#the alienist

The Alienist & The Alienist: The Angel of Darkness (Caleb Carr)

(Also known as "Hey, after reading the first book season 1 holds incredibly well, wonder how the second one goes-OH GOD WHY WAS THE SHOW SO BAD")

These were the first proper mystery novels I read and also the first books in first person in a really long time. They're also historic fiction set in the USA, another first for me and I had to sit down and google a few things

...except for Teddy. Everybody knows Theodore Roosevelt.

Laszlo Kreisler x fem!reader (Burlesque)

warnings: (+18) reader nudity, intimate touch, reader works as a burlesque dancer

word count: 3164

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Laszlo sighs as he steps out of the carriage, a hand on the walking stick to steady himself, his feet touching the cold, muddy pavement of the sidewalk, in front of the nightclub.

Out of all situations they could have found themselves in following this case, here is where they have to stand; in the middle of the night, in winter, with his head still pulsing from the previous poor nights of sleep, facing one of, if not the most uncomfortable place he has ever had the displeasure of walking into.

It is not for the show, nor for the drunken brutes— even if they were an unpleasant sight to witness. Rather its cacophony, audible even from the outside with the door closed, is what makes his skin crawl with disgust. But alas, this might be the only place that can give them some information on their suspect.

John's elbow connecting with Laszlo's side snaps him out of his thoughts, and the doctor turns to his friend with a stunned expression.

«Oh, come on Laszlo, don't tell me that a man such as yourself can't stomach a bit of a show» John mocks, a badly hidden smirk of pleasure plastered on his face.

«I am perfectly able to withstand walking into a brothel, John. Especially if a case requires it.» Laszlo replies low, trying to maintain a confident tone. His hand clenches around the head of his walking stick a little bit tighter.

«It is not a brothel, Laszlo, it's a nightclub. People here come to drink and watch a good show-and-tell, not to have fun with pretty ladies» John corrects him, earning himself an eye roll from his friend.

«And you must know plenty on the subject, don't you John.» Laszlo taunts, finally stepping forward towards the door and opening it. John looks at him appalled, unable to form a coherent sentence to counterattack, before quickly following him inside.

The smell of cheap whisky, sweat and iron immediately assaults their nostrils, and Laszlo has to impose himself not to turn away and gag. The place is clustered with men, sitting in front of an illuminated stage, red droopy curtains on its sides, held together with golden rope. The place isn't that lit up, only a few oil lamps here and there allow you not to stumble on your feet and fall face first onto the dirty wooden boards, but Laszlo is still able to notice a second floor, full of people as well, looking down at the stage, impatiently.

John grabs him by his arm, pulling him away from the crowd, in a more secluded area of the nightclub, close to the stage. There's a clean table with two chairs in front of them, and John props them both to sit. They don't seem to be the only "gentlemen" here tonight, as Laszlo notices a few off-duty police officers, and a couple of financiers, placed right in front of the stage as well. Laszlo scoffs to himself, already pushed to his limits.

«Relax, Laszlo, would you? Stop being so tense all the time!» John reprimands, holding a glass of whiskey— appeared out of nowhere— in his hand.

«Didn't you say you wanted to quit drinking? Rather, why are you drinking in the first place— we're here to solve a case, not for your personal pleasure.» Laszlo states annoyed, looking at his friend with furrowed eyebrows.

«Be grateful I even managed to find us a table. This place is constantly full. And besides, I'm not wasting a good ticket.»

«Couldn't we just wait for the show to end?»

«It would have been impossible to enter once the show's over, too many rowdy people to even set a foot inside. As soon as she leaves the stage, we'll sneak around to talk to her.»

Laszlo sighs, already feeling the veins in his temples bulging out from the piercingly loud chatter.

Out of nowhere, slow and sultry music starts to play, from what can be assumed a gramophone behind the curtains. The chatter turns into a commotion of whistles and laughs, all eyes now directed towards the stage. Laszlo sits up straighter, his muscles tense as a spring.

From the opposite side of the stage, the tac-tac of heels on the floorboards can be heard, and calmly, a young woman appears, walking into their field of vision one step at a time. Her shoes have a higher heel than usual, strapped up to her upper ankles, tainted a rich and bright red colour; all of her, to be precise, is red. She's not wearing stockings, her legs left bare, opaque, almost as if she's made of porcelain. Her corset looks soft, it accentuates her curves, her chest half bare and pushed up; the sleeves droop from her shoulders, almost like silk. Her skirt is short, very short, and voluminous, a few flaps pulled a little higher by some strings. Her hair is held in a low, loose chignon, some locks left free in front of her face, with just a colourful pin or two, adorning her head with small flowers. Her eyes are covered in sparkles, her lips coloured peach.

Laszlo is unable to look at her, his face going completely red from embarrassment, while John just smiles, laughing at his friend's reaction. The young woman sits onto a chair placed in the middle of the stage, one leg crossed over the other, one arm over the wooden backrest, making her lean back slightly with her torso. Her voice is loud and clear, yet Laszlo is unable to catch any word coming from her mouth.

She's reciting— Shakespeare? No, no this isn't lady Hamlet. It is… Carmen? Carmen by Bizet? Laszlo cannot distinguish the sounds, his eyes drifting up to her from time to time, just to return looking at the table. His heartbeat is in his ears, worsening his headache.

«John this is deplorable!» Laszlo mutters with his jaw clenched, close to his friend's ear so he can hear him. John just laughs out loud, drinking down what remains of his whiskey.

«Oh please, malarkey! Did not expect you to be the sensitive type. She's in pompous clothing, having fun, and I am too!»

«I am not criticising her for her choice of wardrobe— although very questionable, I am pointing out the fact that a young woman is exposing herself in front of a bunch of miscreants!» Laszlo spits, a laugh from the woman making him jump on his seat.

«Laszlo, her security is the last thing you want to worry about. There's bodyguards everywhere around the stage. If someone even dares to raise a finger at her, he'll lose it to a bullet. Just relax and enjoy the show!»

The young woman's singing stops, or rather lowers, as she leans forward, her legs uncrossing. The hand that rested free, now travels to her corset, her fingers slowly undoing the laces keeping it close. Laszlo's eyes widen, his face whitens for a moment, and he looks at her as he's witnessing a man being burned alive. His hand on the walking stick tightens to the point his knuckles turn pale, and he turns to John with a raging expression.

«You knew about this » he spits, his neck tensing up.

«Of course I knew about it. And if I had told you, you wouldn't have come»

«Regardless of my appreciation or disapproval of an art such as Burlesque, the act of undressing on a stage or in public not only is extremely vulgar and uncouth, but also against the law »

«Laszlo not a day has passed that you've cared about the law of this godforsaken country, don't start using the penal code against me just because you feel embarrassed.»

The young woman, as she keeps reciting, carefully opens up her corset, revealing her breasts, adorned with only her anneaux de sein— or bosom rings, a golden chain connecting the two diamonds pierced in her nipples. As she does so, she stands up from her chair, carefully walking towards the edge of the stage, to then sit down on her legs, her corset now discarded onto the floor.

Laszlo is able to see her properly, her anneaux de sein sparkling in the warm light of the club. His face is completely red, and he's sure he just lost the ability to breathe properly. His tie feels too tight, his clothes are sticking to his skin. He feels trapped, caged.

The young woman's hands travel down to her skirt, gripping its hems tightly, and Laszlo can't help but look away, covering his eyes with his fingers and clenching his jaw. He inhales and exhales heavily, trying to calm his nerves, in vain. But he hears it, the sound of fabric being pulled off, slipping down, discarded. The noises around him get suddenly muffled, his heart now predominant in his ears.

He removes the fingers covering his eyes ever so slightly, his gaze catching her. He sees her bare thighs, hips, waist— covering her genitals just a thin piece of fabric. His eyes widen and he turns away again, almost choking on his saliva, his hand fully covering his face. He doesn't want to watch a second more.

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At the end of the show, both Laszlo and John stand up from their seats, taking the general commotion as a chance to step away and to reach the young woman's changing room. Laszlo's face is still tainted red, his eyebrows furrowed from irritation, his jaw clenched. John just follows along, not at all bothered by the performance. They reach a corridor, warm light seeps under a locked door. She's probably in there.

But before they can reach the door, a man storms in front of them, a serious and unfriendly face looking down at them. They both halt, understanding that he's for certain one of the bodyguards.

John immediately tries to calm the waters down, presenting himself and his friend.

«My name is John Moore, I work for the New York Times— this is my friend and colleague Dr. Laszlo Kreizler» he states, not so confidently. Laszlo takes a step forward, slightly putting himself between John and the bodyguard.

«We're investigating on a murder… we were told one of the suspects used to come at this nightclub often… we are wondering if we could have a word with the young lady.» Laszlo explains further, maintaining a respectful tone of voice.

The bodyguard tuts, looking down at them with distrust. Keeping his arms crossed, he steps back, allowing them to access to the door. Laszlo and John head towards it, but the bodyguard's hand blocks John from entering.

«Only the doctor…» the bodyguard states low, as John's face loses a bit of its colour. He steps back again, and Laszlo sighs, before turning the knob and entering the changing room.

Upon entering, Laszlo's eyes lock with yours in the mirror of your vanity, as you're carefully untangling your hair, still wearing little to nothing. He turns his head away, once again embarrassed.

«Excuse me miss, I did not intend to intrude…» Laszlo apologies, clearing his throat.

«If I was afraid of men seeing me naked, I wouldn't be doing this job, sir. Please, come in» you confidently reply, setting the comb aside on the vanity, and turning your torso just enough to face him properly.

Laszlo slowly turns to you, still red in the face, as he holds his walking stick with both hands.

«…My name is Dr. Kreisler, I'm working with the police department on a case of murder. I was told one of the suspects used to attend to your shows quite often, and I wanted to ask you some questions on the matter.»

You tilt your head, slightly smiling at him.

«Yes, I know who you are… thought I recognised your face. Please, doctor, how may I be of help?» you ask, moving your hand towards the sofa near your vanity, inviting him to sit down.

Laszlo, unsure at first, walks towards the sofa, sitting down and placing his walking stick near him. He looks at you in silence for a couple of seconds, still trying to get accustomed to seeing your body almost completely uncovered.

«…I was told one of your regulars was quite known, around your audience.»

You inhale, turning to look at yourself for a moment in the mirror, recalling the man in your mind. «Yes, we could say that… he was known for being— odd.»

«In what way?» Laszlo asks, instinctively leaning forward, attentive.

You think to yourself, trying to find the right words to describe him.

«…he never caused me, nor my bodyguards, any trouble whenever he came to see me. But, he had the habit of fighting other men outside the club, right after my shows… At first I thought it was just the alcohol, yet he did seem to target just certain people.»

Laszlo tilts his head, curious, his eyebrows furrowing. «…Did he have preferences?»

«I'm no shrink, but… they all were men in their fifties or sixties. Fifteen or twenty years older than him… they could have been his father's age. And they were all men from maybe the middle class? Not necessarily rich, nor poor either. It was weird at first, then I got used to it after a while.»

«Were there any particular days where he wasn't present, in the audience?»

«Well, he used to miss Friday's shows. Then last week I only saw him on Monday, from Tuesday to Thursday he didn't show up.»

Laszlo swallows, nodding in understanding. He keeps his hands held together, his fingers picking on each other; his eyelids flicker from time to time, his gaze remains fixated on you, yet it is as if part of him was distracted, or uncomfortable.

You squeeze your eyes, trying to understand his body language. A small smirk appears on your lips.

«…Is everything alright, Dr. Kreisler? You seem quite nervous» you ask, your voice twisted with the lightest veil of tease.

Laszlo clears his throat, wanting to compose himself, sitting up straighter.

«No, no I'm— I'm fine» his eyes flicker away from your face, playing it off as if it was nothing, but on their way to return to yours, he sees your breasts again, those little diamonds shining in the warm light like little stars. His throat closes, heat creeping up his neck, and he coughs, red in the face once again.

You laugh to yourself, slowly standing up from the chair and walking towards the wardrobe, giving him your back for a moment.

«I hope you can excuse my immodesty, doctor. I've grown so accustomed to it by now, that I forget social rules exist!» you exclaim, your voice cheerful and uncaring.

You grab a large foulard from your wardrobe, wrapping it around you and tying two hems around your neck; you do the same with another scarf, wrapping it around your hips.

Laszlo stares at the ground, holding a hand to his mouth, breathing in and out deeply to calm his nerves. Once you are semi-covered, he raises his gaze back at you. Those diamonds seem not to leave his head, his mind fixated on that sparkling image.

«…You know, I'm actually quite fond of your work, Dr. Kreisler.» you state, walking up to him, resting one hand on the backrest of the chair. «I've read some of your essays… and I appreciate what you do to help children. It is not something that's given.»

Laszlo huffs out a laugh, a smal smile threatening to curve the corners of his mouth, as he looks up at you.

«Well, I am glad my work sparks "interest"» he thanks, his gaze locked with yours.

The room suddenly fills up with silence, neither of you speak. You just stare, at each other. Laszlo swallows again, passing a hand over his thigh to keep his anxiety at bay. Curiousity, is what's taking a hold of him.

He shifts his position slightly, to face you properly, his mouth opening for a second, without any word coming out.

«I— I apologise miss, for my indiscretion, but… it is probably the first time for me seeing such— adornments, of sort. And I was fairly caught off guard…» his voice his unsure, unsteady, and he can barely maintain eye contact.

«Oh, these? Quite charming, aren't they! They were all the rage in London and Paris amongst the wealthy, and when I visited I thought of getting them done. Controversial, I know— not that I care, let's be frank.»

Laszlo inhales, his throat as dry as a desert.

«…Did they hurt?» he asks, letting his curiosity lead him, little by little.

«Enough. Beauty is pain, after all, isn't it?»

Laszlo hesitates, swallowing once again. Instinctively, he stands up, now close to you enough for your breaths to mix. He pants slightly, his right hand hovering at his side, itching to reach out. Noticing this, you allow your foulard to move out of the way, revealing your breasts once again. His hand trembles, and slowly reaches up, his index finger lightly grazing at the diamond jewel, before cupping your breast with his palm, his thumb caressing softly. His gaze remains fixed on your jewelry, as if mesmerized. His lips part slightly, quick inhales and exhales entering and escaping.

You look at him, leaning even closer so your bodies almost tangle up. His eyes finally turn to yours, your noses an inch away from touching. His heart bangs against his ribcage, his blood pumping fast in his veins, adrenaline making his mind hazy.

So he leans in, catching your lips with his. It's soft at first, gentle, testing, his beard grazing your chin. The kiss then turns into something more heated, his lips moving urgently against yours, his tongue searching entrance. You hold yourself against him with your hand gripping on his vest, as his right hand travels down from your chest to your side, your waist to then rest onto your hip, his thumb pressing into your hipbone.

His lips leave his to kiss down to your jaw and along, his beard brushing over your skin as his breathing turns warmer.

A loud bang on the door halts and startles both of you, the voice of your bodyguard piercing through the wood.

«Hurry up in there doctor, or I'll drag you out myself from that nice white collar of yours »

Laszlo clears his throat, composing himself and stepping back and grabbing his cane.

«I apologise, miss» he pants, still blushing.

«…I much enjoyed it, doctor. You should add "good kisser" to your curriculum» you joke, walking back to your vanity.

Laszlo chuckles out of embarrassment, heading towards the door.

«I thank you miss, for your availability… good night»

«Good night Dr. Kreisler… if you ever need me again, from eleven to one, Monday to Friday» you give him a wink, and he steps out of your changing room, trying his best to hide from John the visible emotional shock plastered on his face.

Daniel César Martín Brühl González 16 June 1978