A/N: I had this idea from a conversation with my sister while on a road trip. This is AU and mashes up some aspects of the Hannibal tetralogy with the characters from the TV series as portrayed by the lovely Rutina Wesley and Richard Armitage.

What if Dolarhyde was arrested for his crimes and institutionalised thus receiving treatment for his mental illness? What if he made a deal and Reba came to visit? This is my first Freba fic and it's mainly angst. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal nor any characters created by Thomas Harris.

A Thankless Life

Sleep had come easy for Francis Dolarhyde for the first time in what seemed like ages; the screams of the Dragon had long subsided and he was left with a sense of calmness that felt foreign. The small cell that had been his home for the past five months did not feel as suffocating to him as it might to others in its plainness; there were no keepsakes that adorned it. One would not know to whom it belonged for the walls were bare of anything that identified Dolarhyde. The room itself was tidy and sterile; that is all he really asked for.

A different individual might find themselves longing for contact with another human being, but Francis had for so long thought of himself as becoming more than human so why would he need them? People had always let him down in the past; he had learned early on not to trust them or grow attached to them. Francis previously could not relate to others, so he did not miss them now that he was locked away from the outside world. Besides, you could not truly miss something you did not have in the first place; friendship, family, love.

He felt that frightening tugging at his chest again when her image crept into his mind; Reba. She was the only one he had let get close, and still she had barely known him. Brave, smart Reba who, for some reason that he could scarcely fathom, did not discard him like yesterday's garbage. Warm, soft Reba who felt so good; so, so good when she kissed his mouth and lay her small body on his. Francis closed his eyes and pressed the tips of his rough fingers to his lips. He trembled slightly as he remembered how she tasted.

xXxXx

With a straight back and his hands resting in his lap, Francis sat awkwardly on the plain steal chair that was bolted securely to the floor. The small visiting area was surprisingly clean, save for a few smudged fingerprints from grimy hands pressed to the glass barrier that separated inmates from their callers; several small holes in the glass served as speakers. Francis wondered how well they functioned. He pondered a moment if she would be able to hear him clearly when he spoke. She had exceptional hearing, so he surmised that she most likely would; understanding him was another matter entirely.

Always conscious of how his voice sounded, Francis worried that he would not be capable of enunciating his words because he had not spoken much to anyone while locked away. He looked discreetly to his left, then his right and cleared his throat. He swallowed hard and squared his shoulders; she would be there momentarily.

The ticking from the clock perched high up on the grey wall seemed to grow louder with each passing second. Francis furrowed is brow and tried to ignore it; the squeaking from the corrections officer's shoes came as a distraction while she walked behind Francis and stood at the end of the long, narrow room. Her hand hooked into her belt, fingers close to her radio and expandable baton. It would not take much for him to incapacitate her, he thought absently; his height and strength far exceeding hers. But he felt her eyes on him again and that made him feel uneasy. The Dragon would not shy away from the gaze of a woman. No. The Dragon would have torn her apart. Alas, the Dragon was gone.

Francis sat up straighter at the sound of the heavy door opening on the other side of the glass. A corrections officer stepped into the room and gestured for Reba to enter; he placed a gentle hand to her elbow to guide her inside even though she had her cane. Francis felt the all too familiar stirring of ire rise from deep inside him; he did not like seeing some other man touch her, regardless of how innocent or fleeting it was.

"Sit here, Miss McClane," said the portly officer as he pressed a hand to her back.

Reba took a seat, thanked the young man and held her breath. Francis too held his as he took in her appearance. She looked well, but there was a tiredness to her countenance that he assumed was due to the nature of the visit. Her dark eyes shined like beautiful rare obsidian, though a hint of sadness dwelled therein. A melancholic glint that matched his own, Francis thought. Silence pervaded the air a moment and then he spoke.

"Hello, Reba," said Francis slowly and evenly; barely above a whisper.

He feared his voice would fail him, but like always, she made him feel bold.

"Hello, D."

Shaky. Hesitant; louder than he.

"Thank you for coming," he offered; it seemed like something one would say to a visitor.

Yet, in all honesty, he was thankful; beholden to her for even considering meeting with him. She said nothing. He stared at her face; the corrections officer watched them with intrigue. Francis felt her gaze on his skin and he faltered slightly.

"I…I'm glad you came," said Francis.

"Will Graham said you would confess to other…crimes," she said uneasily. "He said that you told him if I visited you, you swore you would confess."

She lifted her chin and blinked rapidly several times. It had not been easy for Reba the past few months. Her return to work was marred with whispers and she was abjured by many who had once called her a friend. Then there were those who pitied her, even more than they had before; she stayed away from them. Much to her regret, it was in the presence of those who offered her fake pity that she missed Francis the most; when their derision caused her to long for him in a moment of exhaustion and weakness. After all, as she had learned, he had no pity.

"Will Graham," said Francis, as if speaking that name caused bile to rise in his throat. "Yes. That's what I said to him."

Quickly over the fricatives.

"Well then, it's the right thing for me to do," she said firmly; her voice even now. "Being here."

Francis offered no reply. She had made no attempt to contact him and he had not seen her since the trial. He held no delusions that she yearned for him as he did her. How could she? Everyone else who was close to him knew he was a monster, it just took her longer to realize.

Reba sighed loudly.

"What happened to you in your life that was so bad that you had to do those horrible things?" she asked, taking him by surprise.

Francis was silent; he had not expected this. He had spent the past months meeting with psychiatrists who asked questions about his upbringing constantly. Francis did not want to talk about who he was, but rather, what he was Becoming. He told them nothing about his younger self, rejected, abused, and tormented; the child who found peace and calm and was bursting with what he thought was Love when he was covered in the blood of the animals he had slain. No, he dare not tell them anything; much like the tears he refused to let fall, he held it all inside.

"Nothing," Francis finally replied. "It's not important."

"What's not important, D.?" she asked, growing annoyed with him.

"Who I was is not important. What matters is what I was Becoming," he said.

"The Dragon?" she asked.

"Uhh ummm," he answered.

"The Dragon didn't hurt those people, D. You did," Reba said firmly.

Silence.

Francis never took his eyes off her; she was so brave. A small smile crept over his features.

"He wanted you," he offered softly. "I wouldn't let Him have you."

Reba listened; this was as much of an explanation she would get about any of it. She would hear what he had to say. Francis breathed deeply and readied himself to speak at length, something he was still not comfortable with.

"I tricked Him, Reba. He thought I was going to leave you to burn…"

"You did leave me to burn!" she said loudly; the guard behind her shifted from where he was leaning on the wall.

"No. I gave you a way out. A way that you would survive," said Francis.

Easy on the fricatives; more words than he had intended, but the medication helped with that. Reba shook her head and exhaled loudly as she quickly recalled what had happened the night she discovered his true nature; the night she thought she would die; the night she thought he had died.

"I know," she said, blinking away the tears. "I played it over in my mind a thousand times, D. The key around your neck; making me lock the door. It wasn't to prove that you could trust me. You were making sure I knew how to get out."

He said nothing. Smart, beautiful Reba; small and delicate and resilient.

"You want me to thank you?" Reba asked in earnest, leaning forward.

"No," said Francis. "That's not what I want. I've lived a thankless life."

Reba let her head fall as she leaned back; she had no inkling of the life he had lived. She knew nothing about Francis except for how she had felt for him; how she had fallen for him so quickly. She had no idea about how he unnerved many people who were in his presence with his cold countenance and dejected gaze. All she knew was how she felt safe in his sturdy arms; how it felt so good and right to give her body over to him. She was not privy to the screams that filled his head and the blood that stained his skin; the lives that he had ended with brutality and the horrible, unspeakable things he had done. All Reba knew was the quiet, shy man with the strong hands. That was the man she missed, after all of the time that had passed; he was the man she still cared for, in spite of the crimes he had committed, in spite of herself.

A harsh, electronic sounding buzzer tore both Francis and Reba from their thoughts.

"Time to go, Miss," said the officer on the same side of the glass as Reba.

He did not touch her this time and she did not move at his suggestion, much to Francis' satisfaction. Reba looked hesitant and regretful, as if she had much more left to say, but just could not find the words. Lovely Reba, brave and leggy; finally, she stood, staring in Francis' approximate direction.

"Goodbye, D.," she said softly, wishing she could touch his face though she knew he would not be smiling.

"Goodbye, Reba," he said evenly, standing when she did, before whispering: "You felt so good."

The officer standing behind Francis gestured for him to give her his wrists which were swiftly and deftly shackled once more; he watched as Reba was helped towards the door. Though she could not see, she turned in his direction and offered a weak, plaintive smile.

…..

Francis lay without shifting in the too small bunk that caused his back discomfort; he waited until the lights were extinguished and the halls were relatively quiet, save for the pained cries of some tortured soul or another. When he was sure there were no guards near his cell, Francis placed his hand to his mouth and let the small white capsule that was secreted under his tongue fall into his palm. He dropped it to the ground and crushed it under his heavy foot, scattering the evidence in all directions. He knew he needed to do this; it was the only way that his thoughts would be filled with something other than Reba. Reba, who would never be his. Reba, who had made him weak and then hurt him.

The Dragon made him feel strong, and he needed to be strong to forget her. To forget how she felt and how she made him feel; how she smelled and how she tasted. Francis closed his eyes tightly, steadied his breathing and waited; he waited for the Dragon's fiery roar to scorch Her from his soul.