cru04 - Tumblr blog

[cru04]

the Perfect Patient

Crucible Moray stands outside of her psychiatrist’s office, dressed in a simple black skirt, a tailored grey button down and black scalloped leather heeled sandals wearing a perfectly lip glossed smile to match her neatly curled raven black waves. She sits daintily in one of the chairs in the waiting room and waits for Dr. Lecter to call her back to discuss the happenings of her week.

"Follow me, Miss Moray," Hannibal invites, politely and with a charming smile as he opens a double-door to his office to let her in before him and closes the doors on his way in. Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office is opulent, yet sophisticated in its decorations with the rich, deep dark wood and leather furniture. A large oak desk sits in the center and several leather armchairs and couches that are in inviting positioning.

She dutifully obeys, following him, a deluge of confessions escaping Crucible’s mouth before she even sits down for her appointment.

“My week was… *okay*,” she lies, worried he’ll catch on to what her week has really been like before she even says anything.

That was how Crucible Moray was wired. She rarely got in trouble, hardly ever misbehaved, and she didn’t like disappointing others—especially her mother. Her father had passed away when she was barely eleven, and that was how Crucible tried, in her own way, to help the grieving widow.

She did everything in her power to be a sweet, obedient girl, sending her perfectionist tendencies and her anxieties into overdrive. That was how Crucible Moray grieved the loss of her father.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is listening intently to her every word, his hazel eyes shining like diamonds as he gives her his full concentrated stare as he sits down on his chair, leaning into the desk with his hands in front himself.

"What do you mean by your week was 'okay'? Tell me about it."

“Well…” Crucible starts, and finally confesses, “I forgot to journal like you’d asked last week, and I barely had time to shower, had to schedule classes for next semester—and had three panic attacks, called my Mom crying once…” she blurts, revealing the whole truth now, with very little prodding.

Hannibal's head tilts slightly in an intrigued manner. "You didn't journal like I asked?" he repeats, his eyes focused on her as though every syllable she utters is the most brilliant thing that's ever exited a person's mouth. "You're forgetting to adhere strictly to our treatment plan."

“But—but—“ Crucible protests. “I got an A on my Anatomy exam, finished a Public Health Paper, and finally memorized that sonata I’ve been working on…” she says, as if her accomplishments will make up for what she’s neglected.

"Yes, yes," he says, dismissing her accomplishments with a small wave of his hand. "It is admirable that you are doing well in school," he explains. "But you've failed to abide by our treatment plan by not journaling as you've been asked to."

“Right,” Crucible agrees, as she starts squirm a little in her seat—the doctor’s tall, handsome, imposing frame making her a little nervous. “I—I’m sorry,” she blushes, wondering what will happen next.

She liked Dr. Hannibal Lecter—liked and respected him, and thus, she craved his approval like a drug and did not like disappointing him.

Crucible curled her plump, glossed, red lips up into a pretty little pout, twirling a curl around her finger in a nervous tic, her hair still holding in some dampness of the rainy Baltimore spring.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter takes note of the way she squirms in her seat, the way she makes it obvious that she's nervous in his presence, how she wants to impress him. Her hair still retaining the moisture of the rainfall is what he picks up on, and he can't help but feel the urge to run his fingers through the ends.

Hannibal watches her pout curiously, and in the background, he crosses and uncrosses his leg. "Apologies aren't enough."

Crucible starts to stir even more as she struggles to stay seated on the leather lounge across from the good doctor. “I—“ she starts, indeed afraid to be alone with her thoughts. “I started to…” she says. “I started to journal a lot of times,” she confesses. “But then I forgot that I needed to eat lunch, and had a meeting with my advisor to schedule classes for next semester, and my hands started shaking, and…”

Crucible cannot stand it any longer, as she rises from her seat, her dainty hands clenching and unclenching into fists, as if she wants to crawl out of her own skin. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and her legs seem to have a mind of their own, as she begins to pace about the room, her boots leaving ghosts of the Baltimore spring in her anxious wake.

Hannibal cannot take his eyes off her, the way she keeps fidgeting and pacing in little circles around his office, how she's almost restless as if it were all or nothing for her.

He can't help but notice how her hips sway in that skirt she's wearing, how her legs never stop moving, those lips of hers almost pouting and frowning in that perfectly pretty face of hers -- her curls curling and bouncing in the air as she walks and paces.

Her hands that curl into fists, unclench, and curl again.

Hannibal watches her intently...

"Crucible..." Hannibal says softly, his voice soft and seductive, as he observes and takes in her movements and her behavior. "Come here for a second," he finally says.

[cru04]

the Night Nurse

Nurse Crucible Moray starts walking the hall, after her briefing on her newest patient, Will Graham, who was diagnosed with anti-NMDA encephalitis. Crucible grabs the syringes for his I.V. line, puts them in her scrub pocket, and goes into the room with a soft knock.

She writes her name and information on the whiteboard on the wall of her patient’s hospital room.

“Good evening, Mr. Graham. I’m Crucible Moray. I’ll be your nurse for the next three evenings,” she smiles. “How are we feeling?” she asks kindly, her voice soothing, like raspy honey. “Can you rate your pain for me, on a scale of 1-10? 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever had…”

Will's expression brightens slightly. He looks up from his files and gives a small smile, slightly relieved to hear a friendly voice. "Evening... Crucible," he responds, trying to suppress his southern drawl slightly.

He glances at the whiteboard, then back at her, appreciating her friendly demeanor. "Pain? Oh... well... hmm," he rubs the back of his head. "It's an eight, perhaps."

He squints at her, his keen sense of intuition kicking in.

He studies her, noticing the tiny details in her appearance and manner, his empathetic abilities in overdrive. He can feel the warmth and empathy from her, which puts him at ease. "You seem kind," he comments, his tone softening. "Have you been a nurse for long?"

“About six years,” Crucible answers calmly. “Okay, Dilaudid, Toradol, and your Zofran, Mr. Graham,” Crucible says, carefully injecting the three syringes into the small hub at the catheter of her patient’s IV line. “And… the saline flush,” Crucible finishes. “Sorry about the salty taste,” she winces sympathetically.

Will grits his teeth as the medicine flows into his vein, the cool liquid a stark contrast to his feverish body. He makes a disgusted expression as the saline flush flows through the IV, cringing slightly at the bitter taste.

He looks up at her through his glasses, trying to mask his exhaustion and pain. "You're good at this," he compliments, his voice weak but genuine.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mr. Graham,” Crucible smiles. It’s a million-dollar smile that lights up her whole face, radiating from her perfect glossy, plump lips outward. She swishes her long, raven curly ponytail over her shoulder and straightens the sheet over her patient’s feverish body. “Can I get you a little fan or something? It’s a small battery-powered guy, and you can take it home with ya,” Crucible offers, noting the sweat on his brow, a sheen over his handsome features.

Will nods weakly, his expression grateful. "Yes, please," he manages a small smile. "A fan would be nice," he admits, his voice a little hoarse.

As she adjusts the sheets, will can't help but notice her kindness and beauty. He's charmed by her caring nature and her captivating smile. He feels a strange mix of emotions - gratitude, intrigue, and a mild attraction.

“I’ll be right back,” Crucible grins, her curly ponytail swaying in the opposite direction of her hips as she exits the hospital room.

She returns quickly with the little grey fan, switching it onto high, and adjusting the angle so it’s aimed towards her patient’s face, causing his dark sweaty curls to blow in the breeze.

“How’s that, Mr. Graham?” Crucible asks sweetly.

"Much better," he admits, his eyes closing momentarily as he feels the cool air soothing his hot skin.

He glances up at her, his gaze locking onto her captivating smile once more. There's something about her that draws him in – her kindness, her intelligence, perhaps even her beauty. He blinks, snapping himself out of it, "And please, call me Will."

“I can do that,” Crucible says kindly. “Is there anything else I can do for you? A cold Sprite, maybe? Or a popsicle?” she asks kindly. “I’ve got to draw some blood here, and then I’m all yours if you need anything. Toileting, a cool cloth, name it,” the young nurse offers sweetly, her almond eyes sparkling.

Will appreciates her kindness and her willingness to assist him. "A Sprite would be great, I'm thirsty," he answers. He watches her closely as she prepares to draw his blood, his empathetic nature picking up on hints of her emotions and intentions, but finding nothing but good intent and kindness radiating from her.

He tries to relax, knowing he's in good hands. "And um... when you're done, could you tell me a bit about yourself? I don't know much about you and I'm curious."

“Sure,” Crucible agrees easily.

“A little poke,” she says, quickly sticking his forearm with her needle. “And I’ll be right back with your Sprite.”

Crucible returns with a cup of ice, cracking the top of a small can of lemon lime soda, and then pouring it expertly into the cup, adding and bending the straw. She eases it up to Will’s lips gently. “Slow sips,” Crucible cautions. “Take it easy…”

Will takes slow sips of the Sprite, feeling the cool, fizzy liquid soothe his dry throat. The sweetness of the drink contrasts with the bitterness of his current situation.

He looks up at Crucible, the straw still in his mouth. His eyes are filled with curiosity and a bit of vulnerability. "So.. tell me a little about yourself," he says after taking a few more sips. "What brought you into nursing?"

“I’ve actually spent my fair share where you are now,” Crucible smiles kindly. “I have Fibromyalgia and Cerebral Palsy, and had a nine-and-a-half pound cyst at the age of sixteen, and then complications from a liver abscess and stomach ulcer that gave me this hot midline scar,” Crucible grins, lifting her scrub top to reveal the pink line marring her skin. “For that I was in the hospital for twelve days, and IV antibiotics later at home,” she explains.

“So I know what it’s like to have good nurses,” Crucible finishes. “And shitty ones,” she remarks wryly.

Will's expression softens as he listens to Crucible's story. His empathetic nature allows him to perceive her feelings, and he feels a deep compassion for her.

"You've been through a lot," he says softly, his gaze lingering on her scar. "You must be incredibly strong." He takes another sip of his Sprite, then places the cup down, reaching out to gently touch the scar. "Does it still bother you?" he asks quietly, his touch tender.

“It’s a keloid scar,” Crucible explains. “The tissue grew back aggressively, leaving the skin bumped up and sensitive. So it’s a little tender, but not a big deal.”

Crucible flashes him her million-dollar-smile again. “I’m tougher than I look,” she smirks.

Will nods, his fingers trailing lightly down her scar before pulling back. He can feel her resilience and strength. He admires her honesty and openness.

"I can feel it," he says softly, his eyes flickering up to hers. "You've got a... strong presence. Almost intimidating," he admits with a small smile.

But there's a hint of something else in his eyes - a flicker of intrigue and maybe even attraction, hidden beneath his exhaustion.

Heya! I’m Cru! I’m 30F, and a literate writer looking to continue this guy! Work with me here?