#'it is' - cause the font - which is called 'Hannibal Lecter' and
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Will Graham in Hannibal S01E01 "Apéritif" and S01E13 "The Wrath of the Lamb" / "portrait of fryderyk in shifting light" by Richard Siken
#hannibal#hannibaledit#will graham#hugh dancy#horroredit#horror#nbc hannibal#hannibal nbc#richard siken#hannibal e: apéritif#hannibal s1#hannibal e: the wrath of the lamb#hannibal s3#*mine#I think s1 will would be horrified to find out who he turned into#by the end of the show#(I had to change the quote slightly - originally it is 'it's' and not#'it is' - cause the font - which is called 'Hannibal Lecter' and#apparently based on his writing in the show - did not include ')
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A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 1
Chapter 2 ->
Summary: Surviving being bitten and burned alive by the Red Dragon was the easy part. Frederick Chilton has a long road ahead before things will ever be close to normal again. But your fiancé is a fighter, and you’ll be with him the whole way.
Sequel to A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss
CW: hospitals, surgery, major injury recovery. Sorry for the silly title, this will, in fact, be an angst-fest.
2,368 words
He seemed fine that first day—as fine as anyone could be after surviving what he had. His skin was red and cracked from being set on fire, and both his lips had been violently torn off—but they had found him in time. He was in the hospital recovering. Talking. You were able to speak with him, and reassure him that you still wanted to marry him, however long his recovery would take. Lips or no lips. You loved him.
You thought that meant he was going to be fine. The Red Dragon didn’t kill him.
But it wasn’t that simple.
His kidney started failing. Dehydration. He needed a massive amount of IV fluids to replace what he had lost and save him, but that volume of fluid had consequences. It made his body swell up to the point that you couldn’t recognize him—to the point that his airway was swollen closed and he couldn’t breathe on his own. And his single, struggling kidney might fail anyway.
Just a day ago he was talking to you, laughing as you teased him, telling you that you didn’t have to stay with him, and crying when you said you would. You had yelled at him for being such an idiot.
When you walked in the next morning, he was gone.
Overnight, he was like a cadaver, lying unconscious with ventilator and feeding tubes stuffed down his throat. Why did you yell at him?
You were so helpless. There was nothing you could do to make any sort of difference, not even encourage him with tender words or a joke. He couldn’t hear you. He was gone. Every snarky, sassy, smug, self-important, dramatic, gossipy remark was gone—silenced—leaving you with a body and no idea when or if he would wake up. All you could do was watch as he swelled, and hope that the fluids did their job saving his life before they killed him. All you could do was be grateful for every breath, every stubborn heartbeat, and pray they didn’t stop.
A doctor told you his chances of waking up would be slim for a healthy person. With ninety percent of his skin destroyed, bacteria could easily enter his bloodstream, and he could rapidly die of sepsis. The complication of his previous organ damage—especially the kidney Abel Gideon removed—made his probability of recovering next to zero.
“You don’t know what he’s lived through,” you seethed. “He did not survive three different serial killers just to die now. So you are not going to treat him like a lost cause, or…” You tried to think of what he would say, “Or I will sue this hospital for malpractice! That is the renowned psychiatrist and bestselling author Dr. Frederick Chilton, and you will not give up on him.”
Blustering didn’t suit you. And haughty threats couldn’t bring his swelling down. The doctors were doing everything they could, but the internal pressure became too much for him to breathe, even with the assistance of a ventilator and oxygen tubes in his nose. They carted him away to the operating room to cut more holes in him.
All you could do was watch.
“It will cause additional scarring,” a very kind nurse with curly hair explained to you as you blinked vacantly in a waiting room, trying not to break down, “but it should allow his chest to expand and save his life.”
You nodded, arms wrapped around your chest. He wouldn’t even notice a few more in the highway map of scars that his body had become. So long as he survived. You were supposed to get married. You just wanted him to wake up.
***
Frederick Chilton awoke in a bare and lonely hospital room.
A nurse came in to check on him after a few minutes of blinking groggily and trying to get his bearings through the static fuzz clouding his mind. She explained what had happened, reviewed the medications he was on, showed him the button to press to call for help, and handed him a remote control. No visitors to announce. No one waiting in the lobby all night, haggard with worry, for him to regain consciousness. No flowers crowding the bedside table.
The small television attached to the far wall, which he could barely see or hear, was less than useless, and the morphine drip prevented him from being able to focus enough to read a book. So he lay in bed, alone, in silence save for the tedious beep of the heart monitor.
It was so dull, he was grateful for having been unconscious for the last thirty hours, which was how long it took for the surgeons to get all the organs back inside of him that Abel Gideon took out, determining which ones were viable to go back, and which would go septic and kill him. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Humpty Dumpty, and not all of the pieces could be put together again.
Days passed, and his only visitor was a police officer there on a formality to take his statement.
He would have thought being disemboweled would make a man more popular. Of course it didn’t. This spared him his pride, at the least—he couldn’t tolerate visitors seeing him pale and clammy-skinned, whimpering with pain in a miserable little hospital gown—and for that he was grateful of his churlish nature, which pushed everyone well past arm’s length.
And yet, he wished they would at least try. He wanted people clamoring at his recovery room door so that he could send them away.
He would never be subjected to the indignity of being seen so weak—and yet, what he wouldn’t give to walk in to his office on his first day back and have all of his employees treat him softly, like he was some fragile thing, and not the tyrant they despised. To have them ask if he was all right.
Why didn’t he have more visitors? More flowers? More cards?
He was not well-liked, but he was distinguished. That warranted somebody stopping by with condolences. It was just that there was so little in his bare hospital room to distract him from the pain.
As the anesthetic wore off, a throbbing soreness radiated out from his abdomen, growing sharper with time. It was agonizing. With every breath, the contracting of his diaphragm and the expanding of his lungs and ribs tormented the stitches in his skin and the abused organs inside. He was either pumped full of so much morphine he couldn’t stay awake, or was clear-headed and wishing they would pump him full of more drugs so he could not be.
His mother sent a card, and so did the staff of the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane. Both had flowers on the front, watercolor roses, and flowing script font in gold, and both meant equally little.
Perfunctory.
The one from the hospital had been insisted upon by the administrator, who had forced the staff to sign it. Each message was generic and impersonal, like they’d been taken from a standardized get-well form letter—although a few were kind enough to make him close his eyes and pretend they were genuinely meant for him. “We miss you, and wish you a speedy recovery!” His heart turned to think one of his employees really missed him and looked forward to him returning. He found the name signed under the message. He had no idea who it was, but he was certain he had never spoken to them.
The one from his mother had most likely been picked out by a maid, presented to her to mark her signature, and then mailed by said maid. It served mainly as a reminder that she hadn’t bothered to visit in person.
Both stung more to receive than if he had no cards at all—written proof that the only way anyone cared for him was as a formality.
There was a third card, however. The only one sent by someone who wasn’t socially obligated to.
You.
Unlike the others, it was completely unexpected. Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom, or Hannibal Lecter he would have understood, but you were last person he expected to hear from.
It wasn’t even a real card, but printed at home on plain, flimsy printer paper with a cartoon dog wearing a cone-collar that said “Sorry you’re feeling ruff” on the cover. The inside had a short, hand-written message: Glad you didn’t die.
Childish. Cheap. He should have been insulted. The whole thing was obviously intended to convey how little you cared. But he kept the damned thing long after he’d thrown the other two in the trash. He wished you would come visit so he could tell you how tacky you were to your face. Perhaps it was best that you didn’t—he would have wanted to buy himself flowers to fill the room with first, so it wouldn’t seem as if you were the only one who cared, or that your tasteless little gesture was anything of significance to him.
He was Dr. Frederick Chilton. It was important for you to know that he didn’t need you at all.
***
Frederick’s eyes moved behind closed lids. The swollen purple lids began to twitch, then slowly creep open. The room was hazy and bright with colors streaking at odd geometric angles away from the lights that produced them.
All he could make out were flowers. Dozens of them, hundreds, surrounding him in a resplendent cloud cloud of white and lavender. Either he fell asleep outside in the garden, or he had died and somehow gotten into heaven.
“No, you’re alive, Frederick,” you said from somewhere close. He must have been whispering to himself out loud. Your voice was wavering with powerful sobs that you shoved down to force it to sound soft and patient, but he could hear the laughter in it, too. “You’ve been out for awhile, but you’re doing really well. You just had a successful surgery. They finished debriding your burns and installing temporary grafts so you don’t go septic. Oh, and they were able to get a skin sample! It’s already in the lab so they can start growing you some of your own new skin.”
“Where…?” he blinked a few times, and tried to move before realizing he couldn’t. His body was heavier than lead and a dull ache like paper being torn pulsed beneath his skin at odd intervals. He went to lick his lips, but they weren’t there. His tongue hit empty air above his teeth, and then nothing until it encountered a gauze bandage and a plastic tube going into his nose.
That brought everything crashing back, and he groaned at reality, missing the previous few moments of anesthetic fog when the Red Dragon was just a dream.
You sat beside his hospital bed, on the side of his good eye, watching over him with a hopeful smile, rambling on about how happy you were that he was awake. There was a blue hospital blanket folded over the arm of the chair, and your hair was a mess—he wondered how long you’d been there. Every inch of surface space that wasn’t needed for medical purposes was covered in roses.
“You bought out Holland’s entire stock of flower exports.”
The way the words scraped sluggishly and humorlessly from his hoarse throat, his eyelids drooping lifelessly, made it sound like a reproach—but you laughed. You always laughed at his jokes.
“They’re all fake,” you admitted. “Hospital rules—you’re an infection risk.”
He wanted to flash you a charming smile, but he couldn’t. He did not know if his face would ever be able to produce a smile again, or how many agonizing surgeries it would take before it could. You wanted to squeeze his hand and kiss him softly, over and over, but you couldn’t. It would be weeks before you could casually touch his skin without the risk of it ripping off. At least now that he was wrapped head to toe in thick gauze, you could reach out and gently rest your hand on top of his. It stung bitterly, but he didn’t show it—he didn’t want you to take your hand away. The pressure was comforting, and your engagement ring sparkled on your finger.
“I am… glad to see you. These places can be so dull.” He met your gaze, hoping his one functional eye could shoulder the entire burden of body language in conveying his gratitude. He felt so defeated. Hollowed out. He stared up at the plain white ceiling. His words were often callous; it was physical passion which had brought you together in the first place, and without it, he feared he may begin to push you away like everyone else.
“Frederick,” you smiled, but your eyes looked like they might cry. “I’m glad to see you, too. Really glad. I don’t know who was there looking out for you the last few times you were in the hospital, but I wanted to make sure you know how loved you are this time. I’m going to be here every single day with books, and podcasts, fake flowers, and anything you want that I’m allowed to sneak in, until we can go home together.”
He didn’t want to say something trite like, “I couldn’t do this without you.”
He could.
He had before. But he didn’t want to. He never wanted to again. You had wormed so deeply into his heart and given his world color and meaning he had never known, even in his darkest moments. You made the biggest things seem unimportant, and the smallest things monumentally significant. He could never tell you how important you were to him, what it meant to not be alone.
The heart monitor betrayed the warm fluttering in his chest as the slow, steady beeping rapidly increased. You glanced up at the machine with concern, then back down to him, a sly grin spreading across your cheeks. Prideful embarrassment was written clearly all over his face, even with only part of his face left.
You wished more than ever that you could kiss him.
#Frederick Chilton#Frederick Chilton x reader#hannibal#Raúl Esparza#burn recovery#bryan fuller was letting Chilton get away with his burn way too easily tbh#actually so I am by letting him be conscious and also not dead but hey#this is a bit more like it#my writing
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Misconduct charges dropped against Volvo Ocean Race skipper, while navigator steps down
Rule 69 protest brought against Team Scallywag's David Witt and Steve Hayles, following a complaint made about an onboard video produced during Leg 2 of the race.
David Witt and Annemieke Bes racing on board Sun Hung Kai/Scallywag. Photo by Konrad Frost/Volvo Ocean Race
Australian sailor David Witt, the skipper of the Volvo Ocean Race entry Team Sun Hung Kai/Scallywag, and Scallywag navigator Steve Hayles, have been cleared of a charge of misconduct.
Witt and Hayles were today called to a protest hearing under Rule 69 of the Racing Rules of Sailing; Rule 69 concerns actions that may 'bring the sport of sailing into disrepute'.
Charges of misconduct were brought against Witt and Hayles, following a complaint made to World Sailing about a video produced during Leg 2 of the race.
The complaint, which was lodged by an anonymous third party not associated with the race, focused on content contained in a video produced on board Scallywag during Leg 2 of the race.
At a hearing in Cape Town today, the International Jury dismissed the charge. In a press release issued by Volvo Ocean Race, the International Jury reported: “David Witt and Steve Hayles did not commit misconduct because the video has not caused widespread offence worldwide and has not brought the sport into disrepute.”
Navigator Steve Hayles aboard Sun Hung Kai/Scallywag during Leg 2. Photo: Konrad Frost/Volvo Ocean Race
The video was titled the 'Steve Hayles Breakfast Show', and featured David Witt and Steve Hayles presenting a spoof phone-in chat show. In it Witt makes mocking comments about some of his crew, including John Fisher who appears wearing a face mask in a Hannibal Lecter style, before inviting Dutch sailor Annemieke Bes onto the show as 'Doctor Cloggs' and asks for medical advice in treating the navigator's 'scrotum rash'.
The video divided opinion, with many viewers questioning the timing of its publication, which coincided with the Harvey Weinstein case and widespread revelations of sexual harassment in the workplace. Bes is the sole female sailor on the boat. Others opined that Bes appears to be a willing participant who is laughing throughout the skit, and pointed out that she is dressed with a beard as a male doctor.
Witt introduces the video, which lasts 96 seconds, with the caution: 'Adult warning! Everything in this segment will offend most sections of the public domain.” When posted on the Volvo Ocean Race social media feed it was captioned: “Even the editors aren't touching this one.” The video was later deleted from the Scallywag and race media feeds.
A source told us that a Volvo Ocean Race employee was also investigated during Leg 2 following the complaint, but no charges were brought against them.
We understand that several female Volvo Ocean Race sailors are uncomfortable with the suggestion that such onboard humour might equate to sexual harassment, and moved to present their views to race organisers.
Annemieke Bes remains part of the Scallywag crew for Leg 3, which leaves Cape Town for Melbourne, Australia on Sunday 10 December. However, it was announced yesterday, before today's hearing, that Steve Hayles was stepping down as navigator, with Antonio Fontes taking the role for Leg 3.
Antonio Fontes takes over as navigator on Scallywag. Photo Pedro Martinez/Volvo Ocean Race
In a team press release Hayles commented: “It's been great to work with David and the rest of the Scallywag crew, preparing this project from the beginning and getting it off the start line.
“But I've decided to leave the boat in Cape Town.”
Hayles, who has sailed with Witt over several decades on different race campaigns, remained in Cape Town to assist the incoming navigator Antonio Fontes.
Fontes has already had an unusual start to his Volvo Ocean Race campaign, training and racing with Scallywag in Leg 0 before being 'loaned' to Team AkzoNobel for Leg 1 after the Dutch-flagged team lost several key members of crew following the last minute reinstatement of skipper Simeon Tienpoint.
“We're sad to see Steve leave us,” skipper David Witt said. “He's been a great asset, with his experience, in getting us ready to compete with some of the best teams in the world. Now it's up to Antonio and the rest of us to step our game as we head into the Southern Ocean and prepare for the leg home to Hong Kong next month.”
In the Volvo Ocean Race press release following the hearing, Dee Caffari is quoted as: “I've seen the video and I think it's unfortunate that this resulted in a hearing.
“This case has shown all of us, I think, that the banter and jokes that are an essential part of life on board, don't always travel well off the water. But to have singled out these guys for a charge when it's clear that nobody on their boat felt offended in any way seems misguided to me.”
Jordi Neves, chief digital officer of the Volvo Ocean Race comments: “As event organisers we are constantly undertaking a review of our and the teams content workflow. We are providing updated guidelines to our communications team, including the on board reporters.
“Our focus now is to evolve and respond in a responsible manner, as we continue our authentic storytelling of the race as the sailors take on the ultimate test of a team in professional sport.”
This is the first edition of the Volvo Ocean Race where every boat has sailed with mixed male and female teams due to changes in the crew allocation rules.
Day 12 from the sky on board Sun Hung Kai/Scallywag. Photo by Konrad Frost/Volvo Ocean Race
The video incident is not the first time David Witt has been at the centre of controversy. Before the race he was widely quoted as saying that he planned to sail with seven men only, because he considered the crew allocation rules a 'social experiment'.
Before the race start in Alicante, Witt told Yachting World he was “100 per cent misquoted”, adding: “What I said was, I think the rule is terrible, that I'm not supportive of the rule. I think it's ridiculous there's a boat left in the shed and there's not an all-women in the race.
“I've had women sailing on my boat for the last 15 years, and there are more women sailing in this race that have sailed with me in campaigns outside the Volvo Race than any other person in the race.”
Olympic silver medallist Annemieke Bes has previously sailed with Witt on Ragamuffin, and left Team AkzoNobel to join the Scallywag campaign.
In another innovation, for this race the onboard reporters (or OBRs) are not employed by the competing teams, but are part of the Volvo Ocean Race media team and embedded within the teams on rotation.
A key element of the OBRs' remit is to produce more honest, unvarnished coverage of the race than previously seen before. However, an approvals process remains in place before publication. Sensitive content can be 'tagged' for checking before publishing – we have been variously told that the video in question both was, and wasn't, tagged as requiring approval.
We take an in-depth look at how the unprecedented coverage of the Volvo Ocean Race is changing the game in the next issue of Yachting World, out on January 11, 2018.
The post Misconduct charges dropped against Volvo Ocean Race skipper, while navigator steps down appeared first on Yachting World.
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