#btt writes

not a lover, just a fighter 🥂 (chapter 5 of civ life 🎖️)

John Walker hadn't texted you in almost a week. Okay, well, he technically did text you, but it was mostly those classic one word dad texts that you kind of loathed receiving from anyone, especially when it was in response to your comparatively chattier messages.

2. when the scars align ❤️‍🩹 (john walker x widow!reader)

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a simple mission, which is why Walker and yourself were the only ones assigned to be on the ground for it in the first place. A quick, painless extraction of important documents relating to a larger mission at hand that would help plan out the team's next move. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It was also, unfortunately, a simple mistake, a single fumble that led to the catastrophic cut off of the entire mission. Walker tried disarm a hidden mercenary that leapt out of the shadows just ahead of you as you were leaving with what you needed. Walker didn't realize the guy still had the capacity to shoot from the awkward and terrible angle he bent the assailants arm at, causing him to shoot downward, the bullet striking you right in the thigh.

3. one night with...john walker 😏 (a thunderbolts one-shot series im cooking up hehe)

You met John F. Walker, the married military golden boy turned freshly depressed divorcee, in what was probably the most appropriate way possible - swiping through a trashy dating app aimlessly at 2am. To be fair, you were caught in a moment of weakness. Whether it was from getting to that age where you were being invited to friend's weddings at an alarming rate, noticing how quickly Valentine's Day decorations and collections were dropping just after New Years, or just the feeling of being so oddly lonely in one of the biggest cities in the world, you sat curled up under your covers on a sleepless night perusing the cursed depths of Tinder like a late night shopping network.

4. so responsible 🛻 (a sabrina carpenter inspired fic inspired by my lovely friend @dearwalker's series :))

As John starts nipping at your neck, soft moans slipping past your lips like whispered prayers, you make the mistake of opening your eyes. You were still pretty far from the diner, but in all your sexually charged commotion you had apparently missed the sound of the back door opening, revealing a familiar face just trying to take out the trash. You can feel Bob's eyes on you from just a few yards away, face clearly burning even in the dim parking lot's lighting. You somehow have the nerve to smile, giving him a little playful wave as John continues to mark up your neck without a care in the world. You can't help but giggle a little as you watch Bob quickly scurry away past the door back into the restaurant, it slamming behind him with a louder thunk!

5. whiskey and mead 🍃 (a very self indulgent aragorn x self insert fic i wrote last year but i love to pieces so it technically counts)

Within the realms of Middle Earth, the strings of fate are weaved by powers no mere mortal man nor immortal elf would ever bear to see. The machinations of the greater architects of their kingdoms and fields had always seemed to elude them, and hints and clues could only be scarcely gathered through ancient texts and scrawls of languages lost on the age of men they found themselves in. The clearest form they find them in is the myths and folktales passed from elder to youth - that is how, after all, the Legend of the Rings still remains mostly intact to its occurrence so long ago. That very legend unfurling is where we find this unique tale.

BONUS: here are some fic ideas that have also been sitting in my docs that i hope to get to someday

crosseyed and painless

john bucky and alexei recount their super soldier origins and we learn more about how alexei was inadvertently traumatized :D

people like us (sean 'dud' dudley x reader)

while reconnecting with one of your oldest childhood crushes friends in the lingering aftermath of a chill house party, you drunkly confess to something you probably shouldn’t have. luckily, all dud wants to do is help :)

poolside service (dud x cougar!reader)

you give dud a gig cleaning your pool after the stuff with his dad goes down, smutty events ensue

tagging the usual suspects and then some!

The Gilded Age of America was known for many great advances in society; the invention of now essential home items like the telephone or record player, greater infrastructure like larger bridges and subways constructed seemingly overnight, all for the great striving goal of rapid industrialization and urbanization. New York City in the 1890s was no exception for this trend, but as the more modern technologies and advances started to rise, the traditions and values of the time still seemed a bit stuck in the mud, so to speak.

It was no secret that society as a whole viewed sex out of wedlock as one of the worst crimes one could commit, not shown by physical punishment in these new times, but rather a shameful mark one would wear on their soul, like a scarlet letter seared there for eternity. The rapidly changing tides of society allowed for some leeway with these rather old-fashioned views, first and foremost for the benefit and comfort of men, claiming their sexually promiscuous prizes at brothels that dotted nearly every street corner of New York. On those long, sweltering summer nights, rich men would find the company of poor women, indulging in their animalistic instincts like bold lions stalking prey, the women of the night their antelopes galavanting for their eager, hungry eyes, only existing to be devoured and consumed. Those wealthy elites could not be harmed here, their reputations and wallets proceeding them as they would go about their business, traumatizing and terrorizing the poor street urchins who were simply victims of circumstance, all for their own sick, immoral pleasures and amusement. They were like Zeus, self-thought gods of men living in an intricate delusion where they were rightfully taking what was theirs, and the citizens from all sides simply found it easier if they turned a blind eye to the horrific reality they lived alongside.

Tonight, however, in the summer of 1897, the reign of those gods would come to a temporary end.

When the sun rose over the moneyed streets of New York’s Upper East Side the next morning, the wealthy elites of the neighborhood awoke to a blood-curdling scream outside their windows. A man, dressed in his finest evening suit, haphazardly thrown into a bushel of azaleas after being rather brutally murdered, was found by the unfortunate gardener of the estate. The police arrived within minutes of the panicked gardener's calling as soon as the familiar address rang in their ears, of course being bound by their questionable loyalties to the wealthy, though minutes after were swiftly followed by a fast-galloping, slightly more civilian carriage. It raced and winded with bare minimum precision around the winding street corners as it made its way towards the crime scene, a familiar young boy seated as its driver, with an eager, daring, fresh-faced accomplice as its passenger.

That measly fist-sized muscle that most would call a heart now pounded within your chest, nearly battering against your sternum and rattling your ribs as you approached the scene with incredible speed, thanks in part to Stevie’s expert driving. This was your first outing as a representative of your dear mentor, the infamous Doctor Kreizler, an outing where he trusted you to go in blindly and completely on your own. He had decided to send you in his place as a simple yet profound test, leaving himself at his own estate so he could call upon the aid of his personal investigative team, most whom you were unfamiliar with except for Mr. John Moore of the New York Times. This was your chance to truly prove yourself to Kreizler, to show him you were ready for the intensities that entailed his everyday career as an alienist (details that Mr. Moore affectionately insisted might be too horrific to discuss in your presence), and you weren’t about to allow this chance to slip through your fingers like fickle grains of sand.

You didn’t dare wait for Stevie to stop the horses, leaping out of the carriage and bolting towards the scene with rather foolish bravery as your boots slammed onto the cobble below. With what felt like pure adrenaline racing in your veins, your kinetic force carried you forward towards the crowd as if you were propelled by the very air around you, the surrounding spectator’s attention now nearly fully captured by your entrance. Still blinking the sleep from your eyes and wrapped securely in your thick morning robe, you hoarsely excused yourself and your manners as you pushed through the bewildered onlookers, managing to break through a decent amount before being halted by an equally baffled officer.

“Ma’am, are you hysterical?!” The man in blue scolded in a thick Irish accent. “You can’t just come boltin’ through a crime scene like you’re runnin’ away from the chapel on your weddin’ day!”

Taking a few heaving breaths to pull back your composure, admittedly gritting your teeth at the man’s swiftness to denote you as hysterical, you brushed off any minor specks of dirt from your initial landing off your surprisingly modest ensemble. “Sir, I’m here on official business on behalf of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler. I suggest you let me through before they take the body away to the coroner.”

Several officers nearby groaned audibly, the man in front of you rolling his eyes. “Oh really? You work for that no good alienist?”

“I do, yes.” You answered promptly. “I can even provide proof if needed at a later time, I’m sure someone is dropping off my notice at the station as we speak, but I need to get through, officer.”

“Ma’am, I’m not about to let some crazed woman, who just launched ‘erself out ‘er own carriage, mind you, to step onto an official crime scene - that is, unless you feel particularly inclined to leave in cuffs.” The officer leaned forward with a crooked yellow smile. “Wouldn’t want to hurt those dainty little wrists of yours, eh?”

“Now now, officer, I’d take the lady’s word here. No need for a further ruckus in front of these fine citizens.”

Both you and the officer’s heads swiveled to the husky call from just beyond your sight, surprised to find the grumpy old face of one of the men you’d been warned about by Kreizler himself - ex-commissioner Thomas Byrnes, overbearing swagger and all, pointing the tip of his polished wooden pipe towards you.

“I believe the young woman is telling the truth,” He paused to take a puff from his tobacco, a smug smile blooming on his lips as smoke billowed out of his nostrils and over his groomed mustache. “Of course a woman so insane would be working under Kreizler - it’s merely common sense.”

You merely huffed, pushing past the difficult officer and walking onto the scene, the anxious muttering of elites drowning itself out as busy background noise as you approached. “I assume you’re Mr. Byrnes.”

“Ah, so the good doctor has spoken of me?”

“Only in warning, as has Mr. John Moore of the Times.” You noted, hesitating before remembering to offer your hand in greeting. You gave him your name and appropriate title of aspiring alienist, which he rolled off his tongue as if he were trying to grasp the concept of your very existence before him, just as he grasped and shook your hand.

Byrnes merely chuckled, tipping the brim of his bowler cap to you. “As they would. It seems I’m not as popular with those two as it seemed, but you know what they say-

“Any publicity is good publicity.” You stated, making your way over to the azalea bushes before stopping yourself, feeling the piercing gaze of the other officers nearby locked on you. Your eager investigative determination seemed to settle like a small pebble in your throat, swallowing it down and feeling it hit your stomach as reality suddenly washed over you. This was a dead body, after all. You weren’t stupid to the fact that everyone had their time and place; being an apprentice to Laszlo had taught you that much in his winding evening soliloquies whenever he rarely had too much to drink. It was the circumstances of the body that you were worried about, the word murder spelled in blood-red letters across your consciousness.

Hearing a few snickers arise from the crowd of officers around you, seeming to notice your hesitant fear, you let out a deep breath, continuing your march until you could finally see beyond the azaleas.

“Careful men! Don’t want this young lady’s breakfast all over your uniforms.” The officer from before called out, and you hated how he was nearly right.

You were lucky you didn’t have any faithful semblance of a meal in your gut, just a quick swig of hot coffee and a bare piece of bread you’d managed to swipe on the way out, scarfing it down in the carriage just before you made your daring entrance. You were normally not one to shy away or be squeamish in the discussion of anatomy or criminal acts, only getting the occasional shiver if something so deeply shocked you - but this? This was no longer some petty academic discussion, some horror story sitting on a library shelf, not even yet a shocking article in the morning paper. No, this was real, almost sickeningly so.

You stepped back slightly as the officers lifted the body from behind the bushes, a crowd of rich and horrified onlookers watching with fearful eyes as they took in the very same, very real sight. A few women from the crowd screamed, some even fainted, but you stood there in your rather neutral, yet still shocked state.

The man was still put together, his limbs and torso still intact. You almost wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, having heard of much worse from both Kreizler and Moore, but you held your breath as more details met your observant gaze. The man’s eyes were gouged out - no, that would’ve entailed an intentional removal - this man’s eyes were practically shredded to pieces. Mushy, miasma-filled holes sloshed around in their place as the officers raised him over the small iron-gated fence protecting the patch of blood-stained greenery, and laid him on the ground. It was just then that the smell hit your nostrils, causing you to cough and take a few steps back, but still maintain your composure. Of course, the slashed portions of the poor man were already rotting, most likely making a lovely soup for whatever flea-infested street creature soared down from the sky, or erupted from the sewers. Unfortunately, you found the man’s eyes weren’t the only part fallen victim to this particular murderer’s work. As your eyes fell to the second sight of slashing that had been committed, an unfortunate yet familiar acidity raised in your throat, your mouth salivating in preparation for a terrible retch. You did your best to swallow back the bile but admittedly found yourself having to avert your gaze. The man’s fly was open, revealing his utterly destroyed and mangled genitals. The way they were so violently torn apart, without the context one could have easily mistaken it for some scrap out of a butcher's shop.

“…Can you open his mouth please?”

You were surprised to hear your own voice emerge from your throat, thankful that it wasn’t the possible wave of vomit you surely thought would fly out. The officers surrounding you perked up, but none stepped forward to take on the task. If anything they seemed to be too busy cringing at the sight, suddenly being very mindful about the crotch of their own pants.

You sighed, walking over to the corpse and taking a pen out of one of the pockets of your robe.

“Doing the coroner's work now, are we?” Byrnes teased from afar.

“Will you shut up commissioner- oh, pardon my language,” You cleared your throat without even throwing a glance his way, “Ex-commissioner, isn’t that right?”

A few small chuckles emerged from some nearby officers who heard your remark, though they were quickly silenced by Byrnes harsh scowl behind you. You on the other hand were far from bothered, kneeling next to the pale corpse now as you took a closer look at its face. You found that if you blocked out the smell and the sight of his chopped-up penis, it was fairly easy to take a more analytical look at a freshly-murdered man.

Slowly, you took your pen, just pressing the cap to the closed lips of the body before another shout stopped you.

“What are you hoping to accomplish there anyways?!” Byrnes questioned with a hint of venom in his tone.

“I’m trying to see if the victim still has a tongue, sir, or teeth for that matter. Anything that I can take note of for Doctor Kreizler.”

That seemed to answer his question, the crowd of officers and bystanders growing silent as your pen slowly parted the corpse’s lips. Pressing down on the bottom lip quite firmly, careful not to break anything due to the rigor mortis setting in, you peered into the victim’s mouth.

“Everything’s here.” You noted, deciding to graciously answer the question that was surely on the minds of your anxiously awaiting audience. “There’s just a gold molar in the very back, but I think it’s rather safe to doubt our murderer was a dentist.”

You rose from your crouched position, taking out a handkerchief from your other pocket to uncap your pen, along with a small notebook for you to scribble down notes of your findings. Byrnes watched with curious eyes, making his way over and peering over your shoulder. He saw your handwriting was not the poised cursive he would have expected from a woman, but rather a scrawled-out mess that could barely be read. He almost laughed, wondering if those notes would be of any real use to the Doctor with a dirty grin.

“Ma’am, I’m sure if you feel so inclined to take notes on a corpse, those foolish boys that call themselves detectives Kreizler works with can better provide you with more substantial material.” The ex-commissioner noted bitterly, nodding towards his men as they prepared to move the body into a carriage nearby.

The crowd of onlookers from the surrounding wealthy homes had only slightly diminished at this point, a disgusted groan resounding from the collective as the corpse was lifted from its resting spot on the cold, blood-stained cobble below. Unfortunately, one of the officers of the two that were carrying the corpse had turned it slightly, a substantial amount of blood and collected grime oozing from the eye sockets and onto his uniform. The poor officer looked at the dripping biohazard that coated his sleeve in alarm, nearly dropping the body but catching it swiftly. Your eyes lifted from your notes as you prayed the body would get to the coroners in one piece, but they also caught a glimpse of something falling from the victim’s waistcoat. Dropping to the cobble below, almost as daintily as a feather from a passing dove overhead, was a beautiful, bright purple iris, perfectly preserved as if it had been picked just seconds before the man’s demise. Were it not for the horrific circumstances of this man’s murdered body, one might have mistaken it for a cheap magic trick, some secret wooing this man had yet to attend to before he was so brutally murdered.

“WAIT!” You called out to the men in front of you, rushing forward before they even had a chance to trample the flower in their path. You took the handkerchief in your hand, reaching down gently to pluck it from the ground. Upon closer inspection the flower’s vibrant purple hue was slightly faded, though still excellently vibrant nonetheless, looking almost as if it was pressed for a professional botanist’s collection.

One of the officers seemed to finally notice what had occurred just mere inches in front of him, starting to speak up. “Ma’am, I highly suggest you don’t-”

“I’m not going to take it.” You huffed towards the accusatory officer. “Just give me a few more moments sir.”

You looked over the stem and the petals, careful not to tarnish it as you were scanning for any other possible clues, mentally noting them before lifting the coat of the corpse and placing the flower gently back inside the silken inner pocket. As much as you wanted to take it, you knew that it was now considered official police evidence, and there was little you could do this early in the investigation. You still had yet to meet the two detectives Mr. Byrnes spoke of, but you were sure you would make their acquaintance soon enough with a serious and disturbing murder such as this.

Nodding towards the officers you dismissed yourself from the scene, the crowd of rich onlookers parting like the Red Sea as your eyes found Stevie, who had parked the carriage on a nearby street corner while awaiting your return.

“Do give Doctor Kreizler my best, young lady." Byrnes called after you.

“I don’t believe I will sir,” You answered rather plainly, looking back towards the ex-commissioner with a wry smile, “I assure you that he would only send his worst.”

Leaving Brynes to be baffled by your sarcastic frankness, you made your way back to the carriage, nodding to Stevie before hopping inside. You made sure to sit upright with your best posture as the carriage began its departure, the wide eyes of onlookers following you until you turned the street corner. Once the crime scene was out of view, you were quick to collapse against the padded seat beneath you, letting out a long sigh as you ran your hands over your face. The scarring image of that rich man’s corpse flashed behind your eyes as you kept away the drowsiness starting to overtake you, knowing that all of New York City would know of the heinous crime committed today before noon, perhaps even within the hour. The very world was shifting beneath you in your carriage, both in a literal and metaphorical sense, as you sat up to look over your own sloppily written notes. You began to prepare a mental report of key details to present to Kreizler, your body aching as it predicted the long, arduous day ahead of you.

When thinking over the relationship of a master and their apprentice, some might believe the two must be absolutely inseparable by nature. The apprentice should always linger in the master’s shadow, eagerly awaiting with open eyes and ears for the wisdom of their newly learned trade, like a panther skulking in the shade. The master simply acknowledges the apprentice, allowing them to step into the limelight of their mastery and watch them with a careful eye, like a wise old owl, passing on the knowledge they so carefully collected through their own master before them. For some trades, this methodology was easier to follow than others, like blacksmithing or embroidery, but the world of psychology posed a unique disposition for yourself and your teacher, the infamous Doctor Kreizler.

Laszlo had only worried about you as he was busy tending to his various court trials and murder cases, all meanwhile you worked ceaselessly on his continuing research at the Institute. He would often find you curled up by the fireplace upon his return from the hunt of blood-lusted killers, open texts from Plato to Freud laid strewn about your feet. His eyes would dote on your exhausted form as you would bring yourself to the table for breakfast the next morning, tired eyes contradicted by a warm, loving smile, and an eagerness to consume all knowledge available to you. Just as there was no hiding your insatiable appetite for learning, there was no hiding Laszlo’s affections for you as his pupil, and it seemed that all but you could read the expressions so clearly on Laszlo’s face.

Some breakfasts would entail the lovely John Moore to join your company, where he would find himself awkwardly sipping on his morning tea as he noted the near paternal gaze Laszlo had fixed upon you. However, if he even tried to question his dear friend on those looks and feelings bubbling just below the surface, he was met with Laszlo’s more familiar stubborn fashion of reply, muttering something about how it was simply a platonic cause and nothing more. Upon finding such an unbeknownst affection, John simply had to pounce on the persuasive opportunity, for it was his sworn duty as a reporter, a romantic, and most importantly, a dear friend of the one and only Doctor Kreizler, to find a way to have his feelings no longer be oppressed by such backhanded societal stereotypes. After seemingly months of secretive unknown pining, and weeks of careful persuasion, Mr. Moore had now finally convinced that old hermit of an alienist to take his beloved assistant out for a night on the town.

Of course, Laszlo was nervous. Scared out of his wits even. His anxieties about the evening only grew exponentially after donning his formal tux, descending down the stairs only to freeze in place at the sight of you, like some tragic Greek hero caught in Medusa’s gaze. You looked stunning in your evening gown, something Laszlo had never even remotely seen you in due to your common preference for trousers and more simple, functional garments. The way the sleeves rested daintily at the edge of your shoulders, revealing your beautiful collarbone and gorgeous neck in his full view, adorned in precious pearls - why, the man was more red in the face than a child caught stealing from a candy store.

The carriage ride to the opera house, thankfully, seemed to ease his tensions somewhat, his shoulders relaxing as he sat across from you while he kept his cane in place. Small talk came easier to you than him, so you did enough talking for the both of you - informing him about your continuation of his work, the new flood of exciting ideas for your next novel, and chatting away about the precious children you had now come to love in your time at the Institute. It made him smile, to see you thrive in such well suited glory, going on and on about your passions and work like a man possessed. When you started asking questions, he was happy to oblige and offer his input, even chuckling at the sight of you pulling out a small notebook you kept to jot down notes for later. In a surprisingly bold move on his part, Laszlo leaned forward to place his hand atop your own, prompting you to tuck away your notes in a rather bashful fashion, a light blush now rising to your cheeks. This evening was a night meant to get away from your work, just as Laszlo hoped to escape from his own, and enjoy the so-called inseparable company of your lovely and darling teacher.

The opera you were attending was actually one of your choosing, as you had caught an ad for the show in the morning paper a few weeks prior (thanks to a clever placement on behalf of Mr. Moore) - Mozart’s The Magic Flute, or Die Zauberflöte in German. It excited you so, as you had recently decided to take up German as an intellectual hobby, to be able to understand the title in the paper. Laszlo, as a native speaker himself, had picked up on your lessons as well, helping you carry out light conversational German at the dinner table, and offering his aid in translation when you needed it. He even had the nerve to quiz you in the days leading up to the opera, with him knowing the songs and dialogue well enough to train you for the language and phrases you would hear this evening.

However, no amount of his teachings and taunts could warm his heart more than the enraptured expression he saw on your face throughout the entire opera. It was a nice change of pace to counter John’s insistent snoring, with you leaning towards Laszlo once or twice during the show to channel your excitement into a mousy whisper. It was just simple small talk, checking in to make sure you had heard the opera singer’s boastful lyrics correctly, only for Laszlo to curtly nod or correct your translation. He was thankful the darkened opera house hid his blush as you would straighten up in your seat, nearly perched over the edge with your opera glasses gripped tightly in your hand. As he witnessed your excitement bloom towards the end of the first act, his nerves from the beginning of the evening seemed to finally subside. He was just happy to see you in your element, away from harm and the stresses of his line of work. He could feel the weight lift from his shoulders as the audience erupted in applause at the curtain’s fall, feeling your pure joy radiate off you as he joined in the uproar from the comfort of his seat.

Once intermission struck, Laszlo was suddenly jerked outside the viewing booth, with you clasping his hands in yours and babbling in a frenzied mix of broken German and fluent English in raw, unfiltered excitement. After an extensive chat of psychological character dynamics in the show thus far, as well as a complimentary glass of champagne or two, the orchestra began to reawaken in its pit for the second act, prompting you to nearly drag your dear teacher along in your haste back to your seats. At this point, Laszlo could barely focus on the show anymore, absolutely dumbfounded as his heart and mind now raced with only thoughts of you through the remainder of the opera.

As you emerged from the opera house, a chilled air bristled past the two of you, with you finding yourself rather sheepishly unprepared for the colder weather this evening. Laszlo was quick to offer his cloak to you, as a gentleman like him would, insisting that his ensemble would be just as warm without it as he draped it delicately over your shoulders. You awarded Laszlo’s kindness with your radiant smile, tugging at the arm of his suit jacket as you led him back to the carriage.

Upon arrival at Delmonico’s for dinner afterwards, you and Laszlo quickly got lost in fine wine and conversation, the chatter surrounding you in the post-opera crowd and soft tunes of the orchestral band only feeding into your stimulating dialogue. You spoke in a slurred mix of half-assed German and English once more, mostly of psychological theories and the opera, with a light touch of indulgent gossip here and there. Though gossip wasn’t the only thing you two indulged in either, both teacher and pupil bursting with laughter as you and Laszlo downed several more glasses of wine throughout the evening, long after your stomachs had filled themselves with your dinner courses and lavish desserts.

Donning his cloak once more to brace against the cold, you suddenly found yourself unprepared as you unexpectedly tripped over the curb while making your way to the carriage, Laszlo swift (even in his slightly buzzed state) to capture you in the embrace of his good arm. Holding you sternly by your waist, your eyes were practically forced to meet, his honeyed irises staring back with just a hint of love as his already flushed face nearly burst into flames before you. Laszlo was struck with a sudden desire - no, a need - to kiss you, to simply place his lips onto yours and still taste the hint of pleasant wine and enticing dessert on your tongue. He nearly would have if he was drunk enough, but the sober remainder of his consciousness snapped him upright, carefully releasing you as he simply offered you his arm in condolence. Hooking your arm through his own, you carefully made your way back to the carriage, grinning like an idiot as your eyes were glued to the cobble below you.

Practically waltzing through the door held open before you into Kreizler’s grand estate, a wide smile adorned your face unlike any other he’d seen before. Laszlo let out a small chuckle, gently guiding you to the couch where you plopped down, resting against its arm with a dreamy sigh. Your heart was warm and bubbly with romance and white wine, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you let out a small giggle.

“I take it that you enjoyed this evening?” Laszlo inquired, a sly smile adorning his lovely bearded complexion.

You nodded gleefully, though your eyes were drawn to the fireplace crackling just nearby, working against the cold draft trying to seep in from outside.

“You know Laszlo...everyday I work as your apprentice, I feel as though there are less and less differences that truly lie between us.” You noted, smiling while leaning back on the couch you now shared with your mentor, who was intrigued by your sudden sincere change of tone. “You wear your elegant emerald shades and eggshell whites, I have my fondness for sapphire gowns and strings of pearls - it almost seems that we are truly complimentary of each other, Doctor Kreizler.”

Laszlo chuckled, though couldn’t hide his subtle blush as he remembered the very gown you were wearing this evening, brushing the image of your accessorized pearls against your exposed collar bone aside as he responded. “As pleasant as that sounds, it does also seem we’re quite different as well.”

“I suppose so,” You indulged, “Aside from the more obvious ways such as biological sex and general life experience. You and I are both situationally extroverted, though we seem to shine brightly in different scenarios. We both adore the opera, though I prefer the comedies, and you the tragedies. Much Ado to Hamlet, bubbly champagne to red cabernet, Inferno to Paradiso.”

Laszlo nodded. “You do have quite the passion for Dante, but I would expect nothing less of a writer such as yourself.”

“Inferno is simply more straightforward, and speaks of deeper themes than that of the other parts of his Divine Comedy.” You argued, though your face perked up with a mischievous grin. “Have I told you that because of Inferno, I’m driven to write by sin?”

Laszlo’s brow furrowed in curious confusion. “I don’t believe so, no, though it has been a while since I’ve delved back into Dante’s work.”

You smiled giddily, seeming eager to explain yourself. “There’s a particular canto I adore, when Dante is visiting the realm of the sodomites. Among those destined to run through blistering rain and hot, flaming sands for eternity, he meets one of his old teachers. They speak of writings and his teachings to Dante, but more importantly, there’s a mention of how writing is a form of immortality. The closest way we can get to reaching it outside of myths and fairytales. You see, while not in physical form, one would never proclaim the iconic name of Dante is unknown, practically burned into our consciousness as a literary society. Of course, I write for my own pleasure - to tell the stories I love to read, the ones that I want to see flourish in our world - and yet, there is some sick part of me still seeking that odd, powerful draw of immortality.” Your features softened, fidgeting with a small bow on the waist of your embellished dress. “My books may sit on people’s shelves long after I pass, the pages worn with age. Cracked spines and faded titles after being read cover to cover for centuries - perhaps I’m fated to run in those same sands, but who are we to know fate beyond our bounds of life.”

Laszlo nodded in agreement, taking in your intellectually stimulating dialect like a fine wine. “I suppose all pursuits of man somehow lead to immortality then, in that sense. The same could be said for my institute’s research, or for a starving artist’s paintings. All in pursuit of something greater - I admit, it is a rather kind outlook on life compared to others I’ve heard in my line of work.”

“Well, isn’t it the very nature of alienists to be kind? Or writers for that matter - we’re both people who want to pursue all walks of life if we can purely to understand them, even the most unruly and disturbing of them all. We’re all human, and as humans, we all reach for that childish dream of living eternally somehow.” You acknowledged, though not giving Laszlo even a beat to respond as you continued your line of thought.

“Different strains of immortality may also exist;” You theorized, “A more classic immortal pursuit might be that of fame or fortune, anything that involves the pure drive of only glory and remembrance, but I believe I may be after purely one of passion, my dear doctor.”

“And...what sort of passion would that be?” Laszlo inquired, shifting nervously in his seat, though making it look as if it were for comfort sake.

A slow building silence filled the air, starting to chew your bottom lip out of habit. “I’m not quite sure. A passion for writing seems obvious - a desire to inspire and enamor others for all eternity, but...romantic passion would be a dream. One always seems to remember their true love, leaving a lasting imprint on their soul for their entire lives. It affects people so truly, so deeply, that it thus impacts all other thoughts and actions in their lives, which subsequently moves to affect others affected by them. The lover lives on, the ache of desire echoing through a millennia of action, good or bad - or otherwise.”

Laszlo chuckled. “You do truly speak to your craft, I admire that much. Truly the views of a writer, or even a poet perhaps - though it seems to ring most true for a future alienist, at that.

A joyful laugh rose from your throat, a welcome song to Laszlo’s ears. “I almost fear I have to apologize - wine does tend to make me ramble. Perhaps you let me indulge too much at Delmonico’s.”

“Then perhaps I now know the perfect amount to now hear your great soliloquies, if I so desire.” Laszlo teased, raising another wondrous laugh from his beloved assistant.

“You truly are as sweet as the wine that met my lips this evening, my dearest doctor.”

“As you are always a delight.” Laszlo curtly imparted, deciding to rise from his seat. “Though now, I believe I must retire for the evening, and though I'm simply your mentor, I’d implore you to do the same.”

You sighed, collapsing dramatically against the sofa and draping your arm across your forehead. “Alas, my dear doctor, I feel so close to fainting, my life is coming in flashes! You must stay a bit longer, and hold tightly to my every word.”

Laszlo allowed himself a smile, keeping his decision steadfast before he could let himself indulge in his beautiful company any longer. “I’m sure then you can wait until morning - nothing is more fatal than a flare for the dramatic.”

You smiled, staring up at your mentor for almost a moment too long, before latching onto his wrist to stop him. “...Thank you Laszlo, for tonight.” You admitted sheepishly. “It was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time, and I do hope we can do it again soon…”

Laszlo blushed, his eyes darting between you and your grip on his hand. He soon felt his cheeks heat up with that all too familiar warmth that had followed him throughout the evening. He smiled, leaning down carefully to bring your knuckles to his lips, a whisper of a kiss left in his wake. “You speak of immortality, and the formation of one’s legacy…” He let out a soft chuckle as he set your hand back down, “I do hope that means that this evening has cemented its own immortality within your memories, my dear.”

Your eyes lingered on his dark honey gaze before he finally walked away, truly leaving you for the night it seemed. “Good night, Laszlo.” You called after him quietly, your eyes now slowly fixating back onto the crackling fireplace. “I hope your wine banishes the thoughts of Dante’s hell from your dreams.”

Laszlo halted in his step, just under the entryway to the lounge, hesitating. Deciding to bite his tongue, he dismissed himself with a curt and polite nod. He guided his body towards the stairs, hiking himself up each step, the wood creaking beneath him as his true response still itched in the back of his throat.

Laszlo Kreizler was many things for a man of his time, many more than the average suit and top hat that you would find waltzing through the streets outside his home. He was stern, of course, and very blunt with his words, unrelenting in both his honest opinions and observations as an alienist should be. He was highly intelligent and smart as a whip, not hesitating to crackle the air around him with comebacks for the foolish who dare challenge his all-knowing wisdom. He was a charity man, a feminist, a well-read and understanding man who actively sought to learn as much about any and all walks of life he could. Above all else, however, he was patient. Patient to the point of near undying loyalty in some cases - one case finding itself to be that of his old college friend, Mr. John Schulyer Moore.

John was always the first he would call, as he was also typically the last to arrive, which is why he’d made sure to ring him with the highest priority when calling upon the aid of his usual suspects. Laszlo could tell he was half awake, slurring with a hoarse voice into the telephone as the yapping of his grandmother went on behind him, easing Laszlo into a soft chuckle. He simply advised John to make his way to the Institute as early as possible, swiftly hanging up the phone after he put in his request, relying rather fairly on the faith he had in his colleague. After all, someone had to keep that clever, yet admittedly somewhat daft writer on his toes. He then rang the ever-reliable Sara Howard next, who was incredibly well informed of the crime despite the short passage of time since its supposed occurrence, details gossiped about through the hustle of her fellow coworkers in her brand new detective agency. He informed her of the same invitation, where she offered a counterpoint of a late breakfast as payment for her consultation. Laszlo agreed, knowing well enough a late breakfast would also be a suitable reward for Mr. Moore upon his barely tardy arrival, making sure to put in the request with Cyrus before making his next and final call - the Issacon brothers. Lucius was the one to pick up the phone, eagerly perking up at Laszlo’s recognizable speech, only for the phone to be snatched by his more charismatic twin brother, Marcus. After a brief squabble over who would speak to the good doctor, Lucius came out on top, apologizing for his brother’s erratic behavior due to the recent fall out with his lover, that dear Esther girl Laszlo would catch some candor about while dining at Delmonico’s with them. He sent his condolences, though dismissed the entire talking point rather swiftly as he made his intentions for requiring their services clear. Lucius promptly promised a specific time that they would arrive at the institute, Laszlo knowing well they’d keep to their obligations, and hung up the house phone with a satisfying click.

Almost as if on queue, Laszlo heard the back door from the kitchen swing open, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent house, along with a familiar sigh gracing his ears as lighter footsteps faded into a room nearby. He chuckled to himself, entertaining a smile before walking towards the back and down the stairs to investigate.

“Glad to hear you return so soon.” Laszlo called out, a small squeak emerging from the bedroom just around the corner. He stopped in the narrow hall, admittedly freezing as he caught himself remembering who the room formerly belonged to. A small ache of sadness rang in his chest, though he quickly attempted to brush the thoughts of his lost love from his mind, instead trying to recall the urgency of the matter at hand.

Hearing your mentor’s voice outside your bedroom certainly startled you, especially since you had almost started the process of changing into more civilian clothes. You sighed when you remembered it was just Laszlo, quickly composing yourself and retying your robe, albeit a bit more loosely in the privacy of his home. You couldn’t help but grin foolishly at his greeting, a light blush tinting your cheeks as you peered outside your doorway to welcome the dear doctor down the hall. “Good morning, Doctor Kreizler. I apologize for not greeting you earlier on my way out.”

You seemed to shake Laszlo from a small, self-induced trance, him offering a quaint smile in return. “It’s quite alright, I assure you. Niceties have no place at the table when such urgent matters are at hand.”

You nodded curtly in understanding. “I promise I’ll be out in the parlor soon, I just need to get changed, if you don’t mind.”

Laszlo’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t change before you left the house?”

“Laszlo, the body would have been completely decomposed by the time I got there had I spent the arduous effort to put on a damn corset,” You let out a small hiss, remembering it was your mentor you were speaking to, “Sorry, pardon my language, I’ve just- it’s been a rather interesting morning.”

Laszlo chuckled in agreement, standing with his back against the wall once he saw you slip back into your room to change. His face softened at your disappearance, seeming to take what you said into consideration for his other worries surrounding you. “I apologize if this morning was too much for you to handle,” Laszlo confessed, “I just hope it wasn’t too early in your apprenticeship to throw you into something as gruesome as this, but the matter needed to be investigated.”

Laszlo couldn’t see the kind smile that bloomed on your face as you slid out of your robe, placing it on the bed gently before opening your dresser. “I appreciate the concern, Doctor, but I assure you I was quite alright throughout the whole ordeal. I’ve been your assistant for months now and have lived in New York even longer, so I’ve certainly seen the worst this city has to offer. The only thing that would have made it more tolerable would be if you could eradicate Mr. Byrnes from existence.”

A small chuckle left Laszlo’s lips, fidgeting with the cane in his hand. “As much as I dislike Commissioner Byrnes, I’m afraid he’s a rather persistent man.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in asking.” You teased, though soon fell silent. “Doctor Kreizler?”

“Yes?”

You pressed your lips together in thought as you overlooked the options for outfits neatly folded within your drawers. A few traditional men’s dress shirts resided within, smelling a touch musty from their elongated stay in their wooden chambers, your fingers tracing delicately over the starchy fabric. “Would it be alright, you think, if I dressed...how I normally dress in your presence? I-I assume you already invited your colleagues here, and I just want to make sure I don’t...you know...”

Laszlo was thankfully able to finish the thought for you. “You don’t want to seem...unconventional?”

You nodded, but remembered Laszlo couldn’t see your physical response. “Unconventional would be a nicer way to put it, I suppose.” You jeered.

Laszlo sighed, seeming to mull over the inquiry. “Well, you’re lucky my colleagues are a group of a rather unconventional kind.” He affirmed. “Feel free to dress however you please. I doubt anyone will look upon you unfavorably as my apprentice - but if you feel someone does, you must alert me immediately, understand? I’ll be sure to have it dealt with.”

Your comforted smile bleeds through your answer, almost like the warm sunlight pouring in from the shaded windows in your room. “Yes sir.”

Eagerly grabbing a poet’s blouse from your drawer, along with some well-fitting navy pants from the one below, you threw your notes open atop your dresser to look over as you undressed completely. “Shall I give you a rundown of my findings now then, Doctor Kreizler?”

“A brief summary would be appreciated if you don’t mind,” Laszlo specified, “You can start with the victim.”

You took a deep breath, running through the lines you had prepared in your head on the carriage ride home as you continued to dress. “He was a wealthy man, looking to be in his late 40s to early 50s, dressed in his finest evening attire as if he were going out for a night on the proper side of town. He had a gold molar in the back of his mouth, and judging from how easy I was able to open it and see inside, I’d say he’d only been dead for a few hours at that point.”

Laszlo hesitated to reply to your summary. “And what was his name?”

You froze, your fingers halting in their near futile effort to button your pants. Snatching your notes from your dresser, you navigated through the heavy scrawled ink on the pages, searching for anything that could answer Kreizler’s question - him calling your name snaps you back to panicked attention.

“His name, please.”

You swore under your breath.

“It seems...I forgot to ask, Doctor Kreizler.”

Silence.

“You...forgot to ask for the victim’s name?”

You swallowed. “To be honest, sir, uhm...his eyes were gouged out, and all the blood on his face made it hard to tell who he was.”

Hearing Laszlo sigh outside your door filled your heart with a heavy dread, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you finished getting dressed. You let out a small hiss between your teeth, knowing he’d probably be able to see right through your small, admittedly ignorant bluff - how the fuck did you forget to ask for the name of the victim at the scene of the crime?!

“Doctor Kreizler, I-”

“No, no, it’s...it’s quite alright.” Laszlo reassured, not being able to pick up on any true malice or disappointment in his surprisingly neutral tone. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

You heard his familiar footsteps walk away from your door, allowing you to collapse onto your bed, muffling an embarrassed groan into the secrecy of your pillow. Meanwhile, Laszlo had made his way back to the phone, dialing the number for the Issacson twins once more, checking his pocket watch for the time Lucius had mentioned before as he hoped they would pick up on the other end. Thankfully they did, Laszlo informing them that he needed some information in the form of a police report if they were able to get their hands on it, a task which they eagerly agreed to. Along with the name of the victim he made sure to specify that the basics be covered, mostly as a reassurance to himself that might have sounded rather patronizing in hindsight to the detective sergeants fetching said information.

After letting out your clear embarrassment, you caught a glimpse of yourself in your mirror on the wall before reaching for some gauze you kept in a small drawer nearby. You fiddled with it in your hands, feeling the soft texture of the tape on your fingertips as your chest hung heavy and bare. You let out a sigh before lying back slightly, allowing the weight of your breasts to adjust as you began to wrap the tape around them. You found it was easier to wear men’s clothes this way, since wearing a corset underneath the whole ensemble not only was a huge hassle in its own right, but also gave way to your more womanly features, a harsh antithesis to the whole point of such an appearance. It wasn’t that you had a problem with your own femininity; the small collection of dresses hanging in the closet nestled in the wall proving that you indulged in it from time to time, but while in Kreizler’s company he’d been more than happy to let you express yourself more freely in his presence. You had always privately wondered about the ease of men’s clothing; the secret luxury they carried in their never-ending pockets, in their pants and shirts they could easily slip in and out of with ease compared to more womanly garments, in the somehow not suffocating yet still incredibly elegant suits they would dress in for fancy occasions. While under Laszlo your comforting fashion had allowed you to truly blossom, you had yet to grow bold enough to wear any sort of masculine ensemble outside, your house robe and nightgown this morning coming the closest, though you assuredly were in no rush to present yourself so openly to the public. It was one thing to aid others as an alienist in helping bring to light their cast aside tendencies and desires - it was entirely different to confront that same muffled subconscious for yourself.

Sucking in a breath, you wound the last of the tape tightly around your torso, tucking it into its winding folds to secure it in place. It wasn’t completely flat - it would be foolish for you to hope for such desirable results with the size of your chest - but it was enough to get through the day and get the job done. A secret aid to the illusion you cast upon yourself like a witch out of a fairy tale, a glamour you thought suited yourself quite nicely. While Laszlo knew of your masculine dressing tendencies, he did not know of your binding, but you assumed it would be better for him to have quietly observed it and not said anything at all. It would be odd for a man to note a difference in the size of a woman’s chest and ask her about it in an upfront matter. Just thinking of that sort of encounter with Kreizler made you blush, admittedly for all the right and wrong reasons.

After one last inspection in the mirror, fixing the collar of your poet’s blouse and tucking it into your pants, you flashed yourself a smile before snatching your notebook from your dresser, making your way outside to finish the summary of your report with Doctor Kreizler. He was expectantly standing in the parlor, seeming to peek outside in waiting for his guests to arrive within the hour.

“Shall I finish my findings with you, Doctor Kreizler?”

Laszlo’s attention was pulled back by your voice, turning his honeyed eyes towards you, taking in your ensemble. You did your best to hide that small hint of leftover embarrassment from before as a new kind suddenly flourished in your chest. You hated to admit it, but as much as Kreizler was smart, he was devilishly handsome too, even if he wasn’t one to see or admit such a thing. You would be lying if his looks hadn’t played at least some small part in choosing him as your mentor, equating your feelings to a simple schoolyard crush and nothing more. With Kreizler being near twice your age, you knew it would be incredibly likely that your feelings would not be reciprocated if you chose to share them so openly. You almost worried that with Laszlo’s high intelligence he’d already been able to sleuth out your affections, but luckily for you, in the words of Mr. Moore, Laszlo wasn’t quite as in tune with raw emotion as he was with pure intellect.

Laszlo smiled, as if to say you looked lovely without uttering a single word. “You may, unless you wish to aid Cyrus in the kitchen.”

“Oh, I wish I could Laszlo, but I have a funny feeling that I’d set your lovely home ablaze if I even tried to crack an egg.” You joked with a smile, opening your notebook as you began to look through your writings once more. You were able to wring a small chuckle out of your mentor, sending your heart fluttering in juxtaposition to the grizzly details you were about to recount for him.

Once you had finished summarizing your main findings, leaving out a few select details in order to share them in the company of his colleagues, you ended up deciding to help Cyrus in the kitchen, mainly with tasks that didn’t involve the hot ignited stove. You also aided in setting the table, catching the occasional glance from Laszlo on the parlor couch, reading a paper he’d coined off a young newsboy parading outside just moments ago. Upon hearing a rather loud knock at the door, your first instinct kicked in to flee back to the kitchen, not wanting to disturb Laszlo or his guests - that is, until he called your name as he rose from his seat, casting his paper aside on the cushions.

“Stay, please.” He kindly requested, taking a glance at his pocket watch. “I assume that must be the Issacons. I’m sure they would enjoy your company more overall than my own.”

“But Doctor Kreizler, shouldn’t I finish-”

“Cyrus and Stevie can take care of the rest.” Laszlo reassured. “As unfortunate as it is, an alienist should also be sociable, eager to make conversation. If one can’t even do that in their everyday life, then how would one expect to make progress with a client if you seldom speak?”

You nodded in nervous agreement, taking in his sage wisdom as you brushed yourself off. “Shall I answer the door then?”

“No, allow me - simply wait here please.”

You obeyed Laszlo’s kind-hearted command, tapping your fingers anxiously against the wood of one of the chairs in front of you as you awaited the guests' arrival. You only knew the Issacsons by reputation rather than by name, famous detective sergeants working under Kreizler who employed revolutionary new sciences in their excellent forensic work. You also knew they were fraternal twin brothers, from what Laszlo had explained, and tended to get along as well as siblings typically do. While you initially smiled at the thought, you hoped that working with them would entail their small family squabbles rather minimally.

A burst of chatter from the room just beyond you set you upright, stiffening your posture like a scared cat as you heard two additional sets of footsteps resound through the parlor. You let out a deep breath, putting on your best smile as you made your way over to the next room to greet them.

You don’t know what you would have expected from the Isaacsons as far as appearances, but even knowing they were fraternal twins the fact didn’t quite fully register due to their starkly different faces. One of them was a slim, rather stick-like young man, with curly brown hair and an admittedly charming face. He was suited in a lovely shade of grey, allowing the color of his hazel eyes to take the forefront of his presentation. He was more open, more personable in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His smile was sure to dazzle young women at parties, looking like someone you could talk to for hours just about the weather.

The second Issacon’s face was more round, more fitting to his shorter stature comparatively (but not by much), with a somehow warmer and kinder complexion complemented by his beard and darker hair. With the circular glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, complimentary of his shining blue eyes, you almost wanted to chuckle at how many similar features he had to your dear mentor, despite looking completely different. The simple bow tie he wore with his brown suit only complimented his teddy bear-like appearance.

The two men chatted eagerly with Doctor Kreizler, though they fell silent as their eyes found you, a stranger in a space they were more than familiar with - a glance that illustrated you were in their territory now. The twins simply stared at you for a moment, as if to make sense of your appearance as well as your very being. Thankfully, Laszlo was there to fill the growing awkward silence.

“Marcus, Lucius, this is my newest apprentice.” Laszlo introduced with a polite nod, gesturing in front of you to allow your exchange of greetings. You introduced yourself by name, shaking their hands as they offered their own, though their eyes ran wild with curious confusion.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you...ma’am.” Marcus hesitantly answered, not out of rudeness, of course, but just as a result of your perplexing appearance. You knew it was uncommon for women of the time to dress as you did before them, and had expected this sort of reaction in preparation for their arrival.

“As it’s a pleasure to finally meet you - the both of you, that is.” You responded casually with a smile, seeming to dismiss their awkwardness with lighthearted ease. “I’ve heard much from Doctor Kreizler about your work, and I’m eager to hear what you think about this case.”

“Well, we’ll certainly do our best to live up to Doctor Kreizler’s expectations.” Lucius affirmed with a kind smile.

“And even if we fail to meet them, I’m certainly looking forward to impressing you.” Marcus flirted, raising your brows in surprise at his sudden forwardness.

The awkward feeling setting in your gut was thankfully reassured by Lucius’ swat at his brother’s chest. “Forgive my brother; he’s recently out of a courtship and can be quite the handful as a bachelor.”

“I’m right here you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Lucius retorted against his brother, causing you to laugh and return their attention to you, bashful smiles growing on their faces.

“Gentlemen,” Laszlo abruptly cut in, with what you could swear was a hint of sternness behind his voice. “If you’d please sit at the table, some breakfast should be out soon enough.”

Marcus and Lucius, not one to turn down a free hot meal, tipped their hats towards you. “Will your lovely assistant be joining us for breakfast Doctor Kreizler?” Marcus innocently asked.

“She will, yes, since she went to the scene of the crime this morning.”

The two detectives turned back to face Kreizler, eyes wide with shock, Lucius being the first to open his mouth. “Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, gentlemen.” You cut in with a rather disarming smile, practically beaming at the twin’s shared dumbfoundedness. “I’ll be informing you of further details of the murder today, once the rest of Doctor Kreizler’s company arrives.”

Just then, another series of knocks at the door broke the flow of conversation.

Laszlo nodded. “That must be Miss Howard. If you’ll excuse me.”

Laszlo left the room to greet his newest guest, leaving you alone with the two detectives at the breakfast table. “Can I get you gentlemen anything while you wait?”

“Some coffee would be lovely.” Marcus requested with a smile, tossing a wink your way before reaching for a paper you had set on the table as optional reading material.

Lucius seemed rather off-put by his brother’s casual behavior, his blue eyes sparkling with the thousands of questions buzzing within his mind. He decided to finally start with one as he met your eyes, watching you as you poured Marcus some coffee from a small pot on the table. “You really went to the crime scene this morning?”

“Yes, I did.” You reassured them, though found yourself already tired of having to reiterate your positions so soon. “I would have hoped that it wouldn’t be too difficult of a concept to be grasped by someone like yourself, detective.”

“N-no no!” Lucius floundered, slightly embarrassed as you called out his subconscious rudeness. “That’s not how I meant it, I sincerely apologize if it came out that way. I was simply wondering since I wouldn’t have thought an alienist’s apprenticeship would entail something like this - sounds more like something out of our own training as detective sergeants.”

“Well, I suppose that’s what it entails when it comes to Doctor Kreizler.” You raised it with a shrug. “Though I admit it was my first time investigating a crime scene, all by myself no less.”

This caused Marcus to raise his attention from his paper, his hazel eyes peeking over the top at you. “He sent you there on your own?” He folded the paper back, laying it on the plate in front of him before lifting his cup to his lips. “Even my brother and I don’t go to crime scenes on our own, much less so at the crack of dawn. It must’ve been horrifying.”

“Oh, the corpse wasn’t too terribly gruesome-”

“I wasn’t talking about the corpse ma’am.” Marcus stated plainly. “I’d personally be more worried about interacting with those scumbag officers that call themselves police.”

You let out a small hum. “I guess I have to agree with you on that. I certainly gave Mr. Byrnes a piece of my mind while I was there.”

At the mention of the ex-commissioner, the twins groaned. “We haven’t even started the investigation yet, and he’s already on our last nerve.” Lucius sighed in defeat.

“Who’s on our last nerve?”

The new voice grasped everyone’s attention, you twirling in place to meet Kreizler’s next guest, Miss Sara Howard herself. You couldn’t help but flounder a bit where you stood, meeting her crystalline blue eyes as she observed your presence. Her light blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her head, a small hat adorned atop it to compliment the rest of her ensemble. You were sure you had seen her in the papers before, especially with the impressive founding of her very own women-led detective agency across town, but a simple newspaper photograph could never properly capture her beauty and analytical grace as she stood in the flesh before you.

“M-Miss Howard,” You stammered, extending your hand as you introduced yourself by name, the Issacsons appropriately rising from their seats upon her entrance. “I-I’m Doctor Kreizler’s assistant alienist. It’s certainly an honor to meet you.”

Sara allowed herself a small smile at your nervousness, taking your offer and shaking your hand firmly. “The pleasure is all mine. We need more women in the world of alienism, and I’m glad to be working with another bright mind in the field. We’ll need all the help we can get our hands on for this case it seems.”

You let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I won’t let you down ma’am, I assure you.”

“Good.” She stated plainly, making her way to the table. “Normally I would hope that you live up to Kreizler’s good word, but his word is usually substantial enough to prove someone’s quality.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the praise Miss Howard offered, grinning like a fool. “Of course, Miss Howard, I would expect nothing less myself.”

Sara nodded, moving her chair and taking her seat, nodding towards the Issacson twins. “Good morning gentlemen.”

“Miss Howard.” The two detectives greeted, though Marcus seemed particularly puzzled at how such a simple greeting could get more of a rise out of you than his own flirting.

“John will be joining us soon enough, I’m sure.” Laszlo called, entering the dining room as well to stand beside you. “As rude as it might be, I’m sure John wouldn’t mind if we started breakfast without him.”

Almost as if on queue, Cyrus and Stevie began to bring out trays of hot food from the kitchen, with you moving past the two of them to fetch any possible trays they had left behind him. After bringing them all out, Cyrus and Stevie said their hellos and filled their respective plates before heading back to the kitchen. You were about to join them yourself like you always did before Kreizler called your name, effectively halting you in your tracks.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” Laszlo invited, taking a sip from his choice of morning tea.

“O-oh! My mistake, of course.” You answered with a smile. “Would you mind if I sat next to you, Miss Howard?”

“Not at all.” Sara insisted, smiling as you eagerly took your seat beside her before reaching for some bacon set out in front of you. You didn’t even notice that you were now sat across from Marcus, not that he minded, only feeling an odd bit of competition as he looked between you and Sara with a curious stare. Eventually, he shrugged it off to fork some food onto his plate, as did everyone else, with you offering to aid Kreizler in assembling his own due to his bad arm. You all made particularly interesting small talk, your eager curiosities turning the flow of conversation more towards the general sciences and investigative methods the rest of the group were used to. Kreizler couldn’t help but smile as he watched you take out your notebook at the table, uncapping your pen to scrawl more messy notes separate from that of the investigation, forgiving the momentary rudeness of the act at the sight of your willingness to learn. It was this incredible quality about you that helped him in allowing you to become his assistant, your eyes saying all that was needed as they shined and sparkled with a familiar curiosity for the human psyche to match his own. It seemed his company caught onto it as well, your energy electrifying the table and infecting everyone around you as your questioning continued. Your surprising charisma charmed both the Issacsons and Miss Howard alike, reassuring them Laszlo had made the right choice in not only calling for your aid on this case, but selecting you to be his apt pupil.

The gripping conversation of the table wouldn’t last long, however, being disturbed by one last expectant knock at the door. You rose from your seat before Laszlo could put down his fork, admittedly almost knocking over your cup of coffee in the process. Perhaps the caffeine now coursing in your veins was what suddenly made you so endearing.

You clumsily fixed the cup, thankful you didn’t spill anything as you brushed yourself off, not a stain in sight. “I’ll get the door Doctor Kreizler, I can only assume that’s Mr. Moore.”

“Very well. I’m sure John will be delighted to see you again.” Laszlo noted, smiling as he dismissed you, watching as you left the room to answer the door.

As the group watched you walk away, Marcus found himself leaning closer towards the table. “We all agree that she should be a permanent member of the team from now on, right?” Marcus raised in a whisper once you were out of earshot.

Sara hummed in thought, placing her fork down before responding. “She is very eager, but first we shall see how she handles this investigation. Kreizler wouldn’t have asked for her help with this case if this weren’t some sort of test of her skills, I assume.”

Laszlo nodded, affirming her suspicions. “While our main focus is still on this case, I would hope this tragedy can be an important learning moment in her newfound career. She’s already done well in aiding me in my research at the Institute while we were working on the Santorelli case. As much as she is eager, she still has a lot to learn, so I expect all of you to not be afraid to ask her questions, especially for her input on aspects of the case as they present themselves. We must test how she thinks, how she processes the world around her, and see if she’s truly fit for this line of work wherever it may lead her.”

“It seems it can only benefit us.” Lucius noted. “Having a fresh pair of eyes on a murder case can do wonders for observation.”

“Indeed.” Laszlo agreed, taking a sip of his tea. “Let us hope that her insight is as valuable as we expect it to be.”

You walked over to open the large wooden doors to Kreizler’s estate, a familiar silhouette outside the frosted glass windows. Swinging the door open eagerly to greet your guest, you saw the face of the lovely John Moore light up at your sudden appearance, almost as if he were a dog watching a magic trick.

“It’s certainly good to see you again ma’am,” John greeted with a polite nod, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“You almost did,” You teased with a cheeky smile, “Though I hope it’s okay that we started breakfast without you.”

John’s brow raised in surprise. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a meal. Laszlo seemed to leave that out over the phone.”

“I believe it was Miss Howard’s idea. She suggested it as a form of repayment for bringing you all here so early, just after Laszlo called for you.”

John chuckled. “Only Sara would be able to eat before what I assume is going to be a terrible discussion. At least I know you’ll be there to help pull Laszlo’s reins if he starts to press certain details for too long.”

Only John Moore could make a smile appear on your lips so quickly. “‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter’ I suppose.”

It was John’s turn to share in your infectious grin. “‘Therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd.’”

A giggle escaped your lips as you stepped to the side, holding the door open for John as he tipped his hat to you, making his way through the entryway. While you hadn’t known Mr. Moore for very long, he already seemed to be quite fond of you in certain ways. The first occasion you met was when Laszlo had invited him over for discussion and drinks, coming home to the two men chatting by the roaring parlor fireplace. While you had tried to slip away quietly so as to not disturb them, John noticed your presence almost immediately, Laszlo beckoning you over to introduce the two of you. You had already known Mr. Moore from his works in the paper, and after exchanging names and greetings you remarked how his writing style was very unique and well suited to his articles and their subjects. He asked if you were a writer yourself, blushing as you sheepishly admitted to being a poet in your spare time, something even Laszlo hadn’t yet heard about you. John insisted you join them for drinks and read some of your poems, and while Laszlo tried to ensure the invitation was completely voluntary, you were happy to oblige in a poem or two after a glass of wine loosened your tongue. You and John found you shared a great love for the romantic poets that evening, John Keats striking particular chords for the both of you with his Ode to a Grecian Urn, and for once in his life, it seemed Laszlo wasn’t the expert in the room on the subject at hand (while he indulged in poetry from time to time, he found it not nearly as stimulating to his conscience as research on the human psyche). This naturally led to Mr. Moore and yourself forming a sort of unbreakable bond only found between fellow creatives, often tossing lines of random poetry at one another in casual conversation, leaving most average listeners (including Kreizler) to be confused by the oddly placed poetic phrases they couldn’t recall.

Following John into the house, almost like an eager baby duckling flocking to its mother, you eagerly approached the table as John had just started to say his hellos. “Marcus, Lucius...Miss Howard.”

The way Sara’s name lingered on his lips had your own curling into a smile. What you and John shared in passion for poets seemed to drift towards romanticism as well, being able to see the love he showed for Miss Howard clear as day at any given moment, whether she was in the very same room, or perhaps far, far away, only near within his heart. Sara herself was a bit harder to track, considering you both had just met officially only moments ago, not yet understanding what makes her tick inside. Just another fun game to keep track of, you decided, another test of your alienist-adjacent skills; to seek out the subtle, quiet details that rather boisterously reveal everything needing to be said.

“O-oh, John!” You were suddenly brought back by Mr. Moore’s movement towards the table, him having already exchanged his greetings with his associates. “Uhm, I hope you don’t mind, but I had sat myself next to Miss Howard for breakfast. I’d be happy to move my plate if you like.”

John perked up at the mention of sitting next to Miss Howard, but said nothing to reveal his intentions. “Oh, my apologies, but it’s no trouble at all. At least you won’t be joining us for whatever horrors lie ahead of this table.”

The rest of the group exchanged glances at one another, before settling their eyes on Mr. Moore. “John, I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to hear,” Laszlo spoke up, clearing his throat as he dotted a napkin over his lips, “My apprentice will be joining us on this particular case.”

John let himself soak in the information, slowly sliding into the vacant seat next to your own before he blinked. “Laszlo...forgive me, but, I feel as though your apprentice might be too faint of heart. She shouldn’t have to witness the horrors we all have in our unfortunate collective time together-”

“I’m afraid you’re too late, Mr. Moore.” You suddenly spoke up, taking your place to stand beside Laszlo’s chair. “I was already at the crime scene this morning taking notes for Doctor Kreizler.”

John’s eyes widened, his face nearly adopting the look of a fearful parent. “Laszlo?!”

John almost sounded offended, but Laszlo caught your gaze as if to reassure you he wouldn’t try to answer on your behalf. You offered him a smile as thanks before turning your attentive eyes back to John. “John, I promise I was fine. Nothing bad happened, and I wouldn’t have been sent if Kreizler didn’t think I was not only prepared to handle such a task, but if I was safe. I trust his judgment as completely as I can.”

“So you don’t trust him?!”

“I didn’t say that.” You retorted back, your tone a bit more harsh than you expected. “An apprentice has every right to question their mentor’s motives, as it not only allows them to have that same healthy cynicism for the world around them, but also to have the mentor reevaluate and question their own methods - it’s a rather healthy and necessary cycle, I assure you. That being said, I trust Doctor Kreizler completely when it comes to my safety - it’s his methods that I may be quicker to judge.”

That seemed to answer some hidden burning question behind his concerned brow, though he still seemed displeased as he reached across the table to fill his plate with what food was left. “Well then, I might as well try and get something down my gullet before we get on with it,” He noted before shoving a piece of bacon in his mouth, “If it so happens our discussion makes our appetites disappear altogether.”

After letting John scarf down a quick meal, along with everyone else clearing their plates, Laszlo decided it was finally time to address the matter at hand. He rose from his chair at the head of the table, almost reminiscent of King Arthur with his trusted Knights of the Round Table - and now, you had found yourself to be a part of it. A fresh-faced squire among noblemen and knights who have long proven themselves to your beloved king, all except for you - but your moment to shine would come soon enough.

“I’ve gathered you all here today to discuss the matters of the murder at hand that we’ve been kindly asked to investigate. It seems as if every Pinkerton and policeman within the city’s radius has been enlisted to do so, as have we.” Laszlo announced, your eager eyes joining the gaze of his usual audience. “Lucius and Marcus have been kind enough to gather some intel copied from the police report that was registered just this morning. My assistant has also been to the crime scene herself, taking notes on the victim’s state since it’s likely we won’t have access to the body at the coroner’s office for some time.”

Lucius pulled a small briefcase that he had kept hidden below his seat, popping open the clasp and pulling out a sheet of paper, passing it to Miss Howard first. You did your best to read over her shoulder, but upon meeting her gaze you sheepishly backed off, sinking into your seat as you patiently awaited your turn.

“The victim was 48-year old Johnathan Travers,” Lucius stated, “A wealthy English socialite who had immigrated to the US as a young man to expand his businesses overseas. He was well-liked among his peers, often attending and throwing grand parties at his estate located on the Upper East Side of the city.”

Just before the paper could be passed to you from Miss Howard, John took the initiative to snatch it out of your hands, skimming over the information with a heavyweight on his brow. “Yes, I believe I’ve attended a party of two of his before on behalf of the Times. They were often charity balls for the poor if I remember correctly.”

“That’s what initially confused me.” Marcus piped in, noticing your analytical gaze fixed on the paper as John held it out in front of himself. “On the outside, he seemed like a kind, extroverted party goer and nothing more, and with his habits for charity it seemed odd for him to be the victim of a murder. No political enemies, his business rivals had no past of mob connections or violence on the surface or overall malicious attitudes, though we may need to do more research into that. If we’ve learned anything from these cases, it’s that no one is who they say they are these days.”

Laszlo had been quietly observing the table as the conversation went on, but his eyes were now fixed on your furrowed brow, staring at the document still in John’s hands. The calling of your name raised your attention - “Is there something you’ve noticed?”

“Yes…” You gently took the page from John’s hands, scanning it over again and again to make sure you were reading it correctly. “There’s no mention of the flower on the victim in this report.”

“A flower?” John inquired. “Well, it did say he found in a bushel of azaleas-”

“That’s not what I’m referring to.” You interrupted, swiftly pulling your notebook out and checking your notes. “When I was at the scene, the officers lifted him off the ground, and a pressed purple iris fell out of his waistcoat. At first, I wondered if it was a gift for someone he’d meant to leave on his evening out...but, it could as well be a calling card for our killer.”

“It may be too early to say that officially, but it’s certainly not a bad hypothesis.” Marcus commented. “Was there anything else about the body that seemed off to you while you were there?”

You hummed to yourself, admittedly sucking in a shaky breath as you recalled the gruesome details. “His eyes were mangled and destroyed, not with the intent of delicate removal like the Santorelli case. His genitals were eviscerated in the same way...he had a gold molar in the back of his mouth when I checked.”

“Was there anything wrong with his hands? Neck, face, anything at all?”

You searched back in your notes as well as your memory, nervously fidgeting with your hands at the table. You were suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on you, a weight that familiar spotlight carried around to everyone else on the table already. They had all grown used to the sensation, inputting their thoughts and information bare for others to dissect and unpack, but your true rookie nature seemed to seep through the cracks under the pressure. “W-well, I...uhm…” You reached for your notebook, hands slightly trembling and throat growing dry as you tried to search through for anything else you could find that you hadn’t already told Kreizler. Not only were your general anxieties taking over, but it seemed the trauma from seeing such a desecrated body had finally begun to settle in, feeling a familiar acidity rise in your throat as your recollection held a hard focus on the man’s hollow, bloodied eye sockets.

“Laszlo-” John attempted to chime in, but Laszlo held up a hand, watching you with careful eyes. He could tell you were too trapped in your own mind to focus - it almost reminded him of your first days at the Institute as you shadowed him. He recalled you wincing when parents of patients grew rather difficult with the suggested solutions he’d offer, even if you agreed it was the right course of action. They would sometimes shift the blame onto you for no particular reason at all, demanding some “logical” antithetical answer from a student who had just arrived in this place, expecting you to know just as well, if not better than your mentor. He could sense the familiar aura of tension surrounding you, and knew exactly how to pull you out.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a gentle hand rest on your shoulder, looking up to realize Kreizler had made his way around the table to you. “It’s alright.” He reassured you, his honeyed voice washing over you like a calm in the ocean, grounding yourself in your chair. “The Issacsons can handle the physical details - what we need from you is the emotional detail. What do you feel was the killer’s intent with this brutality?”

Kreizler delicately brushed his thumb over your shoulder, the physical sensation keeping you grounded as you fought a new feeling surging within your chest. Biting back a flustered response, you let out a shaky breath to recompose yourself. “...They wanted him to feel it.” You answered. “All of it. There were no surface markings I could see to suggest any sedative or alcohol given, no injuries to assume he was unconscious - he was awake. Aware, watching everything happen to him as the killer ripped him apart. They wanted him to feel it, Laszlo. They wanted him to feel it up until the moment life left his body.”

“Then why not stab them? Why not slash the throat, or pierce his chest like Caesar, if the sole intent was to cause him suffering?” Laszlo inquired.

You swallowed back your bile as your nausea subsided, your eyes set only on Laszlo. “Because it was purposeful. They wanted the victim to suffer in a particular way - a personal way. Mr. Travers had hurt them, or someone close to them maybe, in such a vile and terrible way that they had to be that precise with where they struck - how they struck didn’t matter, so long as it caused the most pain.” A surprised smile grew upon your lips, almost giddy from the excitement of putting the pieces together as a clear picture of the killer started to take form in your mind. “That way, it looks reckless. No one assumes it was a precise choice, a perfect cover-up when their case will be investigated by those incompetent police.”

Your smile beamed as you looked at your other associates at the table, only to be met with the reality of frowns as you looked over such grim details with a gleeful demeanor. Your grin quickly faded, clearing your throat as you bashfully sank back into your seat, feeling Laszlo’s hand slip from your shoulder.

“...She’s good.” Marcus admitted, filling the awkward silence that had consumed the table.

Your smile almost returned to its rightful place, though it was halted at the concerned look on Sara’s brow, her focus locked on the table before glancing up at the Isaacsons. “What was the victim’s name again?”

“Johnathan Travers,” John spoke up, seeming to recognize the look on Sara’s face, “Have you heard of him before as well?”

“I have, yes.” Sara acknowledged, though as if she were burdened by the memory of his name. “There was a younger woman who visited my office late one night, not long after we had first opened our doors. I was called down to the office by Bitsy and Milly since they couldn’t get her to calm down, and she was insisting that she speak directly to me. We decided to interview her and she mentioned that man.”

“And what did she say, exactly?” John further inquired.

Sara hesitated to answer, taking a shaky breath before speaking. “Well, firstly, she refused to give me her real name. She only told me she worked at the Bouquet Hall on the far edge of the West Village. She was being abused by one of her clients on a regular basis as of late, and mentioned him specifically by name.”

The mention of such information jolted through the table, everyone stiffening where they sat or stood depending.

“She didn’t tell me too much after that,” Sara admitted rather disappointingly, “She wanted to report him, but refused to give me the necessary information that I asked for. Something about how they weren’t allowed to talk about such things to the public, but that her superiors at Bouquet had yet to take action against him...or his associates.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, associates?”

“Yes. She told me Mr. Travers had a habit of bringing company to his appointments, but wouldn’t specify anything else. She seemed afraid of mentioning their names as well.”

“Sounds like she was a bit all over the place.” Marcus commented.

“Or reasonably scared for her life.” You retorted. “She probably came to Miss Howard for help, but upon arrival she realized the danger she was in even being there in the first place. Prostitutes never report crimes about their patrons, and for good reason. The owners of those places can be rather ruthless.”

“I believe we are all unfortunately well aware of that, thanks to our last case.” John grimly noted. “Though, Sara, when was the last time you heard from this woman?”

“It was just that one meeting when I first opened my agency. Most likely it was just a few months ago.”

“Then perhaps your connection to Mr. Travers could still reside at the Bouquet Hall.” Laszlo offered.

John huffed. “Or she could be long gone, or worse, dead-”

“But the hall is all we have as far as a lead on this killer.” Lucius argued, adjusting the glasses sitting on his nose. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that a flower was placed on the killer who went to a place called the Bouquet Hall?”

“It most certainly does, which is why we should investigate.” Laszlo stated.

“Sounds alright to me.” Marcus chimed in agreement. “I suggest Lucius and I go undercover since this isn’t our first sort of operation like this.”

Laszlo raised his brows at the swift suggestion, recalling how debatably successful their last undercover operation went, though his eyes found themselves wandering back to you once more, as if you were the center point of the room. He noticed your slightly furrowed brow, though knew if you wanted to say something contrary to someone you never knew, you tended to keep your mouth shut out of politeness. He soon called you to attention - “Is there something concerning you about this idea?”

You blushed at the sudden shift in focus, but let out a small sigh of defeat. “There is, yes, but I don’t want it to be seen as...well, rude. I know I’m privileged to even be at this table, let alone a part of the discussion, and the last thing I want to do is assume or act as if I know better than everyone else.”

Laszlo chuckled, a warm smile gracing his features. “We’re well aware of your humbleness, but if you’re going to be a part of this team, let alone become an alienist, you mustn’t be afraid to speak your mind if you feel your input could be of value in any way.”

John admittedly rolled his eyes, hoping Laszlo’s slightly snarky yet intelligent attitude wouldn’t have been passed onto you, but you smiled at your mentor’s gentle encouragement. You then turned your focus to the Issacsons in front of you across the table, clearing your throat while making sure your thoughts were in order before letting them pass your lips.

“Marcus, if you’ll allow me to call you that-”

“Oh, please do,” He answered perhaps a bit too eagerly, attempting to recompose himself with a cough, “I-it’s really no trouble at all.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line before pursuing your questioning again. “Right. Marcus, if you wouldn’t mind me asking - why was it that your arrangement with Miss Esther fell through again?”

The room quickly fell silent as you took a sip from your morning coffee in its wake, leaving Marcus to flounder under everyone’s gaze. “W-well...I-I fail to see what that has anything to do with-”

“Every time he saw her in the street, he turned the other way,” Lucius blurted out the answer for his baffled brother, who swiftly swatted him on the shoulder with a nearby newspaper in a poor, rather childish effort to silence him, “And when the two of them tried to make things work after the fact, my brother wasn’t really the best with his words.”

“Lucius!”

Your brows raised in contrast to the small smirk hinted at the corner of your lip, doing your best to conceal your enthusiasm as you looked back towards your mentor at the head of the table. “Doctor Kreizler, and no offense detective sergeants, but I don’t think they would do very well under the rules of espionage required for this operation, especially in such a supposedly high-end brothel.”

Even with Lucius and Marcus looking on in offended horror, Doctor Kreizler shrugged, seeming to admit defeat to contesting your statement as he sat back in his chair, entwining his hands in his lap. “I suppose you have a counter proposition then?”

You nodded, but hesitated as you subdued a nervous lump rising in your throat. “Sir, if I may be frank in my offer...I believe I should be the one to go undercover.”

“My god- You can’t be serious?” John immediately retorted, rising from his chair and turning to his dear friend. “Laszlo, you simply can’t send your apprentice there, surely you can talk some sense into them?”

Laszlo held up a hand towards John, still keeping his amber eyes locked on you. The directness of his stare sent your heart racing, yet you maintained your composure. “Tell us why we should send you instead then. A good alienist must be ready to make a compelling argument in case they must represent a client in court.”

You nodded in agreement, straightening your posture where you sat. “Well, there are multiple reasons I would like you all to consider. Firstly, because of your work on the Santorelli case, all of you are seemingly infamously known by most New York socialites, so if one such person spotted you in their private sanctum, then it would most likely raise a lot of suspicion, if not terrible rumors that could further damage your image and reputations in the public eye. I, on the other hand, am much less known. I am...unremarkable, at least in that regard, not as a means to degrade myself. I would only be further unnoticeable in a half-decent disguise.”

“But what about your appearance while investigating the crime scene this morning?” John contested. “Surely they now know you from that.”

“I like to think they were more focused on the corpse of one of their own being brutally torn apart than some small-time assistant alienist, Mr. Moore,” You argued, “And again, they only saw me in my morning robe, not civilian clothes. They would expect me to dress more feminine, so taking on a masculine disguise would be a preferred course of action.”

All the men of the table, except for Laszlo of course, felt their faces tint with blush at the mention of your robe, leaving Miss Howard to be the only other attentive listener in the room. “And how will you procure your disguise, or hide your more...” Sara hesitated for a moment, seeming to remember the company she was in. “Feminine features, so to speak?”

You grinned knowingly, gesturing to your outfit. “I have my methods for procuring such things.” Your gaze shifted to your beloved mentor once more. “Doctor Kreizler has been very kind as far as allowing me to express myself freely while I work under him, so I’ve been able to keep a small collection of more masculine clothes I’m quite proud of. As for feminine features, if you’ll excuse my forwardness-” You began to loosen a few buttons at the top of your poet’s shirt, everyone looking away out of politeness before revealing your secret beneath - that healthy amount of gauze wrapped rather snuggly against your chest. “The only thing I require to achieve this is some help with tightening the bind of the bandage, which I believe you can aid me with the night of our excursion - that is, if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Howard.”

Sara, much to your surprise, allowed a small smile to grace her lips at your cleverness. “That’s very ingenious of you, but...isn’t that rather uncomfortable?”

“Oh, very.” You answered plainly, the men in the room now turning their gazes back to observe your binding work before you fixed your buttons. “I can wear it only for a few hours at a time before a terrible pain starts to set in, but I would hope that our investigation of the brothel wouldn’t take much more than an hour or so.”

“Now hold on a second,” Marcus interrupted, seeming a bit flustered by this turn of events, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in there alone. We should at the very least accompany you. Also, why not just disguise yourself as someone who wants to work at the hall?”

“That would put her in even more danger if you’re truly so concerned about it.” Sara countered rather harshly. “We’re going in there searching for a woman who we all just admitted could be missing or dead. If she goes in as a convincing young man, there would be a much lesser chance for her to be at such a risk, as ideal as eyes on the inside would be.”

“Then why don’t I go instead?” John raised after taking a sip of his tea.

“John, you’re a reporter for the New York Times.” You admitted frankly. “You would be spotted from a mile away and promptly kicked out, probably assumed to be working on some sort of hit piece on the social elite in the wake of the murder.”

“My assistant seems to raise some fair points.” Laszlo confessed, his portioned praise ringing through your ears like triumphant church bells. He leaned forward on the table, letting out a contemplative breath, his honeyed irises shifting towards you. “Are you sure that you could handle this type of assignment, that heavy of a responsibility for the sake of this case moving forward?”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, admittedly sweating as he and the rest of the table awaited your answer, but you curtly nodded as you didn’t dare break your equivalent gaze. “Yes sir, I believe I can.”

Laszlo smiled, nodding back in kind before grabbing his cane in his hand, rising from his seat. “Then I believe the plan is settled. Both the Isaacsons and my assistant will go undercover tomorrow night, since we may need some time to help procure your disguise. You’ll go in with the goal of finding whatever information we can, not just on the strange woman from Miss Howard’s agency, but any other suspicious activity that could call for evidence of a killer in their midst.” Laszlo rose from his seat, brushing off his jacket before turning his attention back to his colleagues. “Are we all in agreement then?”

Everyone gave a rather cautious nod, John being the only one to not give any sort of reply at all, bitterly sipping on his morning tea. “My faith has rarely wavered in you, Laszlo, but it doesn’t seem like we have much choice in the matter.”

You smiled, patting John’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit, John. I look forward to you championing that exact positivity throughout the rest of this investigation.”

John rolled his eyes, rising from the table as well. “I’ll look back in the records of the Times, see if there’s anything I can find regarding Mr. Travers. I wouldn’t mind your aid in doing so, Sara.”

“Of course,” Sara answered, joining John in standing as well as prompting yourself and the Isaacsons to follow suit. “I’ll be sure to put a word in with my fellow detectives to see if they find anything as well.”

“We’ll attempt to track down the body at the coroner's in the meantime,” Lucius continued, “There’s most likely more important and plentiful information we can gather from it.”

“We’ll meet again at sunset tomorrow, unless of course any of you are to find anything of urgent notice.” Laszlo suggested.

One by one, the guests began to file out and dismiss themselves, the case afoot as they set off to their individual quests. The Issacsons were the first to leave, followed by Miss Howard and Mr. Moore, though he insisted Sara wait outside on Kreizler’s steps before pulling you away from the door and Laszlo’s prying ears.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright with this?” He whispered, his icy blue eyes meeting your gaze, sincere concern shining through them as clear as the sun’s rays from the surrounding windows.

You smiled softly, clasping John’s hand between yours. “I’m sure John, I promise. I’ll be sure to be extra careful, if not for Kreizler then on your behalf.”

John huffed. “Yes, but are you certain? I understand that Laszlo is your mentor, but that doesn’t mean you have to go to such extreme lengths to please him.”

Your brow furrowed. “Bold of you to assume I’m only doing this for Laszlo’s sake.”

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I meant and you know that.”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant, John.” You appropriately accused. “You know, for such an accomplished writer of the Times, you seem to be somewhat shit with your phrasing-”

John promptly shushed you, almost in a scolding manner at the sound of your profanity. “Please, just,” He let out another sigh, trying his best to compose himself. “Please, remember yourself first. You aren’t just some brilliant vessel for Laszlo to possess and pass his intelligence through like some street puppeteer.” He held your hand tightly, almost as if you were slipping from his very fingers. “I know how Laszlo can be, and I know how intelligent you are-”

“Then you know that I’ll be fine, John.” You asserted, letting out a small chuckle. “Anxious about your baby bird leaving the nest?”

John scoffed, a touch of blush rising to his cheeks. “No - since when have I ever called you such a thing?!”

“You haven’t,” You teased, “I’m just pulling at your coattails, that’s all.” Letting a softer smile grace your features, you recalled a stanza from a Lord Byron poem he had read to you in one of his many nights in Laszlo’s parlor. “‘Overlook'd or unforeseen, I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, the fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen my errors with defensive paradox; I have been cunning in mine overthrow, the careful pilot of my proper woe.’”

John finally seemed to give way for a smile, squeezing your hand one last time. “‘And even at moments I could think I see some living thing to love—but none like thee.’”

You smiled softly, admittedly blushing yourself at John’s tender choice of couplet from the same poem before releasing you from his grasp. “I’ll see you tomorrow, John. Take care of yourself, as well as Miss Howard.”

“Oh, I assure you,” He relinquished with a smile, “Miss Howard is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

He bid you adieu a nod and a tip of his hat, he wandered out the doors of Kreizler’s estate, calling a carriage beside Miss Howard before you shut the door with a resounding clack.

The sudden silence that filled the halls of the house almost rang in your ears, allowing your breath to return from its shallow, nervous resting state in the presence of Laszlo’s company. Releasing the brass door handle from your grasp, you ran a hand through your hair with a smile that quickly faded once the weight of the air had set upon your lungs. Oh god. This was truly happening now, wasn’t it?

You had known well that this was real, a bit too real in some circumstances since your investigation of the corpse early this morning. Your stakes had now been officially placed, bets made on the gruesome game afoot, your temporary calling in this world now tangible in your mind. You were no longer some charismatic apprentice, benched to the sidelines and aiding in research and busy work at your mentor’s greater establishment - you were lending your aid in one of the most perplexing murders to strike this great city you hesitated to call home.

Walking out of the entryway, you were greeted by Doctor Kreizler, offering you that kind and all-knowing smile you were all too familiar with - the one he would throw your way when you had done something right.

“Shall we begin our preparations then?”

Hudson Barnett was always a good little Christian boy growing up. In the smaller suburbia town of Greenport, New York, he was raised by a single mom, Betty Barnett - a local devout Christian who loved everything and everyone, but no one more than her own son. Hudson's father had passed away just after he was born, dying under mysterious circumstance that no one could really explain, but that didn't bother Hudson too much. He was just as happy to enjoy the company of his mother, whether it was late at night helping her sew her quilts while watching television, helping pull out nasty weeds from her back garden, or holding her hand and waddling through the isles of Sunday mass.

As he grew older, Hudson had quite the attachment to all things related to the outdoors, but even more so to people. He loved listening to people, talking to them and asking them questions, and was especially proficient in consoling them during hard times. Hudson quickly became known as a local empath of sorts, somehow always being able to read a room and someone's emotions from the smallest hints they would give away. He'd always say he doesn't know how he does it, he just does. He can sense when something's wrong, no matter how far down or locked away the matter may be within someone's heart.

Of course being a good student with A's and B's across the board, Hudson found himself going for a public university rather than a private religious institute (or a hike for pilgrimage as gently suggested by his mother) after high school. He already knew enough about his own faith and religion, and being the little scientist he always was, he wanted to learn more about the big ol world that was now at his feet. His mind was first drawn to the natural sciences in his undergrad studies, much like his youth, which eventually led him to excel extremely well in studies of medicine (you might even swear he was fluent in Latin with how well he could memorize and pull out medical terminology at the drop of a hat).

Now contently living his adult life as a nurse at Saint Mary's Hospital for Children in Queens, he can't help but let questions wander in his mind about his odd yet still somehow mundane existence. What happens to him when he wakes up in the dead of night, surrounded by journals and scrawled out notes in a seemingly ancient language that he could never hope to translate or understand? How badly will his faith be tested and bent when he starts seeing strange shadows in the night, when he talks to one person one moment and ends up holding their arm harshly the next, with no memory of how he got there? Will his morbid curiosity about the mysterious origins of his father drive him to dig deeper, much deeper than he would ever intend to go?

One Shots

An Evening Immortalized (Lazslo Kreizler x Apprentice!Reader) | f

(COMING SOON!) bite the hand that feeds (Miguel O'Hara x Reader) | s, g

Series (On Hiatus)

In The Halls (a three part Lazslo Kreizler x Apprentice!Reader series)

In The Halls Of Sinners | g, f, a, s (On Haitus)

In The Halls Of Saints | (On Haitus)

In The Halls Of Angels | (On Haitus)

Blurbs

El Toro | is

Tobais Hardmann | is

soft bucky blurb :) | f

Headcanons

General Zemo HCs | f, a

Zemo & Oeznik | f, a

Classic Loki my beloved | f, a

John Moore | f, s

NEW! General Renfield HCs | f

The Angelverse

meet Hudson 😇

hudson gardening hcs!

when the wings retract (unwinding with hudson hcs)

Playlists

Fic Playlists

everyday magic 🎩🪄

the darkest heart 🫀

Character Playlists

the hunt 🗡 (Zemo)

getting better, together 💘 (Bucky Barnes)

one night in madripoor 🌉✨ (Sam Wilson)

sam wilson vibes 🦅✨

Mobius M(ixtape) Mobius 🕰

OC Playlists

even angels wonder aloud ⛅️ (Hudson)

NEW! caught me from grace 🕊️ (Josh)

NEW! "have faith" 🌼 (Betty)

NEW! heavy are the hands that bear the sword ⚔️ (Gabriel)