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vixnovacoda · 2 years ago

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 1

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: 2.9k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

Summary: Amongst his list of patients, Doctor Hannibal Lecter finds an interesting character in his latest, Emma Darcy, the author of a bestselling crime series whose mind is host to something clawing to be free. The two become inexplicably drawn to each other and things progress as Emma encounters a world of death. But the question is, who will change who?

[ao3 version here]

There’s a monster inside me. Emma believed this thought since her first body. Bug dead eyes affixed upon her, screaming with stiff muscles for her attention. Ordinary people, she supposed, retaliate. They run, they freeze; there’s an emotional response. She stared back and admired the skin’s complexion, the marbled musculature opened out on display. Albeit, while resistant to obey, a voice unlike hers gave those actions. It made her replay the death over and over to the point of meaningless where she was left to be creative in her own telling, coming up with bestseller-worthy skewerings ready to satiate a country for months.

There was a rare sliver of remorse in those stories. The monster was in control, a shapeless figure which pooled at the back of her mind like fog, seeping through the cracks when the time was right. When it seeped, it poured, and the noise became maddening.

Emma Darcy. Recorded as "age: twelve" back then by the pediatric nurses. They gave her colourful pills, which she fed the monster. For a time, medication worked fifty-fifty.

On days like these, in Baltimore’s blood-stained oasis, pills did nothing.

Perhaps that had been why she readily accepted her agent’s urge for psychiatric assessment instead of continuing her research. Each crime scene made her sicker and sicker, each carcass, each blood spatter, each playing out the scene in her head. Even Emma grew scared towards herself – when the world already regarded her books with the same spine-scattering fear – at the dedication. Therapy seemed, naturally, like one more option to consider, dreaded though it was to be scrutinised again after self-medicating.

All this for the sake of quelling the monster.

An empty waiting room. The clicking clock. Painful silence in luxurious comfort; Emma had wedged herself in a leather seat for the past ten minutes. Her foot tapped to the seconds which passed until her time with the proclaimed ‘finest’ psychiatrist arrived.

2:30 pm. Click. The door opened. “Miss Darcy?” asked the man at the room’s entrance. The accent, while unable to pinpoint, could not be missed.

“Please, just Emma,” she said, taking the time to take in his well-composed stature and three-piece suit – grey; neutral.

“Of course. My apologies, Emma.” Dr. Lecter’s lips formed a thin smile. “Please come in.” He welcomed her out from the small and into an overly large, lavish office which seemed like a mix between old-fashioned and modern with a high ceiling, pillars that spanned the same height, red walls and fixtures that brightened under the spring sun, and a pair of black leather chairs. It looked more like a room than anything at a hospital. It looked like a home. “Take a seat,” he said, gesturing over to the other chair opposite from him as he situated himself into place. Legs crossed.

Emma made her way over, heels resounding off the hardwood floor at uneven beats. “I must say sorry in advance,” she began as she accepted her appointed seat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any sort of psychiatrist. So, you’ll have to excuse my nerves.”

“That’s not a problem at all. As long as you’re in this room, Emma, you should have nothing to be nervous about, I assure you.” His words gave way to a sense of kindness akin to sensitivity via carefully constructed sentences. From the moment she saw his tall, lean frame, the nerves cemented themselves and the longer she looked, the more Emma couldn’t help but notice the well-mannered self he portrayed in his appearance. His hair: short and tamed, but wild in colour as if it couldn't decide on anything other than aged by way of greys. His eyes: ever watching, ever focused, and soft. A calm wave washed her into an ease she had no control over. He was right, in some sense. There was nothing to worry about, at least, as far as she had been aware. Hannibal Lecter was just a man, a psychiatrist, a doctor.

“Shall we start with why you’ve decided to try therapy again?” asked Dr. Lecter, filling the silence.

Emma blinked, returning to reality. “Y-Yes.” Unaware her mind had wandered for so long, she cleared her restless vocal cords before answering, “you may have noticed that I wasn’t the one who made the appointment. My literary agent, Marcus Hall, took the liberty of doing so on my behalf.”

“I may have. But I did not believe it was my place to mention.”

“Well, thank you.” Emma smiled. The muscles in her cheeks grew lax as she continued, “what I do is not for the faint of heart, I take it seriously, and my mental health hasn’t slipped in years. Le Belle Mort is my life’s work. Each novel is inspired by real homicides. They help people understand the beauty in things which would otherwise scare them. Life may be beautiful, but so is death.”

“Le Belle Mort: The Beautiful Death.” Dr. Lecter rolled the words off his tongue with such an exquisiteness Emma found marvelling. “A wonderful notion,” he said, leaning back.

“It can be when executed properly. Such art requires a careful hand and good inspiration. Hence why I’m here in Baltimore, and considering I’m looking at the Chesapeake Ripper, I guess Marcus was just worried I might slip up sooner rather than later.”

Pale yellow rays danced along the sharp edges of his face as it tilted to the side. “And you agreed?”

“The people closest to you can usually tell when something is off, even when you don’t.”

“Sometimes. But, often, we are the only ones who can ever truly know. You showing up here today is a sign that you do.”

“I’m not sure I entirely do know,” she admitted softly.

“As humans, we have a desire towards knowledge. Without it, life would not be able to exist. It creates power. Admittedly, when someone knows something you don’t, it is natural to be afraid. There are no nerves in this room, Emma,” he explained, weaving the threads of his cold intellectualism into his compassionate psychology and awaited her response. She did; a gulp made poignant noise. He had a point. A honed needle-shaped point, which he began to stitch with. “Now tell me, what does Marcus see in you that no one else doesn’t?”

“Probably,” said Emma as she drew a long breath, “the fact my medication isn’t taking so well anymore.” She could feel the seams coming together on her skin, on her mind, sealing the holes she wished to retreat inside of and keeping her together. Thin, tiny tingles.

“May I ask why you’re on medication?”

“My research can get quite intensee. Hours are spent going over gruesome details; what the tissue looks like, the angle of the rod when inserted through the eyeball, blood splatters, body decomposition and etcetera. I see dead bodies in my day-to-day, Dr. Lecter. Real bodies and I used to not be fazed by it since started.”

Hannibal remained still. He analysed each second between her breaths; saw the rise and fall of her chest beneath her marigold shirt. “That sort of work can tax the mind over time. The more you see, the more that gets added to the pile before your mind eventually cracks from underneath. What you are experiencing could very well be as simple as not increasing dosage over time.”

“It’s not the work itself which fazes me.” Emma’s heart raced at perturbing thoughts.

“Then what drives this fear?”

Uncertainty betrays her. She tears herself from his undeterred gaze.

“Emma,” said Hannibal, attempting to bring her back, “are you afraid someone is going to get hurt?” By now, the skilled psychiatrist spotted the mirror which sat across from him. Emma leant back at the same degree and angle, her hands situated similarly in her lap, her legs and face at odd parallels to the horizontal floor. And she looks not at him, but at the deepest, empty black pools of his eyes. For the first time, he truly looks back into her dark blues, which shimmered; possibility.

———

Yellow tape hung from the ornate door. A dozen uniforms walked in and out of the mid-century home, bypassing the tape. Two stood guard at the front. Radio chatter made a constant noise throughout the empty chambers. Flash photography went off, and flashlights shone in search. There had been no blood.

Nonetheless, Emma Darcy’s living situation was a crime scene.

Three hours ago, she had returned from her session with Dr. Lecter to the package at her door. About two hours was how long the police riffled through her small inventory of stuff, asking her questions and making sure she remained on the premises for the time being. Two hours to have the image of opening the package and dropping skin fragments on tiled flooring replay repeatedly. The package: navy blue, neatly wrapped with a bow. The contents: jigsaw squares cut from the same skin, Caucasian (like her), edges clean. This image played in her mind as a welcomed family member. It had been there before, but younger. An old case; her first book.

Her nails dug into the bottom of the patio deck, and herself placed on the edge, chewing on her lip. Too focused to notice new faces approach. “Miss Emma Darcy?” Three separate footfalls. “I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI.” So it was as serious. Emma lifted her head at the badge presented before her. “This is Special Agent Will Graham and—”

“Dr. Lecter,” Emma finished. Her back immediately straightened upon sight of him.

“You two know each other?” asked Crawford, as he looked between them to discern the recognition.

Dr. Lecter eyed her with caution. The move was hers to take. “We just met earlier today.” Wood splinters hitched her hands, which loosened their grip. “He’s my psychiatrist,” she clarified. Sooner or later, she’d have to admit it as part of her alibi.

The answer satiated Crawford’s curiosity. “Well, Dr. Lecter here is assisting with the case. I take it that won’t be an issue?”

“Not at all,” responded Dr. Lecter.

“Good.” He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat; no answer needed from Emma. Whose gaze turned to the remaining man, Will Graham, as he began to speak, “we were informed when asked for a statement you were unresponsive. Could you answer a few questions for us now, Miss Darcy?”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realised. She swore she talked to at least one of them. “I… Yes, and, please, just Emma.”

Will gave her a sincere, restrained cheek pull as if to say sorry and of course simultaneously. Awkward, though endearing in a way, perhaps, only executable by him and his lost puppy dog eyes that wouldn’t give her the direct time of day.

“Shall we?” said Crawford, gesturing to the nearby table and chairs.

Howled winds moved first, faster than Emma could keep up with as it caught against her red hair. She required focus to move. Otherwise, every touch felt reminiscent of the soft skin tissue she had handled mere hours ago. Right down to the temperature. She could feel it. Her knees buckled. All the weight bled out of her until nothing remained. Her head spun. Shapes merged into blurs, and a pair of hands grabbed her arms as her body dropped. Air hitched through her deprived brain. She could hear their collective worried exclaim and feel how small she was in that tight grasp to keep her upright. Eventually, a face broke past the dazed vision. “Take your time, Emma.” An unmistakable accent. Hannibal.

She peered up at him. He was calm even as his skin made contact with her bare forearms. Bodies close. Heat rose in her face, red being the first colour to return to her complexion – embarrassment, she called it at the time.

Forcefully swallowing the rock-shaped lump in her throat, Emma bobbed her head. “I got it.” Sure that she did, he removed himself. Shakingly, she pulled herself upright once more and made her way towards the opposite end of the deck. Her eyes moved faster than her feet as she became desperate not to see that face of Hannibal’s. Regardless, reminders of him stood everywhere. Pinewood trees surrounded the perimeter; grand and valiant against the chaos. They reminded her to breathe, to become one, to ground herself in the secluded forest. “Ask away,” said Emma, plopping beside the kitchen window.

Dr. Lecter and Agent Crawford took the remaining seats. Will’s fidgety self preferred to stand. “The easy stuff first,” said Crawford. “Take us through your day.”

She circled what phantom marks formed on her forearm as she sifted through her catalogic mind. “I woke up around eight o’clock, had breakfast and started my research until midday when I headed to my two-thirty appointment with Dr. Lecter. Then I went home, found the package, took it into the kitchen, opened it and called the police,” she explained.

“And I’ve noticed you have an accent. Are you…?”

“British? Yes. I just arrived a few days ago to work on my book.”

“Who owns the house?” queried Will plainly.

“My agent, Marcus Hall.” She turned her head. “He owns another place closer to the city, so he let me stay here.”

“Does anyone else know you’re here?”

“Except everyone here, no.”

Crawford spoke this time. “Any reason your mail wound up here, then?”

“Fan mail. After an incident a few years back, Marcus has been handling it for me. He most likely left it here for me,” said Emma. Distracted, her eyes followed a heavily clothed officer through the open window. Nosey and inquisitive, his naked hand itches above a forgotten string. “Don’t touch that!” Emma shouts, lesser than a worry and more fierce than annoyed. A command. One none of them expected based on her demeanour. “Gloves on or walk away.”

Caught in the act, the officer darts frantically between Crawford and Emma with his brows furrowed only to be met with a similar stare. There was no sympathy to be won. He backed away, and she hung her head, still reeling despite the little adrenaline rush that had kicked its way in. “Sorry, force of habit,” she said.

“You do that often?” asked Crawford.

“A few times, yes, back in England. I worked with public services, so I’m aware of the protocol.”

“More than just aware, it seems. You pieced the human puzzle together and left no trace.”

“That.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, tissue grating against tissue. “That was for my sake. I know it sounds crazy, but I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I didn’t know.”

“Not crazy, Emma. In your circumstance, it is understandable,” countered Dr. Lecter.

“What’s crazy is the exact same package arriving at my desk this morning,’ put in Crawford.

“… You don’t think I did it?” Emma laid eyes on the three of them, voice thick with tension.

Crawford peered at Will, conferring silently on his assessment. A glint reflected from a lens as the Special Agent removed his glasses, lips pursed and he shook his head. An outsider couldn't understand what it meant, even more so than what probably went on inside his head. But Jack Crawford had not been a stranger to this communication. He leant over the drab table. “No. In fact, we know you couldn’t have,” disclosed Crawford.

Baffled, her stomach fluttered. “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because the box had your name on it. Whoever did this wanted you and the FBI to know,” told Will. There contained a scrunched-up look on his face, apologetic in tone.

“We were hoping you might be able to help us, Emma,” said Crawford. “Any information you have, anything, would be grateful.”

Questions and answers, everyone had them. This new information fed that cycle. She could tell them everything – connect the points as she did with the puzzle – all it would cost was a dip. How much would the ultimate cost be? Enough to remain with some grip on reality? Maybe that’s all she needed. Enough.

She’d tell them enough. She wanted to help, even if there wasn’t much she could do.

But a detail had gone missing. “Is it a woman?” Emma piped.

Crawford squinted. “I’m sorry?”

“The victim you have. Is it a woman?”

“We’re not sure yet. Why?”

“My puzzle is missing about half its pieces. The first book in my series contains a similar murder. Every detail so far matches up. It's the first out of many. I needed to be sure.”

Will’s eyes widened as he connected the points. “You think there’s going to be more.”

Emma acquiesced and nodded. “It is highly probable,” she said, “and you have the other half.”

Darkness set on Baltimore and a fog wanting more, without a care for who was present, spread. Psychiatrist and patient set their sights on each other.

Two rooms over, spread out atop carpet in an intricate pattern, laid the human flesh that had been cut only to reform back as half a body. A young female. No detail spared as they all merged and were torn once more, crimson spilling at the edges of Emma’s mind. Piecing it back together. Over and over. Again and again. Visceral and real. Her story became reality.

The line began to blur.

———

“Emma,” said Hannibal, attempting to bring her back, “are you afraid someone is going to get hurt?”

“I’m afraid of myself,” she admitted. “I’m afraid I’m going to get hurt.”

#Hannibal #Hannibal x oc #Hannibal Lecter x original character #Hannibal nbc #Hannibal lecter #Hannibal lecter fanfiction #Hannibal fanfic #Hannibal lecter fanfic #Hannibal fanfiction

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ausetkmt · 2 years ago

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The New York Times: A Statue of Henrietta Lacks Will Replace a Monument to Robert E. Lee

A life-size bronze statue of Henrietta Lacks, the woman whose cancer cells were taken without her consent and were used for research that ushered medical discoveries and treatments, will be erected in her hometown, Roanoke, Va., next year in a plaza previously named after the Confederate general Robert E. Lee.

Roanoke Hidden Histories, an organization dedicated to acknowledging Black history in the community’s public spaces, raised more than $183,000 for the project.

In a news conference announcing plans for the statue on Monday, a local artist, Bryce Cobbs, presented a preliminary black-and-white drawing of Ms. Lacks wearing a blazer and a knee-length skirt with her arms folded. The sculptor, Larry Bechtel, will use the drawing as a reference to design the statue on a stone base.

Mr. Bechtel said he would first make a two-foot model based on the drawing and then make a second, six-foot model that will eventually be molded and cast into bronze. “Hopefully, if everything goes right, we will have an unveiling of this splendid sculpture next October,” Mr. Bechtel said.

Ron Lacks, Ms. Lacks’s grandson, said the effort to honor his grandmother had been a long time coming. “This means a lot to my family,” he said, adding that he was looking forward to seeing “the sculpture that will honor her forever in this beautiful city of Roanoke.”

The finished statue will stand downtown in Henrietta Lacks Plaza, where a Robert E. Lee monument once stood. That monument, erected in 1960, was scheduled to be removed after it was found damaged in July 2020. Plans to rename the plaza took shape after the monument was hauled away that summer. At least 230 Confederate symbols across the United States have been removed, relocated or renamed since the murder of George Floyd in 2020 and the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement.

Mr. Cobbs, the artist, said in an email on Tuesday that he aimed to capture Ms. Lacks in a way “that reflected her personality and also respected her legacy.”

He said that Ms. Lacks’s family had been in touch with Roanoke Hidden Histories throughout the process and offered to help capture her likeness in the final sculpt. “Which was very generous of them, seeing as how the amount of photographs of Henrietta Lacks are extremely low and limited,” he wrote.

Mr. Cobbs said he had been involved with the project for more than three years. “Being a part of history in this way, working with this group of people to bring this to life, is something that I’ll never forget,” he said.

Ms. Lacks, who was born in Roanoke and later moved to Baltimore with her husband during the 1940s, died from cervical cancer at 31 in 1951. She left behind five young children and an unrivaled medical legacy.

Just months before her death and without her knowledge, consent or compensation, doctors removed a sample of cells from a tumor in her cervix. The cells taken from Ms. Lacks behaved differently than other cancer cells, doubling in number within 24 hours and continuing to replicate.

The cell sample went to a researcher at Johns Hopkins University who was trying to find cells that would survive indefinitely so researchers could experiment on them. The cells derived from that sample have since reproduced and multiplied billions of times, contributing to nearly 75,000 studies.

The cell line named after Ms. Lacks, HeLa, has played a vital role in developing treatments for influenza, leukemia and Parkinson’s disease, as well as advancing chemotherapy, gene mapping, in vitro fertilization and more.

According to “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks,” a book about her life that was turned into a movie starring Oprah Winfrey, Ms. Lacks’s family members did not learn about the use of her cells until 1973, when scientists contacted them for blood samples so they could study their genes.

Last year, 70 years after her death, the World Health Organization honored Ms. Lacks for the contribution that she unknowingly made to science and medicine. A life-size bronze statue of Ms. Lacks was also erected last year at the University of Bristol in England.

#Henrietta Lacks #HeLa #A Statue of Henrietta Lacks Will Replace a Monument to Robert E. Lee #mother of stem cell research #blood samples stolen to save the world #Black Lives Matter #Black Women Matter #Black Science #Science #WHO

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siyadev · 1 year ago

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The History of Dentistry

A beautiful smile is a universal symbol of health and vitality, and humans have strived to maintain their oral health throughout history. Dentistry has progressed a long way since its humble beginnings. The history of dentistry is an enthralling journey spanning thousands of years, full of remarkable discoveries, innovations, and cultural practices. In this blog, we’ll look at the fascinating history of dentistry, from ancient remedies to the sophisticated dental care we have today.

Ancient Remedies and Early Practices

Humans have always been concerned about dental care for millennia. Evidence of dental work can be found dating back to ancient civilizations. Here are some key moments in dentistry’s early history:

Ancient Egypt (3000–2000 BCE):The ancient Egyptians were forerunners in dentistry. They practised oral hygiene and invented various dental instruments, such as twig toothbrushes and pastes made from ashes and crushed eggshells.

Ancient China (1600 BCE): The Chinese also practised early dentistry, treating dental pain with acupuncture. They thought dental problems were caused by imbalances in the body’s energy flow.

Greco-Roman (500 BCE-500 CE): Influential figures such as Hippocrates and Celsus contributed to dentistry during the period. They discussed tooth extraction and dental hygiene.

The Middle Ages and Renaissance

The Middle Ages saw a decline in European dental knowledge, but the Renaissance saw a revival in dental practices. Among the significant developments during this period are:

Barber-surgeons: In mediaeval Europe, barber-surgeons frequently performed dental procedures such as extractions and simple toothache treatments. The iconic barber pole, with its red and white stripes, symbolises these two occupations.

Dental Instruments: During the Renaissance period, more advanced dental instruments such as forceps for tooth extraction and foot-powered dental drills were developed.

The Birth of Modern Dentistry

The 18th and 19th centuries saw significant advancements in dentistry. Among the significant events that occurred during this time are:

Dentures of George Washington: Contrary to popular belief, George Washington did not have wooden teeth. He had several sets of dentures made from materials such as human teeth, animal teeth, and ivory.

Dental Schools: The first dental school was established in Baltimore in 1840, marking the formalization of dental education. This resulted in the standardization of dental practices and better patient care.

Modern Dentistry

The twentieth century saw remarkable advances in dentistry, including:

Fluoride and Preventive Dentistry: Fluoride in water and toothpaste has significantly reduced the incidence of dental caries (cavities). Preventive dentistry has become an essential component of good oral health.

X-rays and Dental Imaging: Radiography has become an indispensable tool for diagnosing dental issues and planning treatments.

Dental Implants :These replace missing teeth, were developed and have since become a standard practice in modern dentistry.

Cosmetic Dentistry: With the rise of cosmetic dentistry, it is now possible to improve smiles through procedures such as teeth whitening, veneers, and orthodontics.

Conclusion

The history of dentistry is a testament to human ingenuity and our determination to preserve our oral health and maintain beautiful smiles. From ancient remedies and rudimentary instruments to the highly specialized and advanced dental care of today, dentistry has come a long way. As technology continues to advance, the future of dentistry will likely bring even more exciting innovations and improvements in oral healthcare. So, the next time you visit your dentist, take a moment to appreciate the rich history that has paved the way for modern dental care and the radiant smiles it helps create.

Global Dentals, the best dental clinic in Gorakhpur, is equipped with advanced technology and has expert dental doctors. Here, we take care of your dental health in the best possible ways.

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ahowardcountyfootandankle · 2 years ago

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Why Should You Visit Qualified Podiatrist for Your Foot or Ankle Problem

When your feet hurt, every step can be miserable. So, you search online or buy a remedy at a discount store. If that solution doesn’t work, you buy something else. Expenses add up and can cost more than seeing a podiatrist. Sometimes, over-the-counter remedies can do more harm. Keep your feet in their best shape for life by seeing a podiatrist. Board-certified podiatrists have extensive study and training in taking care of your feet. They are experts. If you have these problems, schedule an appointment with a podiatrist near you. Here’s greater detail of why you pay a visit to a specialized podiatrist Columbia, MD . They Are Specialists In Assessing All Foot Ailments A general practitioner may know about your overall health, but a podiatrist is an expert at foot health. Podiatrists have the relevant qualifications and experience in treating feet and nails. While visiting a podiatrist, you will get a more accurate diagnosis, an insight into treatment options, and the best treatment for your particular foot condition or disorder. They Can Anticipate And Prevent Future Foot Problems Foot and ankle specialist Columbia, MD can advise you on wearing proper foot care that can help current and future foot issues. They can suggest changes to help you deter any condition your feet may suffer if neglected or ignored for too long. When a visit to the podiatrist is on your schedule, you can reduce the chances of any problems that may turn chronic. They Offer Biomechanical And Gait Assessment Foot doctor Columbia, MD suggests speed analysis, which analyzes and measures how we walk or run. This analysis helps identify the factors contributing to our injuries and pain in the leg and foot. It also provides preventative care and rehabilitation. Speed analysis also involves the assessment of pressure on ligaments, joints, and muscle movements. Their Help Goes Beyond The Foot Your feet could affect other body parts, such as your knees, shin, hip, and lower back. This could be due to poor or insufficient foot function or any other issue that only a podiatrist can assess. For further diagnosis, they can recommend strength-building exercises and suggest diet plans to reduce pain and other conditions. They Can Recommend Appropriate Lifestyle Changes Like all other essential body parts, the feet can benefit dramatically from a few lifestyle changes. Podiatrists can help you with brittle, discolored, or thickened nails, along with some topical treatments with nutrition. Such appointments can significantly benefit athletes who need to take the utmost care of their feet since they are their career-making organs. The Best Option For Diabetic And Arthritic Patient Care Patients with diabetes and arthritis are prone to foot diseases and conditions, but they can be controlled with regular visits to podiatry. Diabetes can cause non-healing wounds, and arthritis causes inflammation of the feet’ joints, which can turn into life-long chronic pain if not treated by a professional podiatrist Baltimore, MD . They Can Recommend Custom Orthotics Many medical professionals need to be more knowledgeable about custom orthotics that can treat various foot issues, such as arch problems, flat feet, bunions, and blisters. Podiatrist Columbia, Maryland can assess your feet and recommend custom orthotics to alleviate any foot comfort you may have, even if it is as simple as replacing ill-fitting shoes.

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years ago

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Don’t I Get a Dream for Myself ? – Bernadette Peters and the 'Gypsy' Saga

Gypsy. It’s perhaps the most daunting of all of the projects related to Bernadette Peters to try to grapple with and discuss. It’s also perhaps the most significant.

For someone notoriously guarded of her privacy and personal life, careful with her words, and selective of the questions she answers, the narrative around this show provides some of the most meaningful insights it is possible to derive in relation to Bernadette herself. The show’s ability to do this is unique, through the way it eerily parallels her own life and spans a large range in time from both Bernadette Peters the Broadway Legend, right back to where it all began with Bernadette Lazzara, the young Italian girl put into showbusiness by her mother.

The most logical place to start is at the very beginning – it is a very good place to start, after all.

(Though no one tell Gypsy this, if the fierce two-way battle with The Sound of Music at the 1960 Tony Awards is anything to be remembered. Anyway, I digress…)

Gypsy: A Musical Fable with music by Jule Styne, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, and book by Arthur Laurents, burst into the world and onto the New York stage in May of 1959. After closing on Broadway in March 1961, Ethel Merman as the world’s original Mama Rose herself led the first national tour off almost immediately around the country. Just a few months later, a second national touring company was formed, starring Mitzi Green and then Mary McCarty as Rose, to cover more cities than the original. It is here that Bernadette comes in.

A 13-year-old Bernadette Peters found herself part of this show in her “first professional” on-the-road production, travelling across the country with her older sister, “Donna (who was also in the show), and their mother (who wasn’t)”.

The tour played through cities like Philadelphia, Chicago, New Haven, Baltimore and Las Vegas before closing in Ohio in 1962. Somewhat uncannily, its September 1961 opening night in Detroit’s Schubert Theatre even returns matters full circle to the 2003 revival and New York’s own Schubert Theatre.

Indeed this bus-and-truck tour was somewhat of a turning point for Bernadette. She’d later remember, “I mostly thought of performing as a hobby until I went on the road with Gypsy”.

But while this production seminally marked a notable moment for the young actress as well as the point where her long and consequential involvement with Gypsy begins, it’s important to recognise she was very much not yet the star of the show and then only a small part of a larger whole.

Bernadette was with the troupe as a member of the ensemble. She took on different positions in the company through the period of nearly a year that the show ran for, including billing as ‘Thelma’ (one of the Hollywood Blondes), ‘Hawaiian Girl’, and additional understudy credits for Agnes and Dainty June.

The above photo shows Bernadette (left) with another member of the ensemble (Sharon McCartin) backstage at the Chicago Opera House as one of the stops along the tour. Her comment on the stage of the Chicago theatre – “I’d never seen anything so big in my life!” – undeniably conveys how her experiences were new and appreciably daunting.

Along the tour, she assumed centre-stage once or twice as the understudy for Dainty June, but playing the young star was not her main role. Unlike what more dominant memory of the story seems to purport.

Main credits of June went instead to Susie Martin – a name and a tale of truth-bending that’s now well-known from Bernadette’s concert anecdotes. While performing her solo shows as an adult and singing from Gypsy, Bernadette has often been known to take a moment to penitently atone for historical indiscretions of identity theft or erasure where her mother long ago conveniently left out the “understudy” descriptive when putting down Dainty June on her resumé, in an effort to add weight to the teenager’s list of credits.

Whatever happened to Susie Martin? – many have wondered. Well, she soon left the theatre. But not before appearing in two more regional productions of Gypsy and a 1963 Off-Broadway revival of Best Foot Forward with Liza Minnelli and Christopher Walken.

Bernadette too went on to other regional productions of Gypsy. She spent the summer of 1962 in various summer stock stagings with The Kenley Players, like in Pennsylvania and Ohio, and this time she did indeed get to play June.

Above shows photos from different programmes for these productions. While some may have featured odd forms of photo editing, they at least also bring to attention Rose here being played by none other than Betty Hutton.

The two women couldn’t have been in more different positions when they coalesced in these rough-around-the-edges, small-scale productions. A young Bernadette was broaching summer stock in starting to take on bigger roles in the ascendency to her bright and long career. Meanwhile, Betty found herself there while navigating the descent that followed her sharp but fickle rise to Hollywood fame in the ‘40s and early ‘50s. Top billing Monday, Tuesday you really are touring in stock after all.

While details aren’t plentiful for these productions, it was recounted Betty apparently struggled in performing the role. And understandably so. Following the recent traumatic death of her mother in a house fire, and the birth of her third child shortly before the shows began, it’s not hard to see why her mind might have been elsewhere. Still, she was apparently impressed enough by the younger actress who turned in one of the show’s “creditable performances” to make comment that she would’ve liked Bernadette to play her if a movie were made about her life.

Bernadette might not have done this exactly, but she did go on to revitalise Betty’s best-known movie role, when stepping into Annie Oakley’s shoes in the 1999 Annie Get Your Gun revival. With Bernadette’s first Ethel Merman show under her belt, the ball was soon rolling on her second.

The 2003 production of Gypsy was imminently beckoning as her next successive Broadway musical and it was Arthur Laurents who lit the match to spark Bernadette’s involvement. Laurents, as the show’s original librettist, drove the revival by saying he “didn’t want to see the same Rose” he’d seen before. Going back to June Havoc’s description of her mother as “small” and a “mankiller”, and Arthur’s take that Bernadette sung the part “with more nuance for the lyrics and the character than the others”, the choice of Bernadette was justified. Moreover, “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

So Bernadette also had her own baseline of innate physical similarity to the original Rose Hovick, in addition to her own first-hand memories of the women she’d acted alongside as Rose in her youth to bring into her characterisation of the infamous stage mother.

But there was a third factor beyond those as well to be considered in the personal material she had access to draw from for her characterisation. Namely, her own real life stage mother.

Marguerite Lazzara did share traits with the character of Rose. She too helped herself to silverware from restaurants, and put her daughters in showbusiness for the vicarious thrill. Marguerite had “always wanted to become an actress herself”, but had long been denied her desire by her own mother, who likened actresses to being as “close to a whore as you could be without, you know, getting on your back”.

In that case, to “escape a housewife’s dreary fate in Ozone Park”, Marguerite channelled her latent dream through her pair of young daughters instead, shepherding them out along the road. Thus was produced a trio of the two children ushered around the theatre circuit by the driven mother, forming an undeniable parallelism and a mirror image of both Bernadette’s reality and Gypsy’s core itself. Bernadette didn’t see some of these familial parallels at the time when she was a child, considering “maybe I didn’t want to see” – “didn’t want to see a mother doing that to her daughter”.

It was coming back to the show as an adult that helped Bernadette resolve who her mother was and some of the motivations that had propelled her when Bernadette was still a child. She realised, “I think she thought she was going to die very young”, as her own father died young. So “she was rushing around to get as much of her life as she could in there”.

When she herself returned to the production in playing Rose, Bernadette conceded to sometimes bringing elements of her mother and her driven energy into her portrayal, and admitted too she looked “like her a lot in the role”. You can assess any familial resemblances for yourself, from the images below that show a young Marguerite next to Bernadette in costume as Rose, and then with the pair backstage in 1961 in a dressing room on the tour.

Marguerite was ambitious. From her own personal position and with the restrictions imposed upon her, it was ambition that materialised through her children. Irrevocably, she altered them. She placed Bernadette on TV as a very young child (“I was four when my mother put me in the business”); changed her daughter’s surname (“She told me my real name was too long for the marquees,” or really – “too Italian”); doctored her resumé (“Somehow the word ‘understudy’ vanished. ‘No one will know,’ said Marguerite”); and lightened her hair (“She’d say, ‘Oh, I’m just putting a little conditioner on it.’ But slowly my hair got blonder and blonder!”). All in the hope of giving her child a more favourable chance at the life she’d always wanted for herself.

On paper, a classic stage mother. “When I was a kid, she fulfilled herself through me,” Bernadette would say. “She put me into show business so she could get a taste of the life herself.”

But it’s important to consider Bernadette often qualifies that her mother wasn’t as brutal as Rose, nor was she herself as traumatised as June.

Bernadette didn’t begrudge her mother for her choices – at least by the time she was an adult, she’d rationalised them, explaining “naturally it was more exciting [for her] to go on the road with me than staying home and keeping house”.

As a child, Bernadette hadn’t necessarily wanted to be on stage, but there was a sense of ambivalence – not resentful belligerence – as she “didn’t care one way or the other” when she found herself there.

Like June, Bernadette may have been entered into and coaxed around a path she hadn’t voluntarily chosen. But unlike June, Bernadette had a deal with her mother that “she had only to say the word”, and she could leave.

Most crucially, she never did.

But that’s not to say Bernadette was enamoured with acting from the beginning.

She seemed to feel ‘outside’ of that world and those in it. And others saw it too.

It was in 1961 in Gypsy that Bernadette first met Marvin Laird – her long-time accompanist, conductor and arranger. The way he put it, he “noticed this one young girl, very close with her mother” who, during breaks, “didn’t mix much with the other girls”.

Beneath the effervescent stage persona, there’s a quieter and more reserved reality, and a sense of separation and solitary division.

When asked by Jesse Green in 2003 for the extensive profile in The New York Times if she thought her experiences on the road in Gypsy were good for her at that age, she gives a curious, somewhat abstract, predominantly dark, potentially macabre, response. He wrote:

She doesn’t answer at first but seems to scan an image bank just behind her eyes for something to lock onto. Eventually she comes out with a seeming non sequitur. “I didn’t know how to swim. I remember, in Las Vegas, I fell in, once, and they thought I was flailing, but I felt like: ‘It’s pretty down here!’ I might have been dying and I was thinking: ‘Look at the pretty color!’ And suddenly my fear of water was gone, and I could have stayed in forever.” After a while, I realize she’s answered my question. Then she dismisses the image: “But I had to get my hair dry for the show that day, so up I came.”

I’m still not entirely sure I know what she’s trying to convey here. My interpretation of this anecdote changes as I have re-visited and re-examined it on multiple occasions at different time points. It’s arguably multiply polysemic.

Was she simply swept up in a moment of childlike distraction, lost in the temporary respite alone away from the usual noise and clamour? Was she indicating comprehension that her feelings and perspectives came secondary to any practical necessities and inevitable responsibilities? Was she using the water to depict a muffling and fishbowl-like detachment from others her age who got to live more ‘ordinary’ lives in the ‘normal’ world above that she felt separate from? Was she referencing the pretty colours she saw as a metaphor for show business and how she became bewitched by them even despite potential dangers? Was she trying to legitimately drown herself, or at least exhibiting an ambivalence again as to whether she lived or died, because of what the highly pressurised demands on her felt like?

The underlying sentiment through her response in answer to Green’s primary question was that, in essence – no. Being a child actor was not “over all, a good experience for a youngster”.

Acting might have been something she fell in love with over time, but not all at once, not right from the beginning, and not without noting its perils.

It was a matter of accidental circumstance that landed Bernadette in the show business world to begin with at such a young age in the first place – “I just found myself here,” she would offer.

Her mother, who was “always crazy about the stage”, “insisted” that her sister, Donna take lessons in singing, dancing and acting.

A further point of interest to note is that, although it was Bernadette with her new surname who would grow up to be the famous actress, look to the cast lists from the 1961 touring production of Gypsy that featured both sisters in the company (see photo below) and you’ll find no ‘Lazzara’ in sight. Donna too, appearing under the novel moniker of “Donna Forbes”, had also already become stagified (nay, ethnically neutralised?) by her mother. As such it is clearly demonstrated that Marguerite’s intention at that point was to make stars of both her daughters. Correspondingly so, when her sister returned from her performance lessons some years before, “Donna would come home and teach me what she had learned,” Bernadette remembered. She may have gotten her “training second hand”, but the key element was that she got it.

For Bernadette, it was a short jump from emulating magpied tricks from her sister as well as routines from Golden Age Busby Berkeley musicals on the ‘Million Dollar Movie’ in front of the TV screen, to her mother getting her on the other side of the screen and actually performing on TV itself – belting out Sophie Tucker impressions aged five for all the nation to see.

The photos below show Bernadette in performative situations at a young age (look for criss-crossed laces in the second for identification).

“At first, as a toddler, Bernadette enjoyed performing; it came naturally, a form of play that people inexplicably liked to watch.” It was “just a hobby” and she “wanted to do it”.

But while she may not have detested it, she didn’t entirely comprehend what was going on either. “I didn’t even know I was on TV,” she said. “I didn’t know that those big gadgets pointed at me were cameras and that they had anything to do with what people saw on the television set.”

When she started gaining more of an awareness of how “such play [was being] co-opted for commercial purposes”, she grew less enthralled. “She didn’t care for the bizarre children, accompanied by desperate mothers, she began to see at auditions: ‘They spent their whole time smiling for no reason, you know?’”

Being a child who had become sentient of being a child performer began to grow wearisome and grating to the young girl who had her equity card, a professional (and strange, new) stage name, and an increasingly long list of expectations by the time she was nine. There’s a keen sense she did not enjoy being in such a position: “I wouldn’t want to be a child again. When you’re a child, you have thoughts, but nobody listens to you. Nobody has any respect for you”.

Gypsy did indeed mark a turning point for Bernadette as mentioned above – but not just in the way that seems obvious. Looking back at it now, it does appear the monumental turning point at which she started appearing in significant and reputable productions, beginning what would be the foundation to her ‘professional’ career. However it was also the turning point after which she nearly quit the business altogether.

When she returned from performing in Gypsy, Bernadette felt like she’d had enough. One way of putting it was that she “then retired from the business to attend high school”, wanting to have some semblance of a normal scholastic experience “without the interruptions”. But whatever dissatisfaction she was feeling as an early adolescent on stage, she didn’t resolve at school – going as far as saying that while at Quintano’s School for Young Professionals, “she was in pain”.

“When you’re a teenager you’re too aware of yourself,” she recalled. Being a teen and trying to come to terms with of the expectation of the ‘60s that “you are supposed to look like Twiggy, and you don’t, you feel everything is wrong about you”. Everything “was all about tall, skinny, no chest…[and] hair straight”. Little Bernadette with her “mass of [curly] hair and distracting bosom”, as Alex Witchel put it, was never going to fit that mould. “That was not me,” she stated. “At all.”

Her self-consciousness grew to the point that it became overwhelming and asphyxiating. “I was trying desperately to blend in and be normal, but that doesn’t allow creativity to come out,” Bernadette said. “I knew I was acting terrible. The words were sticking in my mouth and all I could think about was how I looked”. It was hard enough just to look at herself (“I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror”), let alone to have other people gawk at her on stage. So she stopped trying. She “didn’t work much from age 13 to 17” in the slightest. Bernadette would later reflect in 1981 in an atypically open and vulnerable interview, “I was very insecure. Insecurity is poison. It’s like wearing chains”.

It was a combination of factors that helped her overcome these feelings of such toxic and weighty burden to draw her back into the public world of performing and the stage. “The two people who helped her most, she says, were David LeGrant, her first acting teacher, and her vocal coach, Jim Gregory.” Jim helped with “[opening] a whole creative world for [her] with singing”; and it was David who’d give her the now infamous and often (mis)quoted line about individuality and being yourself.

Having these kinds of lessons, she reasoned, was “really a wonderful emotional outlet for a kid of 17”. The process of it all was beneficial for her therapeutically – “you have a lot of emotions at that time in your life, and it was great to go to an acting class and use them up”. And Bernadette felt freer on stage than she did out on her own in the ‘real world’, saying “[up there] I don’t have to worry about what I’m doing or saying because I’m doing and saying what I’m supposed to be doing and saying”.

Finally then and with considerable bolstering and support, she grew comfortable with the notion of being visible on stage and in public, and realised she was never going to blend in as part of the chorus so it was simply better to let go of such a futile pursuit.

David LeGrant’s guiding advice to Bernadette (“You’ve got to be original, because if you’re like everyone else, what do they need you for?”) wasn’t just a trite aphorism. For her, it was a life raft. It was the key mental framing device that allowed her to comprehend for the first time that she might actually have intrinsic value as herself. And that it was imperative she let herself use it.

She had always stuck out, yes, but she had to learn how to want to be seen – talking of it as a conscious “choice” she had to make when realising she did “have something to offer”.

Thus soon after Bernadette graduated, she stepped back into productions like in summer stock and then Off-Broadway as she made her debut at that next theatrical level at 18. It wasn’t long before she was discovered in what’s seen as her big break in the unexpected smash hit, Dames at Sea. And so Bernadette Peters, the actress, was back. And she was back with impact and force.

Besides, as she’s also said, she couldn’t do anything else – “if I ever had to do something else to earn a living, I’d be at a total loss”. An aptitude test as a teenager told her so apparently, when she “got minus zero in everything except Theater Arts”. So that was that. Her answer for what she would’ve done if she’d never found acting is both paradoxically exultant and macabre – “I don’t know, probably shot myself!”

Flippant? Maybe. Trivial? No.

Acting is thus undoubtedly related highly to Bernadette’s sense of purpose and self-worth. This is what makes it even more apparent that a show with such personal and historical connections for her, as in Gypsy, was going to be so consequential and impactful to be a part of again as an adult and perform on a public stage.

She’s called inhabiting the role of Rose in the 2003 revival many things: “deeply personal”, “life changing”, “like going through therapy” – to name a few.

In interviews regarding Gypsy and playing the main character, when asked what she had learnt, Bernadette would frequently say something like, “It taught me a lot”. Pressed further about specifics, her answers often hem close to vague platitudes as she maintains her normal tendency of endeavouring to keep her privacy close to her chest.

On one occasion, she actually elaborated somewhat on what she’d learnt, giving a fuller answer than the question is normally afforded anyhow. Beyond all it revealed to her about her mother, she extended to admitting “my capacity for love and my capacity for anger” as aspects in her that the show had permanently altered. Moreover, Rose to her was undoubtedly the “most rewarding and fulfilling acting experience” she had ever had.

But while such deep, personal and emotional depths and memories were being stirred up beneath the surface in private, she was getting vilified in public singularly and repeatedly by New York Post columnist, Michael Riedel.

Even before she’d set foot on stage, Riedel set forth in motion early in the 2003 season a campaign of vocal and opinionated defamation against Bernadette as Rose that she was miscast, insufficiently talented, and would be incapable of executing the role.

Too small, too delicate, too weak, too many curves (and too much knowledge of how to use them). Not bold enough, not loud enough – not Merman enough. Chatter and speculative dissent begun to grow in and around the Broadway theatres.

For such a prestigious and historic musical theatre role, it was always going to be hard to erase the large shadow of an original Merman mould. Ethel was woven into the very fabric of the show, with the rights to Gypsy Rose Lee’s memoirs being obtained at her behest in the first place, and the idiosyncrasies of her voice having been written into the songs themselves by their very authors.

To step out from such a domineering legacy would be a marked challenge at the best of times. Let alone when battling a respiratory infection.

Matters of public perception were certainly not helped when Bernadette then got ill as the show started its preview period and she started missing early performances.

Nor did it help with critical perception that the Tony voting period coincided so synchronously with Gypsy’s first opening months – giving Bernadette no time to recover, find her feet, and settle more healthily into the show for the rest of the run before the all important decisions were made by that omnipotent committee.

The tale of her illness is actually undercut by a more innocent and unsuspecting origin than you’d expect from all the drama and trouble it engendered. Bernadette decided nearing the show’s opening to treat herself to a manicure. In the salon, she was next to a woman very close to her with a frightful sounding cough. Who could’ve known then that this anonymous and inconspicuous lady through a fateful cause-and-event chain would go on to play such a part in what is among the biggest and most enduring Tony Awards “She was robbed!” discourses? Or even more broadly – in also arguably playing a hand in the closure and financial failure of an $8.5 million Broadway show after its disappointing performance at the Tony Awards that ominously “[spelled] trouble at the box office” and led to its premature demise?

Bernadette did not win the Best Actress in a Musical Tony that night on June 6th 2004. The award went instead (not un-controversially) to newcomer Marissa Jaret Winokur for Hairspray.

She did however give one of the most indelibly resonant and frequently re-referenced solo performances at the awards show just before she lost – defying detractors to comprehend how she could be unworthy of the accolade with a rendition of ‘Rose’s Turn’ that has apocryphally earned one of the longest standing ovations seen after such a performance even to date.

Even further and even more apocryphally, she reportedly did so while still under the weather as legend as circulated by musical theatre fans goes – performing “against doctor’s orders” with stories that have her being “afflicted with anything from a 103-degree fever, to pneumonia, to a collapsed lung”.

Seeing then as unfortunately there is no Tony Award speech to draw on here, matter shall be retrieved fittingly from that which she gave just a few years earlier in 1999 for her first win and previous Ethel Merman role in Annie Get Your Gun to wrap all of this together.

As has been illustrated, there are many arguably scary or alarming aspects in Bernadette’s Gypsy narrative. There’s undeniably much darkness and an ardent clamouring for meaning and self-realisation along the road that tracks her journey parallel to the show. But unlike Rose’s hopeless decries of “Why did I do it?” and “What did it get me?”, there was a point for Bernadette.

As her emotional tribute in 1999 went: “I want to thank my mother, who 48 years ago put me in showbusiness. And I want to finally, officially, say to her – thank you. For giving me this wonderful experience and this journey.”

Whatever all of this was, maybe it was worth it after all.

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nordleuchten · 2 years ago

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Georges de La Fayette to John Stuart Skinner

Below is the excerpt of a letter from Georges de La Fayette to John Stuart Skinner in Baltimore from the year 1829. As seems to be a rather common occurrence with Georges’ papers, the letter is not in the best possible condition.

Skinner was an American lawyer and publisher who was highly involved in the War of 1812. He is probably most famous for accompanying Francis Scott Key onboard the HMS Tonnant to secure the release of Doctor William Beanes. It was also Skinner who set the wheels in motion to publish Key’s poem of the events, the poem that would later become the text for the American national anthem.

Skinner and his family meet the La Fayette’s on the fair of the Maryland State Agricultural Society that was organised in October of 1824 in La Fayette’s honour. Skinner also entertained La Fayette in his home and La Fayette later picked Skinner as the manager of the land that he had been granted by the government.

The Frederick mentioned in the letter is Skinner’s son, Frederick Gustavus Skinner. Frederick was staying with Georges and his family (Oscar was Georges’ son) and Georges was advising Skinner to send Frederick to the same school that Oscar was attending. Large parts of the letter are missing, but this seems to be the general context. Frederick would later become Colonel and commander of the 1st Virginia Infantry regiment for the Confederate Army in the American Civil War.

Levasseur was La Fayette’s secretary during his tour of America and after that. Allyn was another friend of the La Fayette’s. He was the captain of the ship that brought the Marquis and his son to America in 1824.

Lafayette Manuscripts, [Box 1, Folder 34], Hanna Holborn Gray Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library (10/19/2022)

in the best possible way over an elevated barring [illegible]. – but your son told me that he had for a while a foot, less strong than the other, a weak ancle, and we purpose to consult a friend of ours, who is one of the three or four great surgeons of paris to Know of Frederick can or not attempt the Gymnastic without danger. –

in the beginning of october, I will take Oscar and Frederick both to paris, and after I have conversed with morin, I will write to you again. –

in the mean while, to give you a general [inserted] idea of what is learnt there, (and among those things you have to make your choice), I send you a Copy of one of the notes, which are sent to every father every month. –

as to money, as I told you before, the board there is seaper [cheaper] than in other schools, and we reckon, that besides his clothing Oscar costs us from a hundred [crossed out] three hundred to three hundred and twenty [underlined] dollars a year.

You see that what you have sent for the first six months is much more than suffice and will more than pay the purchase of a bed, of a silver cup, and a several other articles necessary to be had in every school. –

by the bie [?] my good friend, you ought not not to have sent that money before hand. I will send you the recent account by our friends Allyn and macy. –

what shall I add to such a long letter, but my most sincere congratulations to Mrs. Skinner and yourself for having such a son as the one you send to us. –

no doubt he will do honour to his country, to his parents and to himself.

pray my dear sir speak of me to all our Friends in Baltimore.

they are all dear to our hearts and though I name none of them, I hope their hearts will tell them that none of them is forgotten. –

Receive the sincere expression of the most affectionate sentiments of your devotes friend.

G. W. Lafayette

Levasseur begs to be remembered to you he is just arrived with his new partner in life. –

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st4rlabsforever · 4 years ago

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post-episode 3 fix-it

words: 2.9k

notes: i started a long fic based on this post after watching ep 3. i cannibalized some snippets from another fic i wrote last week so if you see similar scenes, that’s why. i think this will end up being 12-15k words endgame sambucky by the end, but i refuse to post on ao3 until it’s complete. this is the first 3 scenes. feel free to comment and message me your thoughts since i’m still very much in the writing phase :)

summary: “It’s the kind of statement that should be screamed into Bucky’s face, but he’s learning that when Sam’s angry – when he’s truly angry – he’s just as soft-spoken as he is when he’s in one of his pensive moods. And he lets his anger build and build and build until it bursts in spectacular fashion.”

“I didn’t back Steve on the Sokovia Accords,” Sam says unprompted one day. They’re so close to apprehending the Flagsmashers and wrapping up this ridiculous saga.

“I don’t follow,” Bucky says.

“I was the one who refused to sign it first. Not Steve.”

Sam says it so softly that Bucky has to strain to hear him. Sam is loud and chatty and half the time he keeps up a constant stream of chatter just to get on Bucky’s nerves, but Bucky’s coming to realize that when he really wants to make himself heard, he’s soft spoken and mild. Bucky doesn’t entirely follow his train of thought, though.

The thing is, Sam is unreadable when it really matters. He offers words of comfort where needed – in Germany, after seeing Walker with the shield that wasn’t his, knowing that it had affected Bucky just as much as himself; in Madripoor, Bucky’s hand on the throat of some henchman or other, Sam’s hand on his when the Soldier’s memories threatened to overtake him; even in Riga, when Bucky’s guilt over releasing T’Chaka’s killer bubbled to the surface and Sam had checked in with him even though he couldn’t have possibly known about Bucky’s meeting with Ayo. Sam speaks with his eyes, always a searching look that leaves Bucky raw and feeling like he’s been x-rayed. I see you, is what those eyes say.

In contrast, Bucky’s words of comfort feel hollow. He knows that Isaiah is still a live wire for Sam, checks in with him after Madripoor when he can tell the conversation with Nagel weighs heavy on his mind. But he doesn’t see the way Sam does. He knows he’d missed something important because that conversation had ended in an argument and a threat from Sam to destroy the shield.

He never gets a chance to ask Sam what he’s getting at, because Torres signals to them that they’re at the drop point before all hell breaks loose.

***

In the end, after Karli and the Power Broker and whoever else decides to show their head from the emporium of supervillains are dealt with and they finally have a moment of peace, Bucky says, “The shield looks good on you.”

Sam freezes a few paces ahead of Bucky, the shield strapped loosely to his wrist.

“We make a good team,” Bucky says softly.

What he doesn’t expect is for Sam to whirl around suddenly. The look of barely restrained fury is enough to nearly knock Bucky off he’s feet. They fight without ever really fighting all the time, squabbles over who went left and who went right and who was supposed to lead and who was supposed to follow, but never has he seen Sam look like this before. The fury verges on hurt and it’s so fucking visceral that Bucky can barely breathe.

“You don’t get to say that,” Sam says quietly. His voice shakes and he closes his eyes like he’s steadying himself.

“I said I’d squash it until the mission was over, and I did. But you know what? I’m not doing this anymore.”

“Sam–”

“You don’t get to tell me what a good team is. Not after all the shit we just went through. You invited yourself to Munich, and I thought, ‘Fine. I could use the extra set of hands.’ We went through it together against Thanos and I respected that.”

Sam shakes his head. “But then you went off on some lone wolf woe-is-me bullshit, and look at where it got us. You broke Zemo out without even asking if I was down with that. You knew I wasn’t and you forced my hand. Now I’m an accomplice.”

“He was our only lead–”

“Bullshit. That field trip to Madripoor led us right back to Karli. Torres ended up tracking them to Riga anyway.”

“But the Power Broker–”

“–showed his ugly face in the end. All we got out of Madripoor was you digging up your trauma and us getting our faces plastered all over the internet. I promised Sharon one goddamn thing and I can’t even deliver on that now.”

“But I went along with it, fine,” Sam continues. “I knew it couldn’t have been easy reaching back into that headspace, doing what you did to Selby’s men.” The memory blindsides Bucky. “So I tabled it.” Sam taps out a tally with his fingers.

“And back in Baltimore, you’d been too keyed up about Steve being wrong about you to even listen to what I had to say. Again, I tabled it.” Another tally.

“I’ve been meeting you halfway this entire time, man, and I’ve gotten near nothing in return. You kept Isaiah a secret from me, and at first I thought you were just clueless about how damn significant it would’ve been for me to know about him.” Sam shakes his head.

“But then we met him. You saw what they did to him. The one Black supersoldier – a fucking hero – and look what they did to him. You saw it with your own eyes and you still sat there and lectured me about what you thought I should’ve done with that goddamn shield.”

“There’s precedent for it, you know,” Sam says. It takes Bucky a moment to realize Sam is expecting an answer.

Bucky doesn’t know, is the thing. He feels like he’s all of five years old again, put on the spot. He’s reminded of when Zemo just had to let him know about the African American experience; he’d felt chastised and embarrassed enough to pretend like he’d had any clue what themes lurked in Marvin Gaye’s work. Sam just searches him with those eyes, searches Bucky for something yet unfathomable and decides he hasn’t found it. That hurts more than anything else; Bucky wishes he could sink into the ground, make himself as small as possible. Sam doesn’t notice, or else doesn’t care, and just plows on with a scoff.

“You don’t even know the true history of the country you’re living in. Figures.” He shakes his head. “You’re not ever going to be able to separate the shield from the history Black folks have endured at the hands of this country. Not now, not ever.”

Sam doesn’t even look angry anymore. Angry, Bucky can deal with. It would be a relief, even.

Instead, Sam looks at him with a disappointment that somehow surpasses what Steve could have ever accomplished.

“Whatever. I tabled that, too,” Sam says. “And then after Madripoor, after we heard that doctor go on and on about Isaiah’s blood like he wasn’t even a real human-being? I said my piece and all you did was throw that shield bullshit back in my face.”

“Sam–” Bucky tries again. He’s mortified to hear the crack in his own voice.

“It’s honestly breathtaking,” Sam says with something that might be akin to genuine wonder, or maybe even morbid curiosity in his voice. “We saw the same things in Baltimore and Madripoor, but your head was so far up your own ass that you never once stopped to think all of it was just proof to me. That the shield in the hands of a Black man wouldn’t make any damn sense.”

It’s the kind of statement that should be screamed into Bucky’s face, but he’s learning that when Sam’s angry – when he’s truly angry – he’s just as soft-spoken as he is when he’s in one of his pensive moods. And he lets his anger build and build and build until it bursts in spectacular fashion.

Sam’s not even done yet. “And that’s another thing. Stealing the shield from Walker…” Sam rolls his eyes at the memory. “You want to run around with that giant frisbee, fine. That’s your business. But then you forced it on me–”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky says immediately. Desperately. “You didn’t have to accept it.”

“The whole damn country was watching,” Sam says hotly. “It was either accept it, or shit all over Steve fucking Rogers’s legacy and make myself into the villain half the country was already hoping I’d turn out to be.”

“You were dead wrong for that,” Sam says. “I stuck around until we took down Karli because it was the right thing to do. After Munich, though, this little adventure was all you. Zemo, Madripoor, the shield.”

Sam shoves the shield into Bucky’s arms, the impact so sudden that it forces him back a step.

“Since you’re so obsessed with this thing, it’s yours. Congrats,” Sam says sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ll do it proud.”

Bucky lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“For what it’s worth,” Sam says, “Steve might not have understood everything about me. But in Vienna, when it came time to sign the accords? He was considering it. I put my foot down first and he listened.”

Sam shrugs. “Whatever you thought we were, it's not a team.”

Bucky knows where to drive the knife in to kill a man in as few twists of the wrist as possible – a brutal economy of movement and technique. But Sam...it pales in comparison to what Sam’s capable of. His weapons aren’t knives and his targets may not be made of flesh and blood, but he knows exactly where he needs to strike to rip Bucky open raw. Bucky feels like he’s been flayed alive.

“How about that long vacation?” Sam says, and claps Bucky on the shoulder.

And we’ll never have to see each other ever again goes unsaid.

Fuck.

***

The thing about ignoring Sam’s texts was that Bucky responded if they were actually important. It just so happened that most of the nonsense Sam sent was inane prattling about his day, about his job, his sister, his nephews. Now that he’s on the receiving end of it, though, it feels awful.

3/25/21, 2:58 AM

I’m sorry.

Delivered

3/28/21, 1:51 AM

Can we talk?

Delivered

3/31/21, 3:05 AM

Let me know what to do and I’ll do it.

Read 3:34 AM

4/1/21, 12:42 AM

Or if there’s anything you need.

Read 1:05 AM

Yesterday, 1:00 AM

I’m available if you need another body for a mission.

Read 1:02 AM

A week into the admittedly one-sided exchange, Sam turns his damn read receipts on. It’s ridiculous and it’s fucking asinine and it gets under Bucky’s skin immediately. It’s a form of twenty-first century psychological warfare that he’s unfamiliar with and already can’t stand. Mainly, he hates that it makes him seem desperate (he’s not), needy (he might be, especially when he realizes with horror that he actually misses Sam’s rambling texts), and ridiculous (he definitely is, because he’s letting petty mind games get to him).

Normally, Sam would send him nearly daily updates on his comings and goings – whether he’d been in New York, D.C., or New Orleans. The radio silence is unsettling. Bucky wonders if Sam made good on his promise to take a long vacation. And then....

The thing about apologies is that Bucky isn’t sure he’s ever done a proper one in his entire life, at least nothing beyond a rote “I’m sorry” with the “let’s move on” part left unspoken. But it stands to reason, Bucky thinks, that a proper apology can’t be given if he’s not completely certain what he’s dealing with. That’s all well and good because he’s got the world at the tips of his fingers, is what Yori always said. And when he grows frustrated with reading on his tiny phone screen, the New York Public Library is only a train ride away.

Sam had mentioned precedent, so Bucky’s first search is for medical experimentation. He knows for a fact he was good at this once, a memory of Steve whining about him being too good at exams coming up unbidden. He reads voraciously. Anything and everything that might offer a clue on what he’d missed. And it doesn’t take long for him to find what he’s looking for.

He reads with dawning horror. The Tuskegee syphilis experiments. Eugenics. God, the fucking Nazis had even modeled their race science on the American school of thought. The things that the history books left out. Some of it was even happening under his nose in the 30s, he’d just been blissfully unaware. He somehow ends up down a rabbit hole where words like `prison industrial complex’ and `school-to-prison pipeline’ make increasingly more persistent appearances. New Jim Crow. COINTELPRO. War on drugs. The way all of these horrors reached their long arms into the twenty-first century.

Bucky’s going to be sick. The memories come up one after another.

Just give him your ID so we can leave.

You think you can wake up one day and decide who you want to be? It doesn’t work like that. Well, maybe it does for folks like you.

So you’re telling me that there was a Black supersoldier decades ago and nobody knew about it.

This is what you’re not going to do. You’re not going to come here in your over-extended life and tell me about my rights.

The shield wasn’t yours to give away.

He spends the next week in his downtime reading. With the mission being over and his parole in jeopardy, his downtime mostly coincides with every day of the week.

Had Steve known?

No, he thinks. Steve was compassionate, but he wouldn’t have known because he’d taken one look at the problems of twenty-first century America and decided he’d had enough. Then he’d ran back to the 40s to live out some fantasy that simply didn’t – couldn’t – exist anymore. Had he eventually become aware of all the issues plaguing this country that they’d been able to ignore as starry-eyed kids in Brooklyn? Bucky hopes not, because that would mean he’d...no.

A part of Bucky thinks he’s so surprised because he’d thought things – race relations, civil rights, not things, his brain amends – had been getting better in the 40s. Deep down, though, he knows that’s a lie. A 2 AM read through Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States confirms it. Shady politicians. Klansmen who went back to their day jobs as cops, judges, firefighters. Mass incarceration taking its place as the new king on the throne of segregation. Evidently,

There had been plenty of folks – white folks – raising an uproar about these hidden horrors back then. The seeds of those movements had even been there in the 30s. Bucky tells himself that he’d been raised during the Great Depression, that his family had been too focused on putting food on the table to focus on social movements, but that, too, ends up being a lie. The poorest and working class whites – some, at least – in movement and solidarity with civil rights. Not him, though. Apparently he’d had his head up his ass back then, too.

Bucky can see the bigger picture a tiny bit more clearly, now.

Fine. So he’s been disarmed of the little lies he’d used as shields, and he also owes Sam one hell of an apology.

Somehow, he doesn’t think “I’m sorry, I was ignorant then but I read some books and now I know better” is going to cut it. Maybe a commitment to do better would work? Perhaps after Baltimore, but not now. That ship had long since sailed. Some grand act of service, then? He’s sure he can think of something Sam needs in this post-Blip world that he can provide. He vaguely remembers Sarah mentioning something about a ship and bank loan. That could be a starting point.

It doesn’t take much time to find the public records on the Wilson family business and then the not-so-public records on the denied bank loan. It wouldn’t take much for him to pry a little, not when seedy bankers were astonishingly amenable to the threat of violence. But he’s reminded of Zemo and figures that he ought not to do anything so drastic that could jeopardize Sam’s family situation further.

He snorts. Did growth that came several months late still count?

In the end, he decides to rip the bandage off quickly, which is how he finds himself in the sticky Louisiana heat with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring back at an incredulous Sam through his open door.

“I did some reading recently,” Bucky says.

“Hmm.”

It’s not outright refusal, so Bucky continues.

“About, um, the things you mentioned last time. Precedent.”

“Huh.”

For someone who’s normally so expressive with his language, Sam’s one-word answers as nerve-wracking as anything.

“I didn’t fully appreciate the situation that you were in. That you’re still in,” Bucky amends.

Sam shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says in a way that doesn’t sound like he really believes it. Bucky wonders if this is a test; he feels just as lost as he did on that plane a week ago.

“Let’s do this outside,” Sam says, closing the door behind him and ushering Bucky away from it. “Walk with me.”

They head down to the pier mostly in silence until Bucky breaks it. “I’m sorry for making it all about me,” he says.

Sam stares at him. It’s true Bucky might stare a little too much on occasion, but Sam’s stares are utterly unnerving in the way he seems to see right through Bucky when he really wants to, like he’s already mapped out all there is to know.

#sambucky #sam wilson #Bucky Barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws spoilers

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hannigramficrecs · 4 years ago

Note

Do you have any fic recs in which Will is appreciative of/infautuated with the Chesapeake Ripper while not knowing who it is ( at first at least )?

Omg yes this is one of my favorite tropes! TBH I think I’ll add this as a category to my index hehe. Here are some recs:

Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me? by HigherMagic [words: 64,019]

Role Reversal AU: Following the execution of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Hannibal is forced to see Doctor Will Graham for a psychiatric evaluation before he can return to the field. Once cleared, Jack insists that Will shadow Hannibal in the hopes of catching the Shrike's copycat. Hannibal has become a master of making sure the FBI stays blind to his extracurricular activities, but Will is a man who sees far too much, and won't be so easily overcome.

The Voices and the Shadows by darlinghogwarts [words: 114,625]

“The Chesapeake Ripper? The serial killer? That's a grisly thing to find at the bottom of a drink. Most people say oblivion ...or possibly sex.” Hannibal sips his wine again. “Why are you thinking about a murderer on your birthday, Will? Is it part of your degree?” “He is a part of my degree by my own choice. My supervisor didn’t approve, but…” He sighs. “I insisted.”

Where the Albatross Crash-Lands by HigherMagic [words: 40,220]

Everyone has two marks on their arm: one is the name of their soulmate, the other is the name of their mortal enemy. There's no way of knowing which is which. This same trick of fate makes it so that your Marks are the only two voices you will ever hear when you go deaf at sixteen. Hannibal has a nice voice. Will hopes he's his mate. He hopes he never hears the voice of the Chesapeake Ripper.

Out of Order by HigherMagic [words: 7,346]

Hannibal’s car breaks down on a long road in the middle of West Virginia. In his quest to seek help, he ends up at an abandoned gas station, with a little house and a large barn. Living there is a man, Will Graham, who offers to take a look at his car and drive him to the next town so he has a place to stay. Hannibal cannot resist digging into Will’s mind and personal life during the drive, learning that Will teaches remotely for the FBI, and in particular, lectures on the Chesapeake Ripper.

Page Six by ThisBeautifulDrowning [words: 66,839]

Crime reporter Will Graham’s column on page six of the Baltimore Sun garners him the attention of many: fans, hobby detectives, the FBI…and others. Hannibal cut off a piece of meat with surgical precision. “I find your company rather engaging.” “Maybe I don’t find you all that engaging.” Silence. Hannibal grinned. “I see that it will take more than one dinner to earn your forgiveness. Challenge accepted.”

Not Interested by Watermelonsmellinfellon [words: 64,333]

Will Graham, an Omega of forty-four years, finally finds himself interested in an Alpha. The only problem... that Alpha is not interested in him! And he can't stand it!

Falling Away with You by Shotgun_sinner [words: 192,007]

Will Graham is a private detective with a fiancée who doesn't understand him, his empathy disorder, or his obsession with catching the Chesapeake Ripper. His night terrors force him into an ultimatum; couple's therapy, or their relationship is done. Will meets his new therapist, Hannibal Lecter, and his entire world is turned upside down.

The Back Foot by spqr [words: 8,468]

When Hannibal finds out that the hooker he’s spent the last month romancing up and down the isle of Manhattan is also the author of the NYT’s monthly Dark Minds column, he reacts much the same way Will expects a normal man would react upon finding out his new girlfriend could deep throat.

Hold for Release by cloudsarefluffy [words: 8,547]

“But?” “Will, I think you’re obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper.” For a moment, Will just blinks at her, but after what she says sinks in, a chuckle starts building up in his chest until it grows into a laugh. He’s almost coming apart at the seams because of Beverly, but as he notices he’s the only one finding it funny, his giggling dies off into silence. “Oh… You’re serious.”

They Made It For Me by zombieboyband [words: 8,844]

Will is manipulated into dirty talking at Hannibal about the Ripper.

Parfait by softmoth [words: 3,895]

“No,” Will smiles, almost laughs, and shakes his head. “No, he’s. He’s not human. He’s… perfect."' The smile falls from his face and Will’s heart is pounding in his throat. He feels like he might vomit. “Dr. Lecter, he’s perfect.”

howl by multifandom_fanfic_writer [words: 7,083]

When omegas go into heat, they go feral. Only an alpha strong enough to subdue them is a worthy mate. Will Graham has never found anyone worthy. After all, there is only one alpha Will plans to submit to – and he doesn’t even know their name.

#hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal fanfic #hannigram #hannigram fanfiction #hannigram fanfic #murder husbands #nbc hannibal #hannibal tv #hannibal au #ao3 #hannibal lecter #will graham #replies

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chuuulip · 4 years ago

Text

The First Kiss of Love

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female Reader

Warning: Fluff with a smidges of angst

Words: 3262

Prompt: hey i was wondering id you could do a hannibal lecter one where the reader doesnt realize that hannibal likes her and she gets jealous when hes talking to another woman. when she calls him out on it he cant help but laugh. the reader is basically a oblivious dummy type and way too much of a klutz .

Summary: “Dr. Bloom is really beautiful.” your small, joyless voice continues its sentence. “Ah...yes indeed.” Hannibal replies casually.

A.N: This is for an anon that request some Hannibal fanfic. I’m sorry that it takes me so long xD I hope you like it! whoever you are ❤️ Thank you for @jewels2876 for helping me with this piece, love you ❤️ Also tagging fellow Hannibal fans 😉 @venusdemonroe and @detectivehannibal thanks for feeding me Hannibal content and discuss him with me ❤️

It’s been a couple of months since you’ve worked with Dr. Lecter. You were once a librarian; due to an accident, you lost your job as a consequence of a long time recovery. Hannibal Lecter literally was an angel or your angel to be precise. Vividly, you remember the time you met him. By chance, Hannibal is in the clinic when you do your physiotherapy. He catches a small stack of books that you buy that day. He manages to balance the books in his left hand while his right-hand catches you before your face kisses the floor.

Long story short, both of you have some sort of conversation that leads to you applying for a job to be Hannibal’s secretary. You are excited but also nervous when you do your interview. You have no idea that Hannibal is a well-known psychiatrist not only just in Baltimore but also in Maryland. There is a fear that Hannibal will not choose you because of your clumsy tendencies. You are naturally what people will call a klutz. Physical activity somewhat hinders your ability to shine among others. You are either too slow or too weak. Not to mention lucky stars seem to distance themself from you. But not that day, the day when you get an email of your employment. Hannibal is pretty impressed with your CV and how good your skills on scheduling and data management,

“Good morning.” the soft, accented voice of Hannibal greets you. Today, he wears a dark blue windowpane pattern jacket suit. He chooses a somewhat dark metallic floral pattern adorning the red-brown tie. His white buttoned-up shirt makes the color of his suit and ties pop. Hannibal always dresses elegantly, something that you always look forward to seeing.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter.” You stand up and follow Hannibal inside his office. He takes a seat on his brown leather chair. Everything looks immaculate as always.

“Schedule for today?” he unbuttons his suit jacket and you quickly help him hang the suit. “Thank you, my dear, you didn’t need to do that.”

“It’s alright Dr. Lecter.”

Sometimes when it’s only you and Hannibal in the office, he accidentally calls you my dear. You aren’t sure if it's because that’s the way he usually addresses someone he is in contact on a daily basis, or it means something more? Oh, you wish.

“Dr. Lecter…, for this morning you will have two appointments. Mrs. Potter and Ms. Randall. Also-- Mr. Franklin said he might need to reschedule.” Your slightly breathy voice points out other appointments Hannibal has outside the office. Your work had become kind of a blend between his secretary and personal assistant, to be honest. It was actually Hannibal's idea to engage you more into work that’s not strictly his office related. Not that you are complaining because it let you take a peek on Hannibal’s other persona. Not to mention that the payment is pretty generous.

Not once does Hannibal ask your input on what type of thing should be added in his office, and by that, you are pretty proud of yourself. Not a lot of people give any thought about your opinion. Although Hannibal, like when his office has this sleek look and somewhat minimalist style, he always mixes something that you could say was classic inside his office. You have been inside his office quite a lot, but sometimes you help him tidy up his books and document. He’s somewhat more of a hard copy type of person than a soft copy one. Like you. You like the smells of an old book although some of Hannibal’s books smell too clinical for you. Like the smells of a hospital or a place with a lot of disinfectants.

Pretty proud of your experience as a librarian in the past, and knowing Hannibal is a perfectionist himself, you practically turned the side of his office into a perfect mini library. The medical record shorts are alphabetically arranged while his other books are listed by genre, then in an alphabetical manner as well. When Hannibal stays longer in the office, sometimes you catch him drawing. A hobby that he said he has since childhood. One day he told you, “Growing up, I found my hobby really useful when I decided to be a medical doctor.” and you can’t help but agree. After he finishes with what he sketches at that time, he specifically calls you into his office and shows you the final product. That action simply makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Thank you, you can leave for now.” He gives you his subtle yet beautiful smile. Those eyes of his when he smiles always send some sort of quick rush to your brain.

Giving Hannibal a short nod, you quickly excuse yourself. You stumble upon your own shoe and almost fall, face first. Luckily you can prevent that from happening, hoping Hannibal doesn’t notice, although you think he did. Scurrying from his office, you station yourself on your spot. Continue typing and archiving what Hannibal asks you.

Sipping your now cold latte, your eyes shift to the books next to your PC. It’s a book called Les Fleurs du mal renaissance, a volume about French poetry that Hannibal had lent you after you finish some short of psychology 101. You have read a few pages of it, and since it’s in French, it takes you some time to understand it.

Sometimes Hannibal invites you to his office to let you read his book while he draws things. Trying not to get caught red-handed, you glance at him from the corner of your eyes, savoring the scene in front of you. Wondering what Hannibal actually does on his day off, is there anything he can’t do? Your brain likes to take a detour on what Hannibal does at home when he’s not seeing other people’s minds.

A soft clink of steps on the mahogany floor wood, momentary pauses your fingers on the keyboard.

“Good morning Mrs. Potter.” you stand up immediately. Greet her with a polite, shy smile. One of the things you are still learning from working with Hannibal is being confident. Since the secretary is usually portrayed as bold and beautiful, while you on the other hand are quite the opposite, Hannibal makes sure you take your time to adapt from ‘less contact with people at work’ to ‘in contact with different people almost every day.’

“I’m here for my appointment.” her British accent tickles your ear. It’s rare for you to meet a Brit, especially as posh as Mrs. Potter. Although you never glance at a patient’s medical record, you do actually google them. When you find out Hannibal’s reputation, you know that most of his patients are a somewhat well-known person. Mrs. Potter is an owner of exquisite but limited jewelry store on the east coast. From several articles that you read, she has had quite a lot of scandal. Despite that, you will not deny her beauty. She may be quite older than you, but the way her cheekbones stay supple and very few wrinkles decorating her face sometimes makes you jealous.

“Yes, sure. Please wait a moment,” immediately, you walk to Hannibal's office door that's just a foot away from your desk. Giving a soft knock, you open the door and inform Hannibal that Mrs. Potter is already here. He gives you a quick nod, and you open the door wider, to let Mrs. Potter start her session.

Hannibal isn’t a strict boss. Or that’s actually what you thought about him. Of course, you are a professional employee as you can be, but sometimes you spend time reading the book you borrow from Hannibal between your desk job. Mostly because you already do whatever Hannibal tasks you with. On some occasions, you join Hannibal when he attends some appointments, such as when he needs to be a keynote speaker in a well-known conference around Maryland and DC. An experience that you guess is his way to widen your social ability.

“Thank you Mrs. Potter. I’ll see you in the next session.” Hannibal’s accent cues you to stand up and bid your goodbye to Mrs. Potter. The rest of the day comes out like it usually is. Typing and arranging schedules for Hannibal while also scrolling on another book to read. Even though you were a librarian before, there’s just so many books and so little time to read.

When it’s time for you to go home, you knock on Hannibal’s office door and open it slightly when he answers you with a soft, “come on in”. You excuse yourself while also giving Hannibal’s friend a smile. Although Hannibal doesn’t have a lot of appointments today, his friend, Jack Crawford visits the office and you know that means Hannibal will stay late until dinner time.

***

The next day your work finished earlier than you thought so you spend some time at work to continue reading the poetry book. Some people may find it weird that you like to stay a little bit longer at work than going back home. There’s always this thought of knowing there is someone close to you, without the need to do conversations in every millisecond, calming. When your eyes shift to your gold bronze table clock, you haven’t realized that you are pretty late, as the sky already turns dark.

You know Hannibal is still in the office and you plan to excuse yourself before it’s getting really late. You don’t want Hannibal to drive you back home since you feel embarrassed about it. He always makes sure you arrive at home safely when you spend more time at the office or going home pretty late since Baltimore isn’t the safest place on earth. However, there is always a thought in your head that Hannibal being a little bit protective towards you, his employee because you are just a much of a klutz and he feels responsible.

You aren’t sure what possessed you to move too quickly and it just messes up your footing. The point of your left oxford shoes hit the castor office chair. Ungracefully you trip to the floor and bring the chair with you. The falling chair let out a loud bang while you landed on your hands and knees, grimacing in pain.

You aren’t sure when but your brain kind of mid freeze for a second. When you look up, you see Hannibal crouching down and calling your name, worried, “-- are you ok? Can you stand up?”

“I--I’m ok Dr. Lecter,” you try to stand up but you hold up your right hand in a sign of I need a minute.

Hannibal takes care of the office chair first, putting it back in its original position. He carefully lifts you up, supporting you and letting you sit back on your office chair. “I’m sorry my dear, but I need to check?” He asks you for your permission and you quickly give him your approval. With an expert examination of his hands, Hannibal checks your knees for any swelling or visual deformity. Since your past accident, you are prone to any joint and soreness on the knees. Delicately, he gives a little pat on both your knees. “I think everything is ok, you may need to have some pain killers.”

“Thank you Hannibal.” you blurt it out. Sometimes you call him by his first name when you aren’t in office hours, although rarely.

He graces you with that smile of his, subtle yet it always makes your heart quiver, the kind of smile you infrequently see. You notice that sometimes he has his professional smile, it is short and kind of cold. The smile you always notice when he meets his colleague. You don’t know a lot of Hannibal’s friends, but when he has some impromptu meeting with Jack, you slightly witness more smirk and sometimes there’s this naughty element like he is planning something evil, although humorously.

“Wait a minute, I will drive you home.” Hannibal left you to go inside his office.

There’s a guilt in your stomach that you feel you are being a burden to your boss. When your concentration dispersed like vivid smoke, the corner of your eyes caught the beautiful woman you have seen a couple of times visiting the office. Unlike other women who mostly visit Hannibal for a session, this woman is indeed different.

“Ms. Bloom.” You greet her. Your smile may look blankly courteous even, but you definitely are not in the mood to give her your big smile this evening.

“You look unwell, are you ok?”

“I-- I’m ok.” you try to answer her, less tense.

“Alana?” your eyes shift to Hannibal as he opens his door.

“Hey, Hannibal. I try to call you but I thought I might as well just drop by.”

Hannibal’s eyes divert from you to Alana, and he gives Alana a quick nod, letting her quickly enter the office. “It will be quick. Can you wait for a while?” you give him a nod and smile at him nervously.

At first you aren’t sure why you are nervous but something finally clear on your head. Maybe you are jealous. You know a lot of women near Hannibal are not only beautiful, or rich, they are also acutely intelligent. Although you aren’t rich, you aren’t that bad looking and you will not say you aren’t intelligent but when you compare yourself to someone like Alana, there will always be inferiority engraved in your mind. Not to mention that she has known Hannibal longer and better than you.

Hannibal's office door opens and Alana exits the door with Hannibal following her. “I heard what happened to you from Hannibal.” Alana stops in front of your desk and gives you her sympathetic smile. “Get well soon.” She gives you a pat on your shoulder and says her goodbye to you and Hannibal.

“Shall we?” Hannibal changes his focus towards you and you nod in agreement. Let him help you out of the office.

***

“So…,”

“So?” Hannibal glances at you momentarily while driving, asking you to continue what you have in mind.

“Dr. Bloom is really beautiful.” your small, joyless voice continues its sentence.

“Ah...yes indeed,” Hannibal replies casually.

Your eyes glance at the dark street. Hannibal’s office is located in a quite busy place and it’s nice to see less traffic when you get out of the area.

“Did both of you date?” you blurt it out. Your eyes widen in horrors as you blatantly just spill out something unprofessional. “Hanni-- Dr. Lecter, I-- I-- didn’t mean to pry on your personal life.”

Hannibal looks at you and lets out a laugh. Something really rare, something that you even have witnessed. The crinkle on his eyes when he laughs lets his somewhat cool and calm demeanor melted. It takes you sometimes to register on what just happens.

“I’m sorry my dear, that’s just quite funny.” Hannibal stops laughing and sends you a quick smile.

“Also that might not answer your question but the answer is no, Alana and I, we aren’t dating. I’m her mentor and our relationship is more of colleagues and friends.”

You aren’t sure why you hold your breath, but after listening to Hannibal's answer, you let out a long exhale, feeling that something heavy has been lifted up from your shoulders.

Hannibal’s Bentley stops in front of your apartment complex. Ever the gentleman that he is, Hannibal asks you if you need help. You decline his help as if you can’t embarrass yourself enough in one day.

“Before you go, I have something to tell you.” Like a deer caught in a headlight, you look at Hannibal. He switches on the light inside the car and pulls his bag from the backseat. He handed you several papers that looked likely to be a job application. Your eyes widen, vision blurry as a sudden tears drop from your eyes. This is it, maybe Hannibal has enough of your clumsiness. He doesn’t find you worthy as he sometimes needs to ‘babysit you’ when you do something you don’t intend to do.

Feeling that he may be approaching this the wrong way, Hannibal tries to comfort you. You put both of your hands in front of your chest, like a shield in a defensive manner. Try to accommodate his tall frame, awkwardly Hannibal turns his body to the passenger seat and embraces you. He shushing you and pat your heads

When your silent cry turns into a hiccup but more calmer, Hannibal pulls away from you. With a stutter, you explain to Hannibal that you understand if he doesn’t want you to work with him again and you are thankful that he’s been a very great employer to you.

“Hey,” Hannibal swipes the tears that rolls down on your cheeks with his thumbs, “--it’s not that. Look, my dear, the reason I handed this paper to you is not that I want to fire you, but I have been pretty impatient lately.”

You look at him, eyes full of question on what the fuck he means by that? Although you don’t let it out loud because you don’t want to make any rude comment. Because Hannibal doesn’t like that.

“I’m one of those people who do not agree with office romance.”

Office? Romance? What the hell? No one has any romance in the office, you thought.

“I have been pretty much intent to court you,” his eyes flicker to your lips and back to your reddish eyes. “Alana came today because she wants to give me the application personally, there’s a librarian vacancy in her University and I pretty much just want to hand it to you.” Your brain wiring, try to connect the words as if you forgot how to speak English.

“Apologize if I’m being rude my dear, but I have observed you for some time and I encourage myself to just lay it all here so I didn’t make you upset. Of course, if I am proven wrong, you can stay and still work as my secretary. No harm, the position will always be yours.”

“Hanni-- Hannibal, does this mean that you like ‘like’ me?”

He answers you with a quick nod and the smile that always makes your heart flutter. You try to reach Hannibal but your knee prevents you from doing such a thing. Hannibal let out a small chuckle as he finds your difficulty quite amusing.

You eye him in disbelief but your anger melts right away as his face gets closer to yours. His right hand's cup at the side of your face as his lips inches closer towards you. With eyes close, you feel the brushes of Hannibal’s lips. The kiss is soft and delicate as if he is just testing the water.

You let your hands sneak at the back of his collar as you seek more contact. Both of your lips slide and glide against each other. Letting out a whimper, you grant Hannibal’s tongue to slip past your lips. Teasing and flicking languidly, exploring something that makes you shudders in want.

After some time, Hannibal withdraws his lips from yours. Eyes fluttering open, you can see Hannibal’s pupils expand. He let his foreheads rest at yours while his hand still cups on your face. “So...I believe it is a 'yes''?” There's humor in his voice.

With a broad smile and less reddish eyes, you answer Hannibal with a confident nod and grant him another kiss on the lips.

As always, like, comment and reblog are really appreciated ❤️. Let me know what you think about this xo

#hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal imagine #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter request #mads mikkelsen #chuuulip post

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askullandbones · 3 years ago

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Time for another life update!

As some of you saw by my previous posts, @beabaseball and I went to the Baltimore Aquarium. It was a lot of fun, I hadn't been there in a long time, and can you believe they've never been to an aquarium before?

We went to Ocean City, Maryland after that too for a few days just to chill at the beach and play mini golf. 😆

(They won, btw.)

It was a vacation I desperately needed. I never thought such a shut-in like me would feel the need to get out, but after last year I was really itching to knock something off my bucket list. Next is a camping trip with my folks come September to Kinzua Bridge State Park.

A few more personal things that have happened recently is that I became an uncle for the 3rd time. My brother had his second child, and we're on decent enough terms that he let me see him this time. And for those wondering, yes things are a bit better between my parents and I too. They're actually using the correct name and pronouns, even going so far as correcting themselves when they mess up.

Another thing I don't think I mentioned is that what I thought was just "getting old back hurty disease" is actually something a bit more serious. After a doctor's visit and an x-ray, it turns out I have Degenerative Disc Disease, bone spurs, and sciatica in my right leg. I'm undergoing physical therapy a few times a week, and finding this out forced my hand into getting a new job... which I start tomorrow!

As much as I loved working at a doggie daycare, the amount of physical labor it involves, especially bending over again and again throughout the day, really took a toll on my health. Not having any upward growth didn't help either, despite me speaking up about promotions on multiple occasions. So it was time for a move.

My new position is going to be a veterinary assistant, which will hopefully get my foot in the door to start branching into the animal healthcare industry, something I've always had a great interest in. Maybe I'll even become a veterinary technician, we'll see. :)

That's about all for now. I'm slogging through summer and staying indoors, waiting for the day it finally dips below 70F again. Writing has been... sadly pretty non-existent, even though I want to. With things to do, my health, and being unable to focus, it's a hobby that's a little on the backburner until I can sit for longer periods of time without pain. Really hoping my change in job and physical therapy helps with that.

Thanks for sticking around and reading this post, hope y'all are having a good, safe summer. ❤

#skull talks

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slashyrogue · 4 years ago

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1- 2 - 3

“I specifically stated I did not wish to see you again, Ms. Lounds.”

Ms. Freddie Lounds stood close enough that Hannibal could see her clearly wearing a dark wig, plain suit, and glasses that should have fooled no one. He knew her quite well already by scent, and hated the very idea that she thought she deserved his attention once more after the last time.

She smiled at him and took off the glasses, putting them into her front pocket.

“I’ve been told you have a keen sense of smell, Dr. Lecter, but I wasn’t aware just how keen.”

“I’d like you to leave before I inform the guards.”

Freddie held up a small tablet. “Are you sure? I have a video you might wish to see. I’d like your reaction to what’s in it.”

Hannibal knew that something more than likely had to do with Will. He hated his new weakness but also craved seeing the father of his baby in action.

“Another invasion of privacy, Ms. Lounds?”

“Oh no,” she said, smiling, “This time I wasn’t the only one there, and he stepped into the light of his own accord. Interested, Doctor?”

He licked his lips. “You must know I am or you wouldn’t be dangling the unseen video in front of me.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, smirking as she touched the tablet, “But I’d like to hear you ask nicely after how rude you were to me last time.”

His anger grew the longer she stood there looking smug and seeming to think she was untouchable. “Please,” he said, careful to keep the anger out of his voice, “May I see?”

Ms. Lounds pressed play and put the tablet up to the glass separating them.

There was a mob of reporters swarming Will on his porch, and he was wearing what looked to be pajamas. His belly was in full view, and Hannibal’s baser instincts filled him with both want and anger over his omega in such peril.

But Will did not seem frightened as the questions were thrown, and it only took one to make him angry.

“Do you plan on keeping the baby now that you know it might be a monster?”

Hannibal watched Will glare out at the reporter who dared ask such a rude question. “What’s your name?”

Freddie had only caught the side of the man’s face but he seemed confused by the anger in Will’s eyes. “I...my name is Dallas Smith, I work for the Gazette.”

“Do you think it’s wise to piss off a guy who’s carrying the baby of a serial killer? What do you think might happen if he gets out? You think he’ll be happy to know you upset me?”

“Are you threatening me?”

Will smiled. “Just asking questions, Mr. Smith.”

Hannibal’s pride swelled as the reporter took off in a hurry and he was enthralled by the expert way his omega had defeated such a person so easily.

“Any more questions?”

The silence was deafening and Hannibal began to memorize every face he saw in that throng of reporters.

“None at all?”

“Mr. Graham?”

Will looked to his left. “Yes? Your name?”

“I prefer not to give it,” she said, and Hannibal recognized her voice immediately as Freddie herself, “I was going to ask….are you worried that Hannibal Lecter might break out of prison to see his baby?”

He watched Will shake his head and touch his belly almost in comfort of the very idea while making no expression of fear at all.

“I have every faith that he’s securely locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I’m sure they’ve got him very well monitored, and despite how ‘happy’ he is to be a father he’s never going to be one to my daughter.”

The words should have stung, but all they did was make Hannibal’s heart beat faster.

Will Graham was everything Hannibal could have hoped for in an omega.

He had such darkness in him already that would not be hard to cultivate, and Hannibal longed to be the one to help nurture those feelings as they grew.

Freddie took the tablet away and held out her tape recorder. “Your response, Doctor?”

“Do you regularly go incognito to interview people whose lives you’ve ruined?”

She glared at him. “I didn’t ruin anyone’s life, Dr. Lecter. Will Graham is the one who came out voluntarily to…”

“Will Graham is stronger than any of the vultures who would take advantage of his situation for money, especially you Ms. Lounds. You have single handedly upended that man’s life for your own gain.”

“If I hadn’t, you would never have known he existed.”

Hannibal smiled. “Yes, and for that I will thank you but I wholeheartedly condemn the way you went about finding him. If you even think to step foot in this building again wanting to see me, I will alert the guards.”

Freddie shook her head. “If you think acting chivalrous and stoic is going to impress an omega like that, Dr. Lecter, you don’t know omegas very well. Will Graham is not a normal omega, and it’s quite obvious why he chose to be a single father. He’s unstable and unmateable. Sitting in your cell thinking you’d be able to woo him is sad, even for you.”

His hands shook as he pressed them to the glass.

“Good day, Ms. Lounds. You had better hope we never see each other again.”

She started to walk off but stopped at the doorway.

“The baby’s name is Abigail,” she said, turning to smile at him, “And you’ll never get to see her face.”

Freddie then took off without another word.

Abigail.

His daughter’s name was Abigail.

He closed his eyes and began to replay the video in his mind.

Will was perfect.

He needed to see him.

Hannibal started pacing back and forth, eyes still closed, as plans began to form. Breaking out would be ideal, but perhaps it was too soon.

His resolve to go about this slowly was very quickly crumbling, and he suspected he would not be able to resist the lure of Will for long. Will seemed like he would be put off by interference from anyone, let alone a killer alpha stranger on the run, and he wondered just how to get close enough to touch without alienating him.

No one had tried to appeal to Will as an omega for what he suspected was a very long time.

The very idea made his body ache with possibility.

Will would be his, no matter how he had to go about making it so, and soon there would be no turning back.

Hannibal went to bed that night still restless and longing for Will beside him.

He, Will and Abigail were meant to be a family.

And no matter matter what it took to make that happen, they would be.

#hannigram au #alpha beta omega #surprise it's a cannibal au

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heauxplesslydevoted · 5 years ago

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Fresh Start - Prologue

Ethan x MC

Summary: After going through her own personal trauma, Dr. Naomi Valentine packs up and sets her sights on Boston. But a new job in a new city comes with its own set of challenges and drama.

A/N: I honestly have no idea why this plot popped into my head, but where we are. Part of this chapter borrows from Ethan and MC’s very first encounter in chapter 1, with some very minor tweaks.

As always, let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged. And enjoy!

Tags: @fanmantrashcan @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @writinghereandthere @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @kaavyaethanramsey @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @mal-volaris @whatchique @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartwriting @mvalentine @nooruleman

~v~

Don’t get married at 19, they said. Don’t spend the best years of your life tied down to someone else, they said. This will be the biggest mistake of your life, they said.

They were all right.

If you would’ve told Naomi that her husband of 9 years was going to cheat on her with his receptionist and knock her up, she would’ve laughed. But fate laughed harder.

She’s Naomi freaking Valentine – thank God she never changed her last name. She’s brilliant, she’s an attending at one of the best hospitals in Washington D.C, and she comes from one of the most prominent families in this city, but none of that even matters. Because it’s Friday night and she’s currently at home, watching trashy television, crying into her couch cushion.

At first there was the unbridled rage that threatened to consume her from the inside out. Leading up to the divorce, she felt like she was always on the brink of exploding. She wanted to kill her husband, his stupid mistress, his slimy divorce attorney, and anyone else who dared cross her path.

But now that the divorce papers are signed, now that all of the air has been deflated from her, all she feels is overwhelming sadness.

Divorce sucks. It’s a pretty well known fact, but everyone else feeling the same way doesn’t negate her feelings. She’d rather get split down the middle and turned inside out than ever go through something like this ever again. She’s strong, but she’s not strong enough to endure this type of battle more than once.

She’s too wrapped up in her own feelings, she doesn’t notice the front door of her condo opening and closing. But the sound of heels clinking against her wood floors is enough to pull her out of her own thoughts.

“You weren’t answering my calls, darling.”

The vivacious voice of Dorinda Valentine booms throughout the condo. Naomi looks up and sees her mother standing a few feet away. She has Tupperware in her hands.

“Yeah, I turned my phone off.”

“I figured.”

“What’s in the Tupperware, mama?”

“I made you some chicken stir fry. I think it’s safe to assume you haven’t eaten anything today.”

It’s a correct assumption. On any other day, Naomi would devour anything her mother put in front of her face, but now, the thought of food makes her stomach turn.

She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re a doctor, Naomi, you know better than anyone that you should be eating.” Dorinda stares at the tall bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “And just because vodka is made from potatoes, it still doesn’t count.”

Naomi doesn’t respond. She just turns her head and burrows further into the couch.

Dorinda stands there for a few moments, observing her daughter. It’s a depressing sight, one she isn’t used to. If she could take the pain from Naomi and somehow transfer it to herself, Dorinda would do it in a heartbeat.

“Okay.” Dorinda drops her purse to the floor and sets the containers down on the coffee table. She walks to the couch. Grabbing Naomi by the shoulder, she roughly yanks the younger woman. Naomi rolls over and drops to the ground with a thud.

“Mom!” Naomi looks at her mom with a scowl. “Why did you do that?”

“It’s been 2 weeks since you and Daniel signed the divorce papers. I have given you plenty of space and opportunity to mope around in the dark, but I think it’s time for the pity party to end.”

“2 weeks is not nearly enough time to simply get over the past 9 years.” Naomi argues as she stands up and dusts herself off.

“I know you’re hurt–”

“No offense, but you and daddy have been married for thirty years, and last time I checked, I don’t have any half siblings conceived within that time, so you cannot fathom my hurt, so you can just skip over any platitudes that might be brewing.”

Dorinda raises an eyebrow. “You’re upset, so I’m going to ignore your wildly inappropriate and condescending tone, and give you a one time pass.”

“I’m sorry,” Naomi murmurs, flopping back down on her couch. She averts her mother’s gaze because she can feel the older woman staring daggers at her. “I’m just very...out of sorts these days, like I’ve been hit by a bus and then put on a rollercoaster.”

“Now I may not understand divorce, but I can empathize with what you’re feeling.” Dorinda sits down next to Naomi.

“I know everyone thought I was crazy to marry Daniel in the first place, and I’m so sure there's no love lost on your part, but I really went into this with the best intentions. And I thought he did too.”

Dorinda runs her thumb across Naomi’s cheek, collecting a falling tear. “People suck, and life is full of crappy people who do crappy things. And I’m sorry that you had to be a victim to one of them.”

Naomi chuckles humorlessly. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m sure it feels like the easiest thing in the world to curl into a ball and stay holed up in this apartment, but you are so much stronger than that. And Daniel Thompson does not deserve the right to reduce you to this. If you want to mope on this couch for the rest of your life, then you do it on your own accord, not because of him. But in my personal opinion, I think you’re too wonderful to become a piece of furniture.”

“What do you suppose I do?” Naomi challenges with a shrug. “I don’t how to do anything other than be his wife.”

“Well, that’s not true at all. But first, you’re going to take a shower, crack open a window to let some fresh air in, and then you’re going to do something that helps you vent. Rip a pillow, scream, scratch Daniel’s face out of his pictures, whatever you want. And then you and I are going to sit on this couch and have a very good cry. And I mean an all out, snotty nose, puffy eyes, sore throat type of cry.”

Getting off of this couch sounds like a feat within itself, one that Naomi doesn’t know if she has the strength or energy to do.

“That’s the first step,” Dorinda says, playing with a strand of Naomi’s hair. “That’s the hard part, but once you do that, I promise it gets easier. You just have to trust yourself and put one foot in front of the other, okay?”

A heavy silence falls on the room and Dorinda waits on bated breath for her daughter to respond. She’s never seen Naomi like this, the life completely drained out of her.

Naomi’s voice comes out small and unrecognizable, but she answers nonetheless. “Okay.”

~v~

One month passes and things finally start progressing for Naomi. She won’t say her life is back to normal, but she’s no longer glued to her couch, so her family considers it a win.

It’s a nice day, so Dorinda forces her to leave the comfort of her apartment and spend the day with her family.

“One of your father’s friends is coming over, so be nice,” Dorinda scolds, passing her daughter a handful of silverware so they can set the dinner table.

“Oh God, mom if this is some politician asking for a donation, I can’t–”

“No politicians,” Dorinda interjects. “Naveen is in Baltimore for a few days, so we invited him to have dinner with us.”

Dr. Naveen Banerji has been friends with Naomi’s dad for as long as she can remember. While Naveen was doing his residency at Sinai Hospital in Baltimore, Steven Valentine came in for a broken arm, and they’ve been close friends ever since, even when Naveen had to move to Boston.

Naomi adores the older man, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s one of the best doctors in the country.

“Why didn’t you just lead with that?” Naomi asks.

Dorinda shrugs. “I wanted to see if you could leave that apartment of yours without external motivation.”

“And I did,” Naomi says. “I want a medal.”

“And I want a private island somewhere in the Caribbean.”

There’s a knock at the door that startles them out of their banter. Before either one of them can reach the door, Naomi’s dad beats them to it.

“Naveen, you old man!” Steven greets. “How are you?”

“If I’m old, you’re ancient!” Naveen shoots back with a chuckle. His eyes fall on Dorinda and Naomi, who have joined them in the foyer. “Dorinda! You’re as lovely as ever.”

“Naveen, it’s so wonderful to see you again.”

“And Naomi, I haven’t seen you since your med school graduation.” Naveen sizes her younger before hugging her. “Gosh, I can’t believe you’re so grown up now. What happened to the little 5 year old who used to quiz me on the periodic table?”

“Hi, Naveen,” Naomi greets brightly.

“It smells delicious in here. Don’t tell me you made a huge fuss over me, Dorinda.”

“What? It’s not every day we get to see you.” Dorinda takes Naveen’s coat. “Go sit down, you’re here just in time. Dinner will be out in 10 minutes, tops.”

It doesn’t even take that long, and soon the Valentine family plus Naveen are all gathered around the dining room table, passing around bowls and platters of food.

“So Naveen, I heard you got a promotion recently and you’re now the Chief of Medicine at Edenbrook.”

“Yeah, my days of practicing are over.”

“Do you like the job?” Naomi asks.

Naveen nods. “I love it. I have more free time, which is a plus. And there’s still so much to do, so it fuels the adrenaline junky in me. What about you, Dr. Valentine?” He smiles. “What’s it like being an attending?”

“Demanding,” Naomi answers.

“Any interesting cases recently?”

“No.” Naomi‘s girl scrapes across her plate as she awkwardly shuffles her food around. “I, uh...I’m on a personal leave right now. I haven’t been to the hospital in weeks.”

Naveen knows all about the nasty divorce, so he nods sympathetically and doesn’t press the subject. “You were chief resident last year, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s being modest,” Dorinda says. “She was at the top of her cohort.”

“Of course she was.” Naveen takes a sip of his drink, but his eyes are still trained on Naomi, wheels turning. “How do you like the hospital you’re working at?”

“It’s good.”

“Do you think that it’s the best fit for you? Are you being pushed to your limits? Are your superiors still checking in with you? You’re an attending now, but they should still care about your development.”

Naomi feels overwhelmed by the onslaught of questions. What is this, a job interview?

“Slow down Naveen, what’s with the interrogation?”

“What? I care about you, and I care about your potential. I just hope it’s not being wasted.”

“It’s not,” Naomi assures him.

“You know, there will always be a standing invitation for you to join the team at Edenbrook,” Naveen tells her.

A wide grin forms on Dorinda’s face and before Naomi can respond, she does. “She accepts!”

And that’s when the lightbulb turns on above Naomi’s head. She glances from Naveen to her parents. “Did you guys set this up?”

Naveen raises an eyebrow at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Did my parents ask you to come here and give me a job offer?”

“No, I’m here because I have a conference to attend in Baltimore tomorrow, so I thought I’d drop in. No one asked me to give you a job offer. You’re intelligent, you’re compassionate, you’re a good doctor, and I wouldn’t be a very smart Chief if I didn’t at least try to poach you for myself.”

“And she accepts!” Dorinda continues.

“Mom, stop it!” Naomi scolds.

“You’ll get a chance to work with me,” Naveen adds. “You’ll get a chance to work with Dr. Ethan Ramsey, my protege. We’re a level 1 trauma center, and Boston is a gorgeous city.”

The last thing Naomi needs right now is a new job in a new city, not while her life is in complete shambles. Besides, her entire life is in DC. It’s where her entire support system resides. Functioning without them sounds daunting.

“I really appreciate the offer Naveen, but that is definitely a lot to take in and consider.”

“Of course, I understand. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, nor do I expect any sort of answer.” Naveen sighs. “How much longer are you going to be off of work?”

“A few more weeks.”

“How about you come to Boston, and at least check out the hospital?” He suggests. “No strings attached, and you can stay at my lake house because I’m hardly ever there and there’s tons of space, so someone should enjoy it. At the very least, I think seeing it will at least be a fun experience and a nice vacation.”

“If I say yes to the trip, can we pause this conversation for the rest of the evening?”

Naveen nods. “I think that’s a fair exchange.”

“Then you have yourself a deal.”

Naomi relaxes and slouches slightly in her seat. When she gets home later on, she has a mission to complete: research the hell out of Boston and Edenbrook Hospital.

~v~

Boston is a beautiful city full of history, culture, and interesting attractions. Naomi appreciates the hustle and bustle of the city life, and the fact that everyone is always on the go – a vast difference from the quiet and serenity of Naveen’s lake house in Plymouth.

And Edenbrook is an entirely different beast. It is much larger than she expects, as the pictures don’t do it justice. The building is at least 7 stories tall to her naked eye, sleek and modern.

Naomi silently marvels as she watches doctors and nurses bustle around, chatting quietly amongst each other.

“Wow.” Is all she can say.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Naveen asks rhetorically, smiling at Naomi’s childlike wonder.

“This hospital is amazing,” is what she finally settles on when words finally come back to her.

“Follow me, we have an unofficial tour to go on.”

Naomi follows Naveen through the hospital. She struggles to keep up as she tries to memorize the complex layout, because this hospital is large and built like a multi-level maze.

Naveen rattles off information and fun facts as they pass through the pediatric department, they stop to stare at the newborns in labor and delivery, all small and wriggly, and they even manage to sneak into the OR to watch Harper Emery perform a craniotomy, something Naomi compares to a religious experience.

“I can’t believe I just watched The Harper Emery perform surgery!” Naomi squeals with delight as she and Naveen step out of the gallery and leave the OR. “Please tell me that wasn’t a dream.”

“I didn’t peg you for a surgery fanatic,” Naveen teases.

Naomi scoffs. “I’m not, but I respect Dr. Emery. You don’t have to be a basketball fan to appreciate that Michael Jordan is one of the greats.”

“That’s a fair comparison.”

The two of them continue their leisurely stroll around the hospital, making their way to the internal medicine department.

“This is where you’d spend a good chunk of your time, if you wanted to work here, of course.”

“Is it a large department?” Naomi asks quietly. There are a few patients filling out paperwork ahead of their appointments and she doesn’t want to disturb them.

“It is. We have a lot of doctors here so you can spend that extra one-on-one time with your patients, and you aren’t just rushing them out the door to get to your next appointment.”

“That’s good to know.”

Naveen’s pager goes off and he checks it before sighing. “The life of a Chief is never dull. I have to go take care of something downstairs, but I’ll be back as soon as possible. Do you think you can occupy yourself in the meantime?”

“Of course.” Naomi shoos him away. “Take your time.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Naomi watches as he walks away, until she can no longer see him through the crowds of people. Once he’s truly gone, she continues her slow stroll through the halls.

Edenbrook seems like an amazing hospital and a great place to work, but she’s not sure if she can see herself staying.

Can she really pack up and move more than 400 miles away from her entire family, and the only life she’s ever known? And is she the type to run away when life gets tough? What will everyone say? “Oh, poor girl gets left by her husband and had to flee the city.”

But what’s stopping you? The little voice in her head asks, and it’s technically right. She looks down at her left hand, zeroing in on the ring-less finger with a deep tan line, a very prominent reminder of what’s definitely not waiting for her back in DC. No husband, no kids, nothing but an empty and quiet condo.

When she filed for divorce, Naomi swore to herself that running off to city hall to get married would be the first and last wild and impulsive thing she’d ever do. And taking a job offer on a whim in Boston is teetering dangerously close to that “wild and reckless” category.

But she’s pulled out of her thoughts when someone gasps loudly beside her. Whipping her head around, Naomi watches as a middle aged woman falls out of her seat and collapses onto the ground.

That sends the waiting area into a frenzy as fellow patients panic and crowd around the woman like she’s some sort of zoo exhibit, and nurses try their best to assess the situation and ask for help.

“Everyone, step back!” Naomi orders, a serious expression covering her face. “I’m a doctor!”

Before Naomi can even reach the woman, another doctor rushes over, kneeling down beside her. He lifts her wrist and pressed two fingers to it.

“Her pulse isn’t weak. She’s unresponsive.”

His face scans the crowd and Naomi inwardly gasps as she realizes that it's Ethan freaking Ramsey! In any other situation, she’d be freaking out and fan-girling over him.

He spots her and points. “You. Get in here.”

Naomi bites down on her tongue and resists the urge to get snappy with him. She’s not a puppy that can get summoned on command. But she remembers that a woman’s life is on the line and her own hang ups can wait.

“Right away, Doctor!”

With practiced ease, Ethan lifts the woman up and places her on a gurney that’s been rolled over by a nurse. Within seconds, Naomi is at his side.

“What was she coming in for?” He asks, hoping someone can answer his question. “Did she fill out a form yet?”

A nurse clears his throat before answering, “No, she had just walked in.”

That’s not the answer Ethan was hoping for and he frowns. “If we don’t figure out what’s wrong with her fast, she’s gonna die on this gurney.” He spares a quick glance at Naomi. “Check her B.P.”

A nurse hands Naomi a blood pressure cuff and she slips on around the woman’s arm. After pumping it a few times, she checks the numbers. They’re horrible.

“It’s plummeting. She’s hypotensive,” she explains. “We’ve gotta get fluids in her, now.”

Ethan nods, agreeing with the assessment. Another nurse sets up an I.V. while Naomi checks over the woman once more. She notices a bruise on her elbow, one that wasn’t there a minute ago, and her fingertips are turning blue.

“Doctor, look at her fingers,” Naomi says, getting Ethan’s attention. “I think it’s a sign of low oxygen saturation.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “You think or you know? We really don’t have time for the guessing game.”

“I know,” Naomi assures him, her tone coming out rougher than she intended. She’s not a fan of being second guessed, especially by someone who specifically requested her to assist.

“Good. Did you notice the bruise?” Naomi nods. “A bruise forming that quickly suggests that this woman is a hemophiliac.” Ethan slides his stethoscope from around his neck and hands it to Naomi. “Check her lungs, quickly.”

Naomi does what she’s told and takes a closer listen to her woman’s lungs.

“Nothing on her left side, and the right side is struggling. She’s going to suffocate!”

Oh God, how did she get roped into this? This was supposed to be a relaxing vacation away from all of the stress of her life, now Naomi is watching a woman suffocate to death.

Dr. Ramsey isn’t having the same struggle as she is, as he remains calm, though everyone around them is on high alert. “We’ve got a Code Blue,” he says, his voice steady. A nurse hands him a bag mask and he starts delivering air to the woman.

Naomi watches as he does that, trying to remain calm. She closes her eyes and attempts to steady her thoughts, and figure out what’s wrong with the woman.

“Hey, either help out or leave, but I don’t need you here doing nothing,” Ethan says, interrupting her thoughts.

Naomi flinches a bit at the interruption, but she continues thinking. Low oxygen, hemophilia, deflated lungs. What could it possibly be?

As she’s going through the options, it hits her. “It’s a hemothorax!”

Ethan nods, confirming the diagnosis. “A blood vessel ruptured…”

“...and it’s blocking her lungs from expanding any further,” Naomi finishes. She looks around. They’re in a crowded waiting room, not the OR. “But we can’t do anything here!”

“There’s no time to get her to the OR, we’ll have to do an emergency thoracotomy to drain her pleural cavity.” Ethan points to a nurse. “You! I need a chest tube and a scalpel, now!”

A nurse rushes over immediately, placing the items in Naomi’s hands. She barely has time to register the fact that she’s about to perform an emergency procedure on an unconscious woman, and she’s not even supposed to be in doctor-mode today before Ethan is lifting the woman’s shirt

“We’re gonna need a local anesthetic to–”

“We don’t have time for any of that!” Ethan snaps. “Do it now, or she’s going to die, and it’ll be on you!”

Naomi gulps and wills herself to calm down. Her pulse is racing and she can hear her heart beating in her ears.

But she breathes deeply. She doesn’t have time to panic, not when there’s a life on the line. She steadies her hand, and makes the incision at the woman’s rib cage.

“There you go, nice and easy,” Dr. Ramsey coaches. “Now insert the tube.”

Naomi insets the chest tube into the incision. Slowly but surely, the blood starts draining out of the woman’s chest, and she gasps, breathing again.

The woman, now conscious again, mutters something unintelligible, but she’s alive and that’s all that matters.

“We...we did it.”

The older physician ignores Naomi, instead turning to the nurse that’s been helping them. “She’s stable. Get her into surgery, but she’s stable.”

“Right away, Doctor.”

The nurses take the patient away, while the crowd applauds them for the heroic save. Eventually the crowd disperses, everyone going back to what they were previously doing.

The relief that floods through Naomi’s body is all-consuming. She hasn’t felt this euphoric in a long time. And to experience it with someone as amazing as Doctor Ramsey only elevates things. Doctors can only dream of working with him, and she actually got to do it, even if it was on a whim.

Maybe working at Edenbrook isn’t such a bad idea.

She turns back to Ethan, a giddy grin wide across her face. “Doctor...that was…amazing!”

“You’re right. It’s pretty amazing you didn’t get her killed.”

That takes the wind out of her sails almost instantly. “Wait, what?”

“Your examination was slow and superficial. And your scalpel technique?” He scoffs in derision. “Amateur at best.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Naomi asks. “I’m sorry, I’m not at work today, this entire situation threw me for a loop, and a waiting room definitely isn’t a proper setting to do any of what we just did. And if I’m so amateur at my job, what prevented you from stepping in at any time since you’re so much better than I am? Because if my recollection is correct, I did most of the work, while you stood there like some glorified overseer.”

“You’re the one who yelled out that you were a doctor. I wanted to test your mettle.”

Her blood boils in her veins at his words. So this is why they say never meet your heroes. Because they turn out to be righteous assholes.

“My mettle is just fine. You say it’s a miracle I didn’t kill her, I say she’s alive because of me. And another thing, I don’t need you testing my mettle when a patient’s life is on the line. Next time, save the little power trip.”

Ethan’s nostrils flare at her words. No doctor in their right mind has ever spoken to him like this. He stares down at the woman, almost a foot shorter than him, and she’s staring up at him with just as much intensity. “Now I don’t know who you think–”

“Naomi, there you are!”

Ethan’s tirade is cut short by the sound of Naveen’s voice echoing through the halls. He looks up to see his mentor and boss headed towards them.

“I’m sorry that took longer than expected Naomi,” Naveen says once he’s finally close enough. He looks her up and down. Her blouse and pants are ruined, covered in that woman’s blood. “Hue hat happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine Naveen,” Naomi assures him. “It’s not mine. And it’s a very long story, one I’ll tell you once I’m out of these clothes.”

“Very well.”

Ethan watches as the two of them casually converse. He’s known Naveen for well over a decade, and not once has he seen or heard of this woman. How does Naveen know her well enough for them to be on a first name basis?

“You two know each other?” He asks, interrupting their conversation.

Naveen nods. “Oh yes, we go way back. Ethan, this is Dr. Naomi Valentine. Naomi, this is Dr. Ethan Ramsey.”

Naomi gives Ethan a tight smile. She’s no longer in the mood for pleasantries. “Charmed.”

“Likewise, Dr. Valentine.”

“Naomi here is from DC, and I’m trying to convince her to come to Edenbrook,” Naveen explains. He knows better than anyone how much Naomi admires Ethan’s work. Maybe he’ll be able to help him convince the younger woman to accept a job at Edenbrook. “It’s so perfect that you guys met and became acquainted, because I actually think she’d be an excellent addition to the diagnostics team.”

Ethan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at that statement. “What?”

#playchoices #choices: stories you play #open heart #dr. ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #my wriitng

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