Hey. Lots of dialogues here because Frances had to come clean regarding her status if she wants to keep Will as a friend. Let's see how poor Will swallows the news of time travel, shall we?
— "Are you calling my driving dull?"
Will's mock outburst sent Frances into a fit of giggles and she relaxed in the passenger seat. There was nothing common between Will's car and Hannibal – standard and smell included – and nothing remotely similar regarding their driving. Where every single move from her husband was controlled, Will's driving bordered on carefree, his trajectory tilting when he wasn't careful. It didn't matter much, though, for the design of the road and automatic gearbox rendered driving as easy a child play. Somehow, it irked her.
— "Nah. It's not you. It's just ... those straight roads that never end, and your cars bigger than horse butts ... and this automatic gearbox ... it's like you don't even have to drive anymore."
— "It's convenient," he replied, eyes leaving the road to take a peek at her frustrated features.
She almost looked childlike as she pouted.
— "It's boooooring. Boring to death. There's no control with an automatic, I hate it when a machine takes decisions in my stead ... but it's not like you need any on those endless roads. I bet the Victoria falls are narrower than your motorways"
Will's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, surprised by the unexpected venom in her voice. The empath wore his emotions on his sleeve, another streak that couldn't be more opposite than Hannibal's. As for Frances ... she could be as open as him, or closed off like an oyster with a poker face that rivalled Hannibal's. It had taken a while for him to get used to her duality and it felt like he was coming close to the conclusion. Somehow, the mask had a purpose. And in his presence, it tended to drop to reveal the real, chatty and slightly emotional Frances. Especially when she ranted about the US.
— "Driving is dull anyway ... it takes you from point A to B, right? What do you need control for?" he said.
— "I don't know. I just... My car is my tool, you know. I take care of her, and she responds to my desire. An extension of my will..."
— "So is mine. A tool. Just a machine"
Taken aback, Frances tried to make sense of the anger that simmered under the surface. Her silence was misinterpreted as Will's fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
— "Say it. You hate my driving! That's why you insist on shaking me like salad in a bowl in your blue devil of a car."
The sudden plea shook the cogs of her mind and she jumped in her seat to swat Will's arm.
— "No! Silly. And my driving is energetic, not salady!"
Will gave her a sly look.
— "So you say, my stomach disagrees."
— "Ah shut up. You're just a baby... I just miss Europe."
The empath smirked, satisfied that his mock offence had coaxed her into spilling her guts.
— "What do you miss?" he asked, trying to impersonate Dr Lecter's tone.
It worked, for Frances started talking animatedly, her hands flying as she described her beloved continent.
— "Everything. The historical buildings and ruins you will find at every turn, the cobbled streets and narrow roads, the stone churches and old farmhouses."
— "Yeah?"
His interjection was just for show... Frances wasn't even present anymore as she described places from memory. Things of the past that seemed out of her grasp altogether, and brought her as much joy than sadness.
— "It is magnificent, you know, so different from one place to the other. A mere five hundred kilometres and the world is different. France, Italy, Scotland... The Alps, with their high peaks and rough granite, drive a few hundred kilometres south and you get lost in a field of olive trees with cicadas driving you mad and the Côte d'Azur."
— "I'd love to see that."
Frances paused, cocking her head aside as she considered the possibility.
— "I'd love to give you a tour."
— "Where would you take me?"
There wasn't a shortage of answers; Frances loved travelling, and had visited many countries with her parents as a child. She retained from those times many fond memories.
— "The mountains, for a while. We would get lost in a refuge for a few days, watching the sun paint the peaks ablaze and walking on a glacier. Then south of France, crossing to Italy down the coast, all the way down to Sicily and the Eolian Islands. Then we would tour England, Stonehenge, Tintagel in Cornwall, then up to Scotland to see the lochs. Perhaps up to Norway, I'd love to visit there. And I'll take you to the best chocolate maker I ever tasted..."
Will listened to her ramblings with a smile on his face, shaking his head from left to right. It was easy to forget the reasons why Dr Lecter married such a young and passionate woman; from the outside, they looked nothing alike apart from their classy appearance. But from the inside... They both revered good cuisine, spoke many languages and enjoyed the fine arts. Literature, music, dancing, painting... The two of them were European to the core, rejecting entirely many American habits that didn't appeal their old-fashioned mind. Especially bagels...
He would never forget the day he had offered Frances a bar of Hershey's chocolate. She had gagged, her horrified gaze turned to Hannibal as her nose scrunched. "Why does it smell like vomit?" she had blurted out. And while he retrieved his offering with ill humour, Dr Lecter had patiently explained how the 'Americans' – it sounded almost like an insult at this point – had incorporated some butyric acid into their chocolate, a component that was created in the stomach through digestion. His uneasy expression, though, sold him out. The smell did assault his sensitive nose just as much.
Will shook his head at the memory.
— "You and Hannibal make quite the pair," he eventually said.
A sly smile quirked Frances' lips, giving her a catlike expression.
— "You know that man has pickles in his fridge."
— "So do I"
The young woman scoffed.
— "No! Ugh, no! Not those horrible sweet-sour giant things that you call pickles. Real French ones from Dijon! I never found some anywhere, but he's got some and keeps them for me now"
Will blinked.
— "All right, this is weird," he chuckled.
And Frances' own giggle joined his as she dove into another memory.
— "My grandmother, from burgundy, she always threw a fit when I stole pickles as an afternoon snack. I used to dip them in mustard."
— "This is gross."
By now, Will was shaking with laughter and Frances couldn't help but exaggerate to keep him going, describing how the mémé spoke, her accent so thick that even her granddaughters had trouble understanding her. She even imitated her deep rumbling 'r' that resembled Scottish so much that Will had trouble driving in straight line. After a while, they eventually recovered from the fit, Frances brushing tears off her cheeks. It was so good to share this moment of mirth with Will. His shoulders were relaxed, his eyes connecting with hers more often, his teeth showing as he openly laughed.
— "Burgundy, man! Pickles from Dijon, in burgundy. The place they make the best mustard in the world."
— "Definitely Dr Lecter material," Will stuttered as he regained control.
— "Yeah, we were just meant to be."
Three hours later
The sun reflected in the ripples of the river, its light creating lines and sparks in the transparent water. Entranced, Will watched the waves that passed his legs, sensing the strong current that caused him to brace against it. Beside him, Frances watched her fishing line intently, her hair slightly dishevelled by the wind. There was nothing like water to soothe her mind, and she enjoyed this moment just as much as he did. Even if, for now, the little fish they had caught wouldn't be sufficient for lunch.
The image of an unsettling dream suddenly lashed before Will's eyes and he startled; he had forgotten about it.
— "What's wrong?" Frances asked as he repositioned his feet on the pebbles below the surface.
— "You know. I had this weird dream recently where you swam in the waves with a medieval night shift."
His musings caught her attention at once, and her warm hazel eyes searched his for a second before she returned to the float bobbing in the current.
— "Oh, really? tell me about it"
— "I was on a cliff... Somewhere on a shore, with big waves. There was a blond knight beside me, the same as before..."
— "Long tangled hair?" she asked.
— "Yes."
Frances nodded, a fond smile quirking her lips.
— "Gawain"
The name rang a bell deep within his soul. Yes, Gawain. His brother in all but blood, the closest friend he had in this forsaken time. Once more, Will wondered how Frances could remember so much when he barely caught glimpses and visions, ignoring names and places. Something didn't add up, but he continued with his story.
— "Yes. He was yelling beside me that you were going to catch your death but you still swam. Your shoulder was bandaged, so you couldn't use your left arm. And there was someone ... this ghost on shore, waiting for you. The tall knight ... the scout"
Frances suddenly froze, her knuckles whitening on the rod. Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her as she searched his gaze, the line of her face plainly shocked.
— "I ... saw him too. I thought I was mad ... but when I came close, he just disappeared."
Will nodded, fishing forgotten as he lowered his own rod. The time had come to demand answers.
— "How do you remember all of this, Frances? Have you had dreams for long? Visions? I have only a mosaic of things, but you seem to remember everything so easily. What is the difference between you and me?"
The young woman sighed, for once fleeing his gaze to put her attention on the line.
— "Don't you have memories when I'm not there?"
— "Some. Yes. But you didn't answer my question."
Frances took a deep breath, her fingers shaking slightly upon the fishing rod. A solemn atmosphere suddenly fell upon them, as if nature itself was holding its breath.
— "This is the moment where I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth."
The teasing tone was there, but her voice slightly shook.
— "I'm ready"
— "Don't be so sure, Will. What I'm going to tell you is much, much weirder than believing in past lives."
— "Humour me"