#clebras

Violon D’Ingres

Apparently, I actually have a French-speaking reader, so I have to be a bit more careful now! Title once again comes from the Mental Floss list, which I will again quote. "...which refers to a hidden talent or pastime, far outside of what you are best known for, and in which you are just as knowledgeable or adept."

Things you should know: 1) My research into French Breakfasts indicates that sweet is really the preference, and that savory breakfasts are very uncommon. Obviously, people are individuals and not a hive mind, but survey says most people in France would prefer a nice pastry to a bacon egg and cheese sandwich. 2) Research tells me Hannibal Lecter has a degree in medicine and interned at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, so I ran with that. 3) In France, one potential affectionate name for loved ones is 'mon petit chou.' It is occasionally substituted with 'mon petit CHOUX,' in which choux refers to a pastry, but the literal translation is 'my little cabbage.' I have always found this endlessly hilarious, and therefore so does Will. 4) Everyone in this fic is like, super accepting of Hannigram's marriage and I have no fucks to give about that, I get enough of homophobia in real life. 5) Soylent Green is people. But you already knew that.

1.

Jeffrey Weiss was a hard worker. Aurelie Favre absolutely adored him, as did her customers. After nearly three years of employment, his French is more than passable, and he can give even her chattiest, sassiest clients a run for their money. And he reads, which is even better. Once, Aurelie had hired a girl who absolutely hated to read, and while she was a nice girl and a hard worker, she didn't last long in the world of references and recommendations.

But Jeffrey reads. He reads even faster than Monsiour Romilly, who comes twice a week. Often, Aurelie has to gently coax Jeffrey away from his latest fixation and towards something more pressing, like dusting. The amount of dust her books collect, honestly, she might as well be a janitor!

Ah, but now she was getting distracted as well. Jeffrey waved the pan at her once more, hanging his coat one-handedly on the rack. "Come on, you've got time for a few bites before we have to open. Spinach and beef Frittata, you'll love it. Edmund made it just for you, he remembered how much you liked the last one."

Her stomach churns at the thought of forkfuls of meat this early. Then it thinks better of it and churns at the very idea of missing out on something Edmund Weiss cooked.

"I've already had breakfast." Aurelie says, but her will is wavering. The smell is heady and thick, too much so for the early hour, but it also smells absolutely divine.

"I helped." Jeffrey says, opening the safe and beginning to count out a drawer for the register. "You know how insecure I am about my cooking." That is a blatant lie. Jeffrey had been insecure once upon a time, when he first began to work for her, but three years under Edmund's tutelage could turn even the most inept person into a decent chef. Jeffrey is more than decent, and he knows it. "I thought you French people were supposed to appreciate cheese and fine dining?"

"Stereotyping." Aurelie chastises, but she gives in, doling out a small plate and biting in. The flavors erupt on her tongue. Edmund has always been able to season his food far better than she can, and he never reveals his secrets.

"Sorry." Jeffrey says, laughing.

"If you're really sorry, you'll leave this for me to take home.:

"Deal."

2.

Pascal Mathieu and Edmund Weiss did not, precisely, 'get along.' Before Weiss had come along, Pascal was the most sought after in the clinic. He was skilled and precise, and while he wouldn't sugar coat things, he was very rarely wrong. Any treatment he provided tended to have favorable results, and he was good at what he did.

And then there was Edmund.

To say Pascal hated Edmund would have been incorrect. Technically speaking, Pascal refused on principle to devote enough attention to Edmund to hate him. Rather, he preferred to pretend that Edmund didn't exist. This was getting to be difficult.

Edmund loved his job. He was always early and frequently stayed late. He had been known to volunteer for extra patients any time they found themselves swamped, and was nearly always available to cover your shift for you. He also had a bedside manner that Pascal, frankly speaking, lacked. Pascal had little tolerance for stupidity and was notorious for telling it like it was. Edmund had a similar philosophy, but was known to phrase things so carefully that clients often didn't even realize they were being told exactly how wrong they were. They loved him. Their coworkers loved him. Everyone loved Edmund Weiss.

Except Pascal.

Because there was something weird about him, really. He seemed almost not there, but not the way one of the nurses, Madeleine, was. Where Madeleine's airy disposition led to her tripping over things, dropping stacks of patient files, and on one memorable occasion, walking straight into a sliding glass door at the annual Christmas party, Edmund was different. Edmund seemed as if he wasn't all their because he didn't deign to be, because he was too busy being high above them all. He was pretentious and falsely charming and full of himself. He was better than everyone else, including Pascal, and he knew it, the bastard. And Pascal could handle that, because, to be fair, he frequently felt he was better than his coworkers as well, and he took pride in his accomplishments. Except that wasn't all. No, the worst part, the most intolerable part, was that Edmund was a smug little prick and Pascal was the only one who noticed.

Life was very unfair sometimes.

3.

Kareema Sharifi did not know what she would do without the new neighbors. Well, they weren't so new anymore. They had moved in when she was still a new mother, adjusting to being on her own, and though they'd been quiet at first, around Abida's first birthday they had settled in and were more than happy to talk to her. She didn't have to worry about loud parties like with the old neighbors, or about graffiti on her door like the one before that. In fact, on the one occasion that Abida, 15 months old and eager to get her hands on everything, had reached up and yanked hard on her hijab, pulling it free from it's pins and down around her shoulders, they had both politely turned their heads away, even though it was hardly the first time it had happened and Kareema felt no embarrassment as she readjusted. She didn't mind, really. It was no one's fault, and children would be children. Still, it was nice to feel respected for once.

Edmund was fascinating, frequently offering casseroles and other dishes during the busier times of the year, and he was the most pleasant for her to talk to. He kept up with the times a bit better than Jeffrey, who always seemed just the slightest bit disheveled and distracted. For a stay-at-home mother with a Ph.D, it was nice to have a doctor to provide stimulating conversation. Some days, they sat on their neighboring balconies for hours, just discussing articles, which they passed back and forth through the mail slots.

However, while she was more personally attached to Edmund, Jeffrey was her savior. As it turned out, he was fond of children himself, and as Abida grew from a curious toddler to a rambunctious child, he was there to help out. He and the dog would come over most afternoons and entertain Abida, as Kareema tried to get some chores done, or started dinner, or even sat down to enjoy a particularly interesting article that Edmund had suggested.

"You two should have children of your own." Kareema says one day. Abida's fourth birthday is just around the corner, and she's leaning on tiptoe to see over the balcony railing, chattering eagerly about her party with Jeffrey.

Edmund smiles indulgently as Jeffrey makes an awkward face. "It just never worked out for us. We're both so busy, and dear Charlie does so like being an only child."

Somehow, Kareema feels like there's more to it than that, but Jeffrey excuses himself to walk the dog before she can say anymore, and the subject seems to be closed for now. Instead, she and Edmund turn to politics, while Abida groans about 'grown up talk.' "Hush, mon petit chou." Kareema tells her, gesturing for her to go inside. It's just so good to have adult conversation again.

4.

Abida loves Monsieur Jeffrey. He lets her hold Charlie's leash when they go to walks together, he brings her sweets, he remembers that she is not three, she is 'almost four,' and he calls her 'my little cabbage' and always laughs but Abida doesn't speak English, so she doesn't actually know what's so funny.

Today, she and Monsieur Jeffrey are going to take Charlie to the big park, the one with the swings, and Jeffrey will push her high high high so she feels like she's flying. She lets herself into the apartment and remembers not to slam the door, and then stays in the living room because she can hear voices in the kitchen and Mama says it's rude to interrupt.

"It's not too late to have a child, Will. You're only 40."

"I don't want to talk about this, Hannibal!"

"I see the way you are with the little one. You would make a good father."

"We had a child! You forced her ear down my throat and slit hers."

It's always amazing, the things that children overhear. They are small and easily overlooked, and most people don't realize they are listening. Right now, the things Abida is hearing could change the course of everyone's lives.

But Abida does not speak English, so instead of running home, she knocks on the doorway, because really, she doesn't want to wait anymore, and she is uncomfortable. She doesn't speak English, but anger is universal and even a child can understand it.

Later, Jeffrey sits next to her on the swings and watches Charlie roll around in the grass.

"You look sad." Abida tells him, because she is in that age before children develop tact, and because she doesn't like it when Jeffrey makes the face and doesn't talk to Monsieur Edmund.

He starts, and stares at her. Grown ups are weird when they think Abida doesn't see because she's so small.

"Was Monsieur Edmund mean to you?" Abida continues in a rush, wanting to be the one who fixes things for once. "You should talk to him. Mama and Papa are not always so nice, but Mama says that's life. She says sometimes we're mean to people, but we still love them. Do you love Monsieur Edmund?"

Jeffrey smiles and calls her 'cabbage' again. "Nosy little thing." He chides, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Edmund and I had a fight about something that happened a very long time ago. We still love each other very much, it's nothing you should worry about. Sometimes grownups-"

"Sometimes grownups fight." Abida finishes for him. She hears that all the time. "It is not my fault, and all it means is we gotta talk about our feelings. So maybe you should go talk to Monsieur Edmund about your feelings. But not now 'cause now is my time with you and you didn't even push me yet."

Jeffrey kisses her hair. "Smart little cabbage. Ok, Abby." He says, and then he stands  up and pushes her on the swings. When they get home, Monsieur Edmund is waiting, and Jeffrey smiles and that's how she knows things will be ok. Because she is almost four and she knows these things.

+1)

Christian Wallace can feel the fine hairs prickling on the back of his neck. He knows, he is certain he locked the door to the motel room, but now he stands under the shower spray and wonders if maybe he's wrong. He heard something, he knows he did. Turning off the shower, he wraps himself in a towel and heads out of the bathroom.

There, on the bed, is one of the faggots from earlier, the ones who wouldn't stop clinging to each other on the street. The curly haired one with the girly ponytail. He's leaning back on his hands, legs crossed, just smiling. Something is wrong. Not just that someone is in his hotel room. Every hair on his body stands at alert, goosebumps breaking out.

"What the fuck-"

"Don't worry." The man said with a smirk, because apparently he speaks English. English without a trace of an accent. "You're not special. No one will panic. After all, plenty of American tourists go missing during their trips. Just another statistic."

The thing about faggots is that they tend to travel in pairs, and Christian was so concerned with the one in front of him that he never saw the other one, the one who crept up behind him in a plastic suit that would have been a hilariously startling last sight, had Christian had time to be aware of it. Christian never even knew he was there until the knife bit into his throat, and then Christian never knew anything ever again.

And a bonus

"You missed a spot." Will said as Hannibal eased the body into the duffel bag. He'd used a towel to catch the drops from the knife, but here was one left on the floor. A tiny spill, he could have cut himself shaving. Ah! Will reached for a pair of gloves, and Hannibal, always able to read him, was already holding them out. He hunted down a razor in the bathroom and scraped it against the dead man's thigh, returning it once it looked sufficiently bloodied.

"I don't even want to bring this one home." He said, straightening out the bedroom with a critical eye.

"Waste not, want not." Hannibal reminded him, sitting back to watch Will work.

"The things he said..." Will knew he was spoiled. They lived in a progressive area and had good people surrounding them. That a homophobic tourist had crossed their paths during a date was merely bad luck, and bound to happen sooner or later, but still... "We'll need to drop the keys off under the door, of course, but he won't have to be there in person to check out. No signs of a struggle. A perfect crime."

"All of your designs are perfect, my dear Will." Will flushed, as he always did.

"Let's get home. I want to get it on ice as soon as possible if you're going to insist on keeping it."

"You're beautiful when you work."