had been gone, the number of crinkled 'wanted' posters she knows must still be in post offices, still they search for him-for them. It had been so long, and yet, just last week she had fled from her trip to the outdoor market, noticing a fed who was fooling no one with his uptight demeanor and perfect posture. He had her picture. As she hurried to her car, their cottage nearly an hour from town, she began hyperventilating. It had been nearly 3 years. The groceries scattered across the passenger seat and onto the floor of the small vehicle, her vegetables now acquainting themselves with dirt. He was tipped. He had to be tipped by someone and it was a short list of one: they were betrayed.

She vomits into the street when she reaches their home, her anxiety finally getting the best of her.

The provider of their passports and residency cards was eliminated the next day, his tongue savory on their lips. So much was at risk. They moved quickly, but needed to escape the country as soon as possible. This jazz festival trip was crucial- the only opportunity they had.

She fingers the locket at her neck and opens it with agile, manicured fingers. The picture inside reminds her of what she has to lose, what they have to lose. Closing the gold locket, the only thing she ever allows to hang around her neck, she continues to move around the festival.

She looks over to the restaurant and sees her companion seated on the pavilion, taking a long drag of his wine over tiny appetizers. Her stomach grumbles. Hannibal is talking with their new source, she knows, negotiating multiple passports and documents. That is the key to their trip. She left the table nearly an hour ago at the man's request, so they could talk 'business.' Although angry, she hardens her lips and concedes to his demand. He was their only option, and she would not ruin it by ripping through his carotid. The festival is large enough to hide their actions, and soon they will be finished with this imbecile. Glancing over at the table once more, she notices Hannibal's apparent displeasure. Although he seems to simply converse, the tightness in his lips give him away- but then again, she made a career out of dissecting his person suit. Luckily, to the rest of the world it is flawless. When her head begins to twinge, she realizes she hasn't eaten all day, something Hannibal has scolded her for repetitively. Food hadn't settled well on her stomach as of late, but she knew she needed to eat. Despite her recent complaints of weight gain in their fluster of eating poorly very recently, she decides to indulge in a small pastry from one of the street carts; the old woman reminding her of her younger years spent living in France. It's a pleasant memory of her father buying treats and encouraging her to order her own in French.

"Puis-je s'il vous plaît avoir une patisserie," she would say, and the woman would smile, her sagging cheeks rising. Bedelia, or Deelee as her father called her, would turn excitingly to her father as he beamed at her, ruffling her curls

"Vous avez été practicing vos française," his deep voice spoke with acclaim. She shook her head and reverted back to English. "I told you I practiced!"

The woman at the stand smiles at her as the blonde takes the delicate treat. If he hadn't been busy gaining the man's trust the entire day, she was sure Hannibal would have chastised her for her choice, wanting her to get the bigger pastry with chocolate drizzled on top, instead of the small tart cookie. Deciding to let her cravings get the best of her, she drops more money into the woman's hand and takes the chocolate pastry, folding the tart in its wrappings and placing it in her purse. She sees Hannibal rise from the table and take a briefcase from the man, handing over an envelope. She breaks off a piece of the chocolate treat, delicately slipping the delectable sugary delight in her mouth. Her eyes briefly close in pleasure as the outermost layer melts on her tongue. Why was he always right, even as an apparition in her consciousness? She's delighted to realize that the drunk band has been shooed from the stage and replaced. The new musicians played softer pieces that encouraged couples to sway together. She makes her way around the coupled pairs and refuses invitations to dance politely, moving with skill through the crowds.

When she finally joins them, the man is yelling at his waitress, who skitters off back into the restaurant. He eyes Bedelia up and down for a brief moment, looking over at Hannibal. He speaks as if she isn't there, finishing his glass of wine, the third if she's counted correctly. He gestures to her pastry and speaks as if he's a scholar explaining an important theory, reminding Hannibal of the importance of keeping women trim- so they could do what they were good for. She flusters, leaving the conversation yet again, this time of her own accord. She wants to slit his throat, rip out his tongue and cut off his fingers- the way he pointed at her. How dare he. But she can't. Not in her condition, even if she were careful.

Her companion was another story though. He could do plenty.

They would have no loose ends this time; no informants attempting to expose them. Attempting to ruin everything.

She's observing herself in a nearby boutique, standing in front of the mirror and looking at her reflection, a charcoal skirt cinched around her waist and a deep blue silk shirt finishing the new outfit. The material is of quality but she hasn't worn a size this large in a while. Soon, the boutiques won't carry her size. He finds her in deep concentration in front of the mirror, pressing himself against her back and wrapping his arms lightly around her still trim waist.

"You look divine," he whispers into her hair, tickling the shell of her ear.

"I look engorged. My clothes barely fit anymore." He knows her fears are deeper than beauty, than her weight, that she fears her body rejecting their child. Her age, her history, the danger of being pregnant and on the run, not being able to assist him- they all play a role in the anxiety that currently exhibits itself as she runs her fingers over her the small firm round of her stomach, and questions her reflection.

"You're carrying our child. You look radiant," he says, breaking contact from her and reaching for one of the dresses. She's nearly 5 months pregnant and has just begun to really show, their child growing every day; making beautiful changes to her already striking form. How dare he insult her, make her feel as though she wasn't producing a miracle. The man paid for his words, and he will make sure to adore her, to assure her. He knows that they are both Doctors; that she's aware her uterus expands after the 12th week of pregnancy and that she's the perfect weight, if not underweight, which concerns him. He'll encourage her. Maybe get her to eat the second pastry he saw her put in her bag. He pulls a dress that is 2 sizes larger than the size she has in their home, sizes he's memorized permanently in every country's clothing labeling system. These new sized clothes should hold her over for a few weeks, at least until they've settled in their new home out of the country. In all the fluster of escaping their previous home into transition residency he nearly forgot of her need for new clothes. He should have noticed her discomfort, but instead he simply saw more evident curves and larger, ravishing breasts. He would devour her if given the chance, unwrap her from her clothing as if she was the finest delicacy, and taste her sweetness on his tongue. Later.

He pulls another dress from the shelves and another, making quick work of the entirety of the tasteful store and avoiding the bright pinks and lavenders he knows she despises.

"Hannibal, please," she begins, her steps light across the boutique, as he places a skirt-suit on his arm to join the growing pile of clothes.

"I wonder if those who question your beauty have eyes at all" he questions as she places her hand on his suit jacket. She glances down and sees a bloodstain on the pocket of his pants, sees something bulged in this pocket. "I would think not," he answers his own question and she feels her lips pull upward into a smile.

They begin their trip home late, and her eyes are heavy with sleep. She hasn't slept well in days, taking care of his cold. When they've gotten nearly 2 hours into their drive, classical music reverberating through the car, she leans her head against the car window, her face pressed to the cool glass. Feeling herself descend into slumber she shakes her head and sits up straight, letting out a sigh. He's been up for long hours too. It would be unfair for her to sleep, while he cannot. As if on cue, he speaks in his low, soothing voice.

"Sleep, Bedelia. We still have at least 2 hours left to drive and you need your rest."

When the reach their home he doesn't wake her. She needs her sleep- he knows recently she's been taking care of his cold and dealing with her own personal nightmares. Instead of waking her from deep slumber, he scoops her into his arms, knowing she will reprimand him for it later. The gold locket glistens on her neck, resting between her ample breasts. She stirs in his arms and mumbles something rude in French, and he chuckles. Just as he's climbing the stairs to their home, the door opens.

The elderly woman is standing behind it, expecting their arrival and whispering updates in French, saying that if they need assistance again, to simply call. The woman doesn't know that there will be no calls. That they will leave the country tomorrow evening and be gone for good. He's already disposed of the bodies in their freezer, belonging to the previous owners. They couldn't take them, but the rude existed everywhere. Their supplies would be replaced soon enough. She stirs in his arms, and mumbles 'Henri,' in a sleep laden voice. She opens her eyes as he sits her on their shared bed. 'I have to see him,' she says and gently slaps his hands away as she walks down the hall, her steps still tired and lazy. He leaves her to this alone, knowing the deep pleasure this simple task gives her.

She creeks the door open, and notices the eyes of the dinosaur, Audric, first. He is clutched tightly in the arms of the toddler sleeping in the small bed. She creeps across the illuminated room, and rests the back of her hand atop the little boy's head, sighing in relief when she notices that his fever has vanished. At her touch, little eyes flutter open and she's staring into the eyes of her companion. His nose is hers alone, but his eyes and lips belong to Hannibal. He smiles broadly and pushes himself up in bed excitingly "ma maman," he squeals, pushing himself into her, his chubby hands clutching at her cardigan ,her hair and the locket that lies on her neck, his picture inside. He nuzzles into her neck, into the scar that runs jagged across her flesh, but she doesn't tense at the memories. Doesn't begin to shake at thoughts of a hands squeezing the life from her, of busted capillaries and broken bones. Instead she thinks of his soft skin and his baby smell that is currently being rubbed into her flesh. He suddenly pulls back from the crook in her neck and places both of his chubby hands, sausage-fingers splayed, on either side of her face, his eyes wide. "Papa" he asks, suddenly remembering that he has a Maman and a Papa and only his Maman is here.

She takes him in her arms and stands from the bed, placing his little body on her hip as he squirms. 'Oo,' she expresses with a surprised shout, pausing for a moment in the doorjamb. He's at the door in an instant, clad in boxers with eyes wide with fear.

"Delia," he queries, his brow knotted as her free hand rests on her stomach. She laughs, and simply explains that 'she' kicked. From the times when he's placed a hand on her stomach, their child seems to be a hard kicker, definitely harder than Henri. Henri reaches out to him, his arms outstretched beseechingly He takes the toddler from her, and snakes his free arm around her waist, leading the four of them to their bedroom. As his son jumps softly on the bed, his tiny hands held in the large ones of his father, Hannibal's eyes turn to her. He watches as she strips and slides a light blue, satin camisole over her head. Her feet pad across the hardwood floor and she sits on the bed, her hands pressed firmly to her back. He settles their son easily between his legs and moves them both to sit behind her. They had a big day tomorrow. The least he could do was ease her backaches. He moves her hands, pressing his hands to her lower back. Her head lolls back and she lets out a deep moan when a particular joint cracks. His fingers press firm circles into her flesh as his son pokes his chubby fingers lightly into her spine, claiming that he he's helping maman too.

Her hair spills over her shoulders and back as she laughs softly and thanks her little baby, turning her head to press a firm kiss against Hannibal's lips, that move forward to meet her. Tomorrow will be a busy day. This whole life's been a busy day, always running- but he has them. He has gained so much in 3 years, when he whisked her away. He remembers the champagne she couldn't drink; the taste of it on his lips as he took her hand in his, attempting to quell their joined fears. Now he sees the glisten of the chain, holding the locket around her neck. So much has changed. He couldn't risk them being taken from him. They are his. He is theirs. He will protect them.

They have so much to lose. He will not lose his family again.