Chapter Text
*-*-*-*
“Again, explain to us why you didn't use your healing powers on Mr. Gardner, Doctor Lawson? You can't deny that it would have saved his life.”
Hank stiffened before the Board of Directors to Brooklyn Mercy Hospital. He held back his irritation and forced himself to respond as politely as he could considering that this interrogation was going onto the second hour since he had been asked to appear before them. He had maintained a civil tone only to face judgment and censure in return and his patience to deal with it was waning.
“There was no reason for me to use my Healing Craft,” Hank repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. “When I left the operating room, Mr. Gardner was stable so I made the choice to help another patient. Mr. Gardner's complications were unexpected and there was no guarantee that he would have pulled through if I had remained with him,” Hank continued evenly, resisting the urge to grit his teeth at skeptical looks he was being given. “And, no matter what happened, I have the right to decide whether or not to use my Craft and I may not have chosen to use it.”
The expressions on the faces of most of Board of Directors soured further at the reminder of Hank's legal protection. Yet the way they looked at Hank told him as clear as words where this meeting was headed. When he'd been called in he had suspected it wouldn't end well for him but he'd hoped he would be able to get them to see reason. He'd done nothing wrong.
But, now as Hank stood before the board, he couldn't help but feel a heavy sense dread settling in his guts as he became more and more certain that he wouldn't be leaving with his job. For a long moment Hank was sick with despair, until anger sparked inside him. His craft-senses roiled around him in a field of energy until Hank forced it back under control, cooling his anger, but not his outrage.
He had saved a life. Maybe not the life whom had the most money and power but it was a life worth as much as that of Mr. Gardner. It was a life which had needed him most, and who'd had a much right to live as a billionaire. But from the way these men and women were looking at him, it was clear that they didn't share in his opinion. Bitterly, Hank wondered if they would have felt the same if it had been one of their loved ones he had helped instead of devoting his attention to Mr. Gardner, because he rather doubted it. The hypocrisy... it was too much.
“You're a very good doctor, Healer Lawson. But there are many good doctors in New York, hundreds in fact, who can do the same work that you seem to prefer. But there aren't many Healer-rated Crafters like you, especially not ones that are as skillful as you are and willing to bend their skills to human patients. But if you are unwilling to use your Craft on your patients then we see little need for your services. And I doubt that any hospital in the country would accept a Healer who lets their patients die.”
“I saved a kid's life,” Hank reminded them, but the hospital board looked back at him with pitiless faces and cool eyes. The couple which looked sympathetic looked away, unwilling to say anything and go against the majority. Hank swallowed down the urge to shout that they couldn't just to this. That they couldn't just rip his life apart because one patient faced unexpected complications. Losing a patient was a risk that every doctor took. They couldn't just punish him because the man had been hospital benefactor.
But they had already made up their minds.
Instead, Hank raised his chin and took, without flinching, the loss of his calling, his livelihood, the way of expressing his passion for medicinal care which he lived and breathed each day.
Hank fell apart when he got home.
*-*-*-*
Hank couldn't find a job.
He must have talked to the administrator of every trauma center on the East coast.
No level 01 trauma center in the country wanted a Healer on their staff that had the reputation of being unwilling to use their Craft even if he was a doctor. None of the administrators seemed to care that the law stood behind Hank. Everyone expected a Crafter with healing powers to have a miracle cure, to be the miracle cure, even though every time a Healing Crafter used their power to heal another human being it cost them something in return. This was the reason why, by federal law, no Crafter could be forced to use their crafting powers, even if another person's life was on the line.
It had to be the Crafter's choice.
Yet he kept being told that there were no positions available. They simply weren't hiring.
What really got on Hank's nerves –needling his pride– was that no one seemed to care that he was a doctor, first and foremost. Hank didn't just have a Healing certification. He also had a medical degree, that he spent years working to acquire to be more than just a Healer, to be able to help his patients to the absolute best of all his abilities. He didn't need to use his Healing Craft on his patients to give them the best possible care, but no hospital administrator he talked to seemed to be concerned about that. They wanted the prestige of having a Healing Crafter on staff. They wanted a doctor that would keep their rich benefactors alive. Someone who they could trot to draw attention and money to their hospital which was always something that Hank refused to participate in. But even if he'd been willing to bend on that self-imposed rule –which he wouldn't– no administrator wanted to hire someone who was viewed as responsible for the loss of a hospital billionaire trustee.
Also Hank suspected, although he had no proof, that the Gardner family was spreading the word that they would pull donations from any hospital who hired him. It was the only explanation which Hank could think up for why even understaffed, overworked hospitals who had initially had been interested were then turning around and refusing to accept his phone calls when he tried to contact them again.
And as if being unemployed wasn't enough of a stress, there were the reporters who kept calling Hank at all hours. A Healer being involved in a death usually made the news somewhere, and when it came to someone of Gardner's wealth and standing, it generated even more interest with the media. Hank ignored them, avoiding all phone calls and emails requesting an interview because he'd never been the kind of guy who liked the spotlight (nor had he quite gotten over that phobia of public speaking which really made him break out in a sweat at the thought of being put before a TV camera). When the phone calls continued long past when Hank thought that any interest from the reporters should have faded away, he knew he could blame the Gardners for that too. Although the calls from Crafter rights groups who wanted to hear his side of the story probably couldn't be laid on their door. Probably.
Hank also ignored those calls. If there was a political storm building around his life, Hank wanted no part of it. Hank wasn't particular fond of workplace politics and avoided them whenever possible, actual politics would probably make him break out on hives if he got involved.
All Hank wanted to do was be a doctor.
The most unusual thing to arrive during the torrent of interest he was getting was an invitation to a party being held in the Hamptons by a Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz for Labor Day weekend, it even requested he RSVP. Hank thought it was a joke at best, and something trying to drum up attention by having the recent media pariah show up at their party, at worst, so he ignored like he did with all correspondence that had nothing to do with a hospital. Hank would've thrown it out, but he hadn't taken out the trash for nearly two weeks so all his mail was building up in a messy bound of white envelopes and local adverts on the counter-tops.
Frankly, Hank had other concerns than the mail. Like the way his relationship with Nikki, his fiancee had been steadily disintegrating over the past month like its foundation had been built on nothing more than spun sugar. Hank tried to act like everything was normal but being under the media scrutiny brought it all home and he couldn't ignore how strained and angry their interactions had become.
“My family can't afford to be connected with a scandal, Hank,” Nikki exclaimed. This was only the third time she had stopped by Hank's apartment since he had been fired. It had been nearly a month. “If only you would do something about it, Hank! Talk to those reporters! Get your side of the story out there.”
“No, I'm not going to turn by life into a media circus,” Hank said, annoyed.
Their conversation had devolved into an argument, and Hank had broken up the relationship in a fit of anger and frustration at her lack of understanding over something that mattered so much to him. She'd left with the engagement ring he'd given her, slamming the door behind her.
Ultimately, Hank couldn't find it in himself to regret ending their engagement.
Yet afterward, Hank gave up on finding job anytime soon and everything grew worse. The Gardners filed a civil suit against him and the lawyer he had hired was costing an arm, a leg and a kidney. And while the lawyer was doing a great job of keeping the Gardners from utterly ruining him, every day Hank fell deeper and deeper into debt as his bank accounts dwindled and various bills came due.
Hank spent more than a few nights just staring blankly at the emptying walls of his apartment, wondering how in the world could he go from being on top of the world with his future laid out before him like a smooth and shinning path, only for him to get so hopelessly lost between one second and the next. Hank would be the first to admit, if there had been anyone to ask him, that he fell into depressive funk. He stopped reaching out. He ate whatever was in the kitchen without bothering to restock until he lived solely on pizza. Hank barely moved from the front of his TV even as his stuff was repossessed.
His life sucked and then Evan showed up.
*-*-*-*
“Hank, Hank, you can't keep doing this to yourself,” Evan called out, as he messed around with something in the kitchen. Hank heard the sounds of opening then closing cupboards and the rattle of drawers as Evan muttered unintelligible words under his breath. Hank drank down another gulp from his beer bottle and pointedly ignored him. He loved his little brother, no matter how annoying he could get, but Hank wasn't in any kind of mood to deal with Evan's usual brand of dramatics.
“How can you not have food?” Evan asked, incredulous. He popped his head around the door-frame to stare at Hank with huge blue eyes. “Please, please tell me you haven't been surviving only on take-out since the breakup.”
“This is New York, everyone survives on take-out,” Hank grunted. Confused, he frowned at the TV. “Wait. How did you know about that?” Hank had been keeping quiet about the dissolution of his engagement to Nikki. He had enough of pity and he was sick of it, any more and... well, and not even his Healer Craft would be able to help him with the nausea. Even now his stomach churned... although it could be the fact that his breakfast and lunch had so far been beer, day old pizza and yet more beer.
Evan walked over the him, a handful of envelopes in his hands. “She updated her Facebook status,” Evan explained, his expression sympathetic. “You could have told me, you know. I'm always on your side,” he added in a hurt tone.
Hank sighed heavily. “I know, I know... thanks.” Hank eyed the stack of mail in his brother's hand. He hadn't bothered to sort thorough it as almost every single envelope was a bill, anyway, his more important correspondence came through email. Evan cradled them in his hands as he sat next to Hank on the floor. Most of the furniture had been repossessed. The last time Hank had such a bare apartment had been his first apartment after college. It was a depressing sight which is why he tried to let the TV keep all of his attention.
“You want to talk about Nikki?”
“No,” Hank grunted.
“Yeah, okay,” Evan sighed, then he frowned down at the envelopes. “Have been you ignoring your bills? You know that's not good for your credit score, Hank!” He flipped through the stack until he came across the party invitation. “What's this?” Evan asked, fascinated by the fancy script and thickness of the paper. Hank ignored the rustling of paper until Evan shouted, “Oh my god!”
Hank jumped, startled. Beer spilled all over his hands and onto his white under shirt. “What? Damn it, Evan.”
Evan grabbed his brother by the right shoulder as he frantically waved the invitation in his left hand right before Hank's face. He narrowly missed smacking Hank's nose with it. “Do you know what this is?”
Hank grimaced and wiped his beer wet hand on Evan's shirt. Evan didn't even flinch, his eyes were bright and he was grinning fit to crack his cheeks under the force of his smile.
“Yeah,” Hank said dryly. “That came in while I was still reading my mail.” Hank pretty much gave up on reading when it was all bills and rejection letters. Around the point where he stopped looking for work was when he gave up on even bothering to open them.
“It's an invitation to a party in the Hamptons! The Hamptons, Hank,” Evan said, loudly.
“I'm right here, you don't have to yell,” Hank protested and shoved his brother away.
“Please, please, tell me you've RSVPd, already?” Evan begged, clasping the invitation between his hands as he pressed his palms together in supplication.
Hank was disturbed by how big Evan's eyes looked as he pleaded. He grimaced. “No, because I'm not going,” Hank said, looking back to the TV where Field Of Dreams continued to play so he could avoid Evan's puppy dog eyes.
Evan grabbed the remote control from where it was resting on the floor and paused the movie. “Yes, yes you are. This is perfect. You've need something to get you out of your slump. This is it!”
“I'm fine,” Hank protested, scowling at his brother as he tried to snatch back the remote. Evan leaned away from him and raised the remote over his head and out of Hank's reach.
Evan gave him a sardonic look and pointedly glanced around the empty apartment which was bare of furniture and had a small tower of the pizza boxes stacked in one corner. There were so many empty beer bottles rolling on the laminate floor that it would only take another two or three to turn the living floor into a serious safety hazard.
It was a pathetic and depressing sight... but it was all Hank had.
“No,” Hank insisted firmly, digging in his heels.
*-*-*-*
Okay, so his little brother had been right. Hank had been initially skeptical about letting Evan drag him off to a party held all the way in the Hamptons, much less to one hosted by some rich guy that he didn't know. Yet Hank had been wallowing in the ruins of his life, letting it drag him down so much that he hadn't been able to even motivate himself to get food that wasn't delivered to his door. Evan's unstoppable enthusiasm (and pestering little brother super-power which Hank would swear was powerful enough to taken down a Smith Crafter) had forced Hank into taking a shower, dressing in clean clothing that wasn't an undershirt and boxers, and got him into the sun.
Which, Hank had realized as he had driven his convertible to the Hamptons with the wind tugged at his hair, had been far too long since he last got a good dose of sunshine and fresh air. Just the drive had made him feel better. His brother had convinced him that it would be good for him to forget about all his problems for at least one weekend. After all Hank's wreck of a life would still be there when he got back. Hank had grudgingly agreed. He might as well enjoy spending time with Evan without it hanging over him. So now that Hank was at the Hamptons he couldn't help but think that Evan probably had the right idea all along. Not that he would ever tell his little brother that, of course, since Evan would never let him live it down.
But Hank had needed to get out his apartment, although he hadn't really thought this kind of party would be where he would end up.
The DJ bounced along with the percussive beat pounding out of the concert large speakers. Every room which Hank had seen was full of dancing people. Hank glanced around the party, noting with quiet appreciation the skewed ratio of beautiful women to men, with the women outnumbering the men something like four to one. Something that was, no doubt, sending Evan into paroxysms of joy. Hank almost felt sorry for the unsuspecting women about to be forced to deal with his brother, but better them than him. Hank loved his brother but he had already been stuck with Evan for hours in the car. He needed a break.
Hank also kept sharp eye on the security guards stationed throughout the house and the grounds who were dressed in somber black suits and wore radio earpieces. For a party there was quite a lot of security and they were armed with more than just guns, there were also several Crafters among them which made Hank more alert than usual. Hank didn't often use his powers to sense the presence of other Crafters, as he thought it was a rather rude thing to do since there were some Crafters who couldn't do the same. And then there were those that ignored their Crafting ability and didn't like to be reminded that they had it because although Crafting Rights had improved remarkably over the past 100 years, there were still people who were prejudiced about Craft power. The accusation of 'witchcraft' still lingered, even in the name however much it had been sanitized over the decades. Yet the sheer number of Crafters which Hank could feel at the party, their combined power thrumming the air with their energy like the low hum of exposed electrical wire made him rather curious. The last time Hank sensed so many Crafters in one place there had been during a Crafting convention which had been held in the city. He certainly had a learning experience about sensing fellow Crafters when he ended up in a subway train half-way full of them.
Mostly, Hank sensed Shifters and while Shift Crafters were a lot more common than Healers, he had never run into a situation where he could feel fifteen of them, all in one place. And they weren't the only one type of Crafter around, Hank also felt the distant present of an Elemental.
To hire so many Crafters... to need that kind of manpower a person had to be really wealthy, and either very paranoid or facing a lot of all too real threats against their life.
Hank had once heard a news broadcaster describe one Shifter as being the equivalent of ten trained soliders in a fight. Which wasn't too far off the mark since a good Shifter, whose power gave them excellent control of every party of their bodies, could do amazing things. They had increased strength, speed, could call forth claws and fangs, had increased endurance, and even –if they were really good– an accelerated ability to heal their wounds. And then there were the Elementals, who with their ability to Craft the inorganic matter of their surroundings were the equivalent of an army squad and their artillery.
Anyone that felt that they needed what amounted to a small army of super-soldiers and a living weapon wasn't living a peaceful or restful life. And here Hank was thinking his life was bad. Talk about giving him some perspective. At least, all his threats were financial in origin and no one was actively endangering his life.
One of the beautiful women of the party approached Hank with a smile on her face and a champagne flute in her hand. Her dark hair shone under the lights, glossy and strong. The smile on her shimmering red lips deepened as she saw Hank notice her approach.
“Hi, I just had to come over to tell you that I love your shirt,” she said softly, looking at him through her long sooty eyelashes, brightened with an eyeshadow that brought out the bright green of her eyes.
Hank smiled back. “Thanks!” he said cheerfully. “It's from Costco.” He had to resist a laugh at her bewildered expression.
Every conversation throughout the night began just as banally. The only amusement Hank got out of the party was, after he told the women about his shirt and his terrible current circumstances (having been fired and in debt up to his eyeballs), was how they tried to find a way to escape the conversation as politely and as quickly as they could. He gave them points for the most graceful and natural exit. Those who just turned around and walked away the moment they realized they wouldn't be able to get anything out of him, made him laugh. And they earned zero marks across the board.
Oh, Hank knew that he didn't have to share anything about his current problems and it probably would have been easier on his ego to lie to those women. But, unlike Evan, who had made a beeline for the biggest group of women as soon as they had made it past the front doors of the mansion, Hank wasn't looking for relationship at the moment, and even less for a one night stand. He had never been able to do casual relationships in his life and he hardly expected to start up now. No matter how much Evan insisted it would be perfect cure for broken heart. If Hank heard one more comment about fishes in the sea...
Still, however much entertainment Hank had been having with the other guests, he was grateful when he heard the urgent call for a doctor as it broke the latest awkward conversation he was having with yet another beautiful woman. He stepped away to answer, not bothering to look back as she let out a long sigh of deep relief.
Instead, Hank focused on finding whoever it was who needed his help.
*-*-*-*
Hank hadn't expected to have to save a life nor did he expect to actually come face to face with his host. He had been at the party for the better part of two hours without running into the man, so he thought he would get through the next hour before he slipped away (leaving Evan to enjoy himself) without ever meeting Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz.
At least, April was alright and recovering as far as his craft-senses had been able to tell him. No thanks to Boris (considering he'd never introduced himself Hank was guessing he was Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz) and his insistence on no ambulance and no cops.
Speaking of his host, Hank been asked to meet the man in his office. He had followed another man wearing eyeglasses, who had politely requested that Hank follow him after Hank had settled April into one of the mansion's bedrooms. The personal assistant, who never did give Hank his name, led him to a door that was guarded by two bulky Shifters. As Hank walked by them he sensed them use their Craft to make their ears grow longer, until they resembled bat ears, furling outwards before they swiveled back and forth tracking sounds far beyond the limit of human hearing. Hank pulled his craft-senses back into himself before they caught on that he was scanning them. Shifters' craft-senses may be the weakest of all Crafters, but that didn't mean they were morons.
“Do you always keep a detox kit around for the occasional OD?” Hank asked dryly, as the personal assistant left him alone with a man Hank was now pretty certain was Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz. Really, the German accent would have been a dead give away even if Hank hadn't already seen various people jumping to obey him.
“For the personal protection of my guests,” Boris said lightly.
“For the protection of your privacy,” Hank corrected, not bothering to keep his disdain from showing. He didn't have much respect for people who held such little value for the lives of others. “So I take it you're Boris.”
“Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz.” He held out his hand and Hank took in on reflex, shaking it firmly. “You're be informal about it too, no?”
Hank had to agree with a huff of amusement. “I'm Hank.”
“Hank,” Boris said slowly. He elongated Hank's name as if he was tasting it. As if the name was unique and he had never run into it before yet he also found it to his liking. “Have a seat, Hank,” he said as he turned to stand behind the single desk in the office. “In all honestly, I wasn't expecting to see you tonight. You never responded to R.S.V.P your invitation.”
“I wasn't planning on showing up,” Hank admitted stiffly, not bothering to sit down.
“I'm delighted that didn't turn out to be the case,” Boris said. “I had been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
Hank blinked, feeling a little apprehensive as to why the man was interested in him. He still didn't know why he'd been invited to the party in the first place especially now that his initial suspicions about why he'd been invited hadn't panned out. But he did have one guess.
It always seemed to come down to his Healing Craft.
Instinctively, Hank nearly reached out to Boris with his craft-senses, but reigned himself in at the last instant before he touched the other man with his power. Just because his Healing Craft gave him intimate knowledge and understanding of another human being to the point that Hank could discern most emotions from reading the biological changes which a human body underwent when feeling anger, or sadness or any other strong emotion, it didn't mean that Hank should use his power whenever curiosity struck him. But most importantly he wasn't the man's doctor. It would be a violation of Boris' civil rights, as well as several oaths Hank had sworn upon being Healing Craft certified, for Hank to scan him deeply enough to read what Boris was feeling without his expressed permission.
Surface scans, on the other hand, were inevitable with Healing Craft. So much so that in the 1970s the Supreme Court had ruled that such light scans did not violate personal privacy. It was the equivalent of a non-crafter being able to read body language. Yet Hank kept all of his power reigned in under tight control not wanting to risk even the possibility of a light scan. He had enough legal trouble to last him a lifetime.
“Although I am curious as to why you didn't use your Healing Craft on April,” Boris continued.
Hank stiffened. “I would have. If you didn't have the antidote, or if you continued to refuse to call an ambulance. You really should have let me call them.” Now, he couldn't help but wonder if Boris' insistence of no paramedics didn't also have partially to do with forcing Hank to use his Craft. The man hadn't made a mention of it before, but he clearly knew who and what Hank was even though Hank hadn't given him a last name, much less admitted he was anything more than a doctor.
“Life isn't always simple.”
“Well, death is,” Hank shot back.
They stared at each other, neither willing to back down.
“Sit down, Hank,” Boris said after a moment, gesturing toward the seat across he desk. His tone didn't make it a request. Some of Hank's indignation on being ordered must have shown on his face because Boris' tone gentled as he added, “Please.”
Grudgingly admitting to himself that he had no reason not to, Hank sat on the chair. Hank resisting the urge to shift on it as it was an uncomfortably angled red chair. Idly he wondered if Boris had chosen it for that particular trait or if was chosen because it was fashionable. Probably both, if the intelligence that Hank could see in Boris' blue eyes was any kind of indicator. Hank never had patience for that sort of manipulative grandstanding. He preferred to be more straight forward when dealing with people.
Hank was growing more and more irritated by the minute.
“There are not many doctors named Hank who have been recently fired from their positions, much less one who I've invited to visit my home,” Boris explained. After a beat he added, “Healer Lawson.”
“I really prefer Hank.”
Boris kept looking at him with an evaluating gaze. The pressure of his interest was like a weight against Hank's skin. “You are unexpected, Hank. I thought I had met every Healer on the continent who was certified for human Crafting. Healers are not such a common power that you would have been overlooked. You can understand my surprise when I learned that I had missed meeting you.”
“I'm a doctor first,” Hank explained, wishing that the conversation was over. “When I signed my contract with the hospital I made certain that they couldn't capitalize on my Craft.” And hadn't they been irritated after a while when they wanted to renegotiate that particular hurdle in exploiting Hank's power and he refused to budge. Maybe he should have seen it then how much the administrators didn't take care of their doctors and how badly suited Hank was to Brooklyn Mercy.
“Is that why you chose not to use your Craft on April, Hank?” Boris asked, leaning forward. “You could have saved her life without the antidote, easily enough.”
“I didn't use it because I didn't need to,” Hank sighed. “If your doctor had treated her for drug overdose, I would have used my Craft then because he would've killed her. If your guards hadn't had the antidote, I would have used it to monitor her until the ambulance arrived. But only if I had no other choice. I use my Craft as a last resort.” Hank narrowed his eyes. “Why do do you want to know?”
“You intrigue me, Hank,” Boris said thoughtfully. “I have never met a Healer who also had a medical degree before.”
“There are a couple around,” Hank said, warily. “They chose to go into research and never actually have human patients.”
“Most Healers don't survive their late twenties,” Boris said. “Much less medical school.”
Hank looked away.
That was the ugly truth of the Healing Craft which people didn't like to talk about. Healers, unlike practically every other Crafter or Talent, payed a steep price for their skill. Because they could mold and force biological matter of animals and people they paid a price for their ability in the form of their own energy. Living energy was needed to Craft living matter. Gardeners had a similar power, but as they dealt solely with plants, they rarely exhausted themselves the way a Healer could, entirely too easily.
The most important skill which a Healing Crafter had to learn was when to not to use their power, because it was all too easy to pour out their energy into their patients until nothing was left for them. It was practically hardwired into Healers to heal, to repair bodies, to help their patient survive at all costs. More than half of Healers who practiced their Craft on human patients died of heart failure, before they hit their mid-30s, while leaving behind corpses which were considered perfectly healthy by every medical examiner who conducted the autopsy. That's why, on average, Healers went into veterinary medicine, or research, or ignored their Craft altogether. Healers were as common as Elementals but their Craft made them downright rare since their power killed so many that only a handful made it past their first decade since the day their Craft started manifesting.
Which was why by federal law, Hank had the right to decide when or even if he was going to use his Craft. Healers couldn't be prosecuted for not using their ability, although the public didn't often react with the same understanding when lives were lost. The Gardner's lawsuit against him had to focus solely on a malpractice claim due to Hank being a doctor. Sometimes the knowledge that if he had been only a Healer, and not a doctor at all, he would have been safe from being sued made Hank want to break something... or drink himself into a stupor.
When Hank's crafting power had first started emerging, he'd had to make the decision of what he would do with it. By then he had already known he wanted to be a doctor, the loss of his mother had set him on that path even before he'd manifested at 17. But when Hank had come into his power he'd had to decided if he wanted to exercise it, or if he was going to ignore it and become a doctor without any kind of crafting ability.
Hank had almost done it. He'd almost set his power aside, mostly because of his brother. Evan had been terrified when Hank had come into his Craft and had begged and begged Hank to turn away from it, to let it lie fallow until it withered away from disuse. His little brother had cried every night for a week, certain that Hank would die if he left his sight. Evan had refused to sleep any other place than in Hank's bed for over a month and for several years afterward he didn't come to Hank whenever he'd been hurt out of fear that Hank would use his craft to heal him and then Hank would be that much closer to death, even when Hank explained that crafting power didn't work that way.
It had been a difficult decision and more than once Hank had come close to ignoring his Healing Craft but in the end Hank had chosen the harder path. He'd decided to use his Craft while also becoming a doctor, trying his best to save lives without it costing it his own. Hank had made the choice knowing the consequences of embracing the Healing Craft when he would be surrounded by people who would desperately need it because he'd known his crafting power would be a tremendous benefit to his future patients.
And there was no way he could face a patient without doing everything he could to help them.
Yet after all this time, Evan didn't like to be reminded of the average lifespan for a Healer even knowing that Hank preferred to use his practical medical skills over his Craft. Hank had long ago decided to never his brother know of the instances when he did end up having to push his crafting power to his limits, which happened even with Hank trying his best to avoid it. Emergency rooms saw the worst and vicious injuries and sometimes Hank's patients needed those few extra seconds of life that he could give them just to stabilize under standard medical care.
But even with him being careful Hank believed that he'd only managed to live as long as he had was solely because of his Talent.
Talents weren't like Crafters. Talents were small magical skills, and unlike Crafting, the power ran in families and were never so strong that the power draw threatened the life of the Talent holder. Also, Talents were pretty common, about a third of the population on the planet had a Talent power. And the powers of a Talent ranged from common abilities like minor kinetics to dowsers to incredibly rare skills, such as being able to breathe underwater or telepathy.
Lawsons were dowsers. It was a finding power which Hank and Evan had inherited from their father. It had been the only thing of value Eddie had ever given them, as far as Hank was concerned. Evan's Talent was the ability to find metals, or 'treasure' as he liked to call it. Evan could walk onto a beach and walk out an hour later with a pocketful of loose change and lost jewelery. When he had been a kid, Evan had once found a couple hundred dollars worth of change over the course of summer in Jersey, which Hank suspected was what had sparked his lifelong love of making money.
Hank's own Talent was more idiosyncratic. When he had a problem, he could look around and find a solution. He usually only used it to find a solution to a medical problem but it worked for even minor things like finding his car keys or the TV remote control when it got lost in the couch cushions. But his talent wasn't perfect, if there wasn't an immediate solution on hand his talent was useless. It couldn't make a solution just appear out of thin air. His talent could only bring it to Hank's attention by marking the solution in a faint white glow. But it had been enough of an advantage that Hank never had to relay solely on his Craft.
“But questioning how you managed to be both a doctor and healer is not why I wished to meet with you,” Boris said as he stood up from behind his desk, walking around it to face Hank. Boris leaned back against the desk, resting his hip on the desktop, looking down at Hank as he said, “If I asked you to scan me with your Craft, would you do it?”
Hank got to his feet, briefly fighting the chair and ending up entirely too close to Boris. He was abruptly aware of the other man's body in a way that had nothing to do with his Craft. He had noticed before that Boris was a handsome man, but considering he had been focused on saving April's life at the time, the observation had been clinical. Now, with nothing to distract Hank, Boris' attractiveness hit him with the force of someone slamming a sledgehammer on the button to his libido, making entirely too aware that he'd gone from having sex on a regular basis to an abrupt dry spell over the last couple of weeks. Hank forced himself to ignore his own reactions and took a step away from Boris.
“Is something wrong?” Hank asked in concern, instead of answering. He nearly reached out with his craft-senses, reigning himself at the last minute. Boris wasn't his patient. Actually, just by looking at him, Hank couldn't see anything immediately wrong with Boris. There were no obvious symptoms indicating the man was in poor health. His blue eyes were clear and tracking Hank without lag. There was no trembling in his hands or signs of sudden weight loss. He showed no obvious sign of illness. Boris looked to be perfectly healthy and incredibly fit. So either his illness was well masked, or hadn't yet expressed itself. “I'm not your doctor.”
“No. At least, not yet. Hank, I would like to hire you to be my personal physician,” Boris said, staring at Hank intently. His gaze was full of heavy interest which made the hairs on the back of Hank's neck stand on end. For a man who seemed to be only a non-crafter, with no sign of Talent which Hank could discern, Boris had an unmistakably charismatic presence. He stood with the certainty of man of power, albeit power of a sort that had nothing to do with manipulation magical energies. Boris had been watching him the same way practically from the moment he entered the room where Hank had been treating April. At the time Hank had dismissed the attention as mere concern over the woman's health, but now...
“Don't you already have one?” Hank asked, thinking of the doctor who nearly killed April by assuming she was a drug addict. Hank shook his head before Boris could respond. “Thank you for the offer, but I'm not planning on staying in the Hamptons. I'm only here for the weekend.” Hank turned around to head out of the office, but his growing concern made him pause before he ever took a step.
Hank had never been able to reign in his drive to save people. The instinct to help was too deeply rooted in him to try to rip it out so late in his life (he thought he would have it even if he wasn't a Healer) he was hardly going to start with Boris. Hank hesitated briefly before turning around to face Boris. If there's something wrong with him and he just left... Hank would never forgive himself. “What's wrong?”
Boris got off the desk and took a step closer, holding out his hand. “You tell me, Hank.”
Frowning, Hank wondered if Boris was yanking his chain, although he could see no reason for it. He reached out and clasped the other man's hand. Having been given explicit permission, Hank called forth his power, the heat growing in his veins before curling outward, powering his extrasensory perceptions which were part of his gift, his Healing Craft.
Hank stretched out his Craft, shaping it into a tendril of golden light and wrapping it around Boris wrist, following the circle of his thumb and forefinger. To mundane eyes, it would have looked like Boris was wearing one of those chemical glow-stick bracelets.
To Hank's Craft eyes it looked like he had spread out a significant portion of his power so like looked like a membrane of energy covered Boris making him incandescence brightly from head to toe. For a second, Hank let his craft-senses hover over him before sinking into Boris.
Hank scanned the man's skin, sifting through the various layers of dermal tissue and down to the muscle. He found nothing. He sunk further in, shifting into blood vessels which pulsed in a steady heartbeat. He found them strong and unobstructed. Hank followed the vessels to the heart which he carefully studied as pounded away without arrhythmia or blockage. He checked it three times before he was satisfied that there nothing was wrong before he moved on, tunneling through bones, past the hard calcium outer shell to the spongy marrow where master stem cells produced red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets. Hank scrutinized nerves, following their bright blue electrical signals towards the incredibly nuclear furnace of energy which was the human brain.
Hank had be swift when looking at it while also being as thorough as he could manage. It was too easy for a Healer to lose him or herself in the complex structure of the human brain. It was too fascinating with its scintillating colors and its unmapped neural pathways. The brain held so many mysteries that even Healing Craft couldn't answer. Hank wasn't particularly religious, but he always thought that the radiance of a living human mind which he could see through his craft-senses had to echo the fires of creation with its sheer vibrancy, power and limitless potential.
Even with his experience Hank had to forcibly tear himself away from Boris' brain when he found nothing wrong there either. Then Hank focused on the internal organs, checking through each one ticking them off in order of most important to least. In the lungs he found tobacco residue, of the sort that came from an occasional cigar smoker, but no cancerous cells.
Hank found nothing obviously wrong with Boris.
Except... if the whole of a human body could be described as a metaphorical symphony, it would be the most complicated symphony ever devised and played by the largest orchestra to ever exist. It would contain every single instrument known to mankind. Guitars, pianos, harps, trombones, cellos, flutes, drums of all kinds and every instrument forgotten with the passing of history as well as all yet to be invented.
And somewhere in the ocean of music which made up Boris' body there was a player whose notes were sour, sending out ripples of nearly imperceptible disharmony.
Floating amidst the universe of which was another human being, Hank considered the last time he'd felt a similar discordant thrum. He hesitated only for second, too driven by the need to diagnose Boris, to learn what was wrong so he could know how to fix it and heal him. Hank narrowed his focus, driving his concentration into one cell. He bypassed the limpid cell wall and drifting past organelles until he came to the nucleus of the cell and the tightly coiled DNA with in.
There Hank could feel it. The sour note was coming from within the nucleus in Boris' DNA. Hank was drawn to it, the instincts of his Craft wanting to drive him forward but he forced himself away. It took all his willpower to ignore the disharmony as he pulled his awareness upwards and outwards... because even Healing Craft had it's limits.
Human DNA was too much. While deceptively simply, it was made up of billions of DNA base pairs which would overwhelm him if he wasn't careful; it was the same reason why Healers didn't scan organs or tissue cell by cell. And while it was possible that Hank could change the DNA of one cell by forcing himself to the limits of his crafting power, it would kill him to try to change every single one which made up a human body.
Hank didn't have that amount of power. No Healer did. It just wasn't part of his craft.
Hank inhaled sharply as he pulled his awareness back into himself. He opened his eyes to find himself plastered to Boris' front and tucked under his chin. He was so close that his eyelashes brushed against Boris' throat. Hank could feel the buttons of his suit jacket pressing through own thin Costco shirt. Hank's hands were clamped firmly around Boris' wrists, not so tightly that he'd leave bruises, but hard enough that the man would have to fight to get free if he wanted to escape Hank's hold.
Mortified, Hank jerked back, releasing Boris as if he was burning red-hot. He cleared his throat and then did it again. Uncomfortably, Hank said. “Um, sorry about that.” When he'd needed to deepen his scan his body must have moved closer to Boris. Not for the first time Hank was very, very glad that his Craft let him control his blush response.
Something flashed across Boris' face, too quickly suppressed for Hank to get a read on. His craft-senses shivered, trying to reach out again driven by his curiosity, but Hank jerked himself another step away before his crafting power could touch Boris. He was a doctor not a voyeur to learn everything which Boris wanted to keep hidden.
Boris said softly, “It's alright, Hank. I could see you were not aware of yourself.” Something dark and serious lurked within Boris' eyes. “What were you able to discover?”
“You have mutation, a gene in your DNA that has the potential to be harmful to you,” Hank said swallowing, remembering the discordant tone. If the mutation had been benign he wouldn't have heard any disharmony, and he wouldn't have been drawn so strongly to fix the mutation. His eyes ached, and he rubbed at them, knowing that it wasn't a real symptom from his body but a side-effect of his using his craft to see so deeply into another person.
“Yes.” Boris closed his eyes for a second before he opened them again.
This time Hank had no problem in reading the raw emotions which flooded Boris' face: relief, devastation, fear, and hope. All which were swiftly hidden behind another mask of calm control. Hank's chest ached at knowing he would have to snuff that hope because what was wrong with Boris was beyond his powers to fix. There wasn't any Healing Crafter who would be strong enough. Even a Smith, the strongest Crafting power around, wouldn't be able to do it.
“Boris, there's nothing I can do. I'm not that kind of doctor, and Healing Craft can't do anything about genetic diseases,” Hank said sympathetically. Softer, he said, “I'm sorry.”
“I am aware of the limitations of the Healing Craft, Hank,” Boris agreed, but he kept looking at Hank with entirely too much intent. As if Hank had the solution, or was the answer to some question he'd been thinking about. “Still I would like to hire you to be my personal physician. I am fully aware of your history, including your current troubles with the Gardners. I am willing provide assistance to help you overcome them.”
Hank blinked in surprise, thrown by the offer of help. No one, other than his brother had offered to help him. But then no one had tried to use his problem with them to their advantage either. “Thank you,” Hank said, unable to help his dry tone. “But I'm taking care of that just fine on my own.” Hank's stomach chose that moment to growl sounding embarrassingly loud. Both of them glanced down to Hank's stomach.
“My apologies, I'm fully aware of how Crafting can increase metabolism and I had forgotten to take that into consideration,” Boris said, after a second. “Join me for dinner, Hank.” Boris leaned closer. There was a heat in his eyes which made Hank's heartbeat speed up. “It would provide me the chance to try to talk you into my point of view, at the very least.”
Hank hesitated, and his stomach growled again, even louder than before. He had only been eating the canapes and these delicious dainty crunchy shrimp things which weren't exactly filling. The thought of driving around the Hamptons, which he didn't know very well, while trying to find an open place to eat on one of the biggest party weekends of the summer (as Evan had extolled at length when trying to convince Hank to go to the party) made him mentally wince and his stomach growl again, as if angry at the idea.
Yet as tempted as he was to share a meal with Boris there was an invitation in his body language that had nothing to do with dinner. And as much as Hank found himself interested, he didn't think he was at the mental or emotional stage to do anything rash. Especially with someone who was offering him a job to be their doctor.
“Thanks but I'll have to decline,” Hank said.
After a moment, Boris nodded and sat back. “Dieter will show you the kitchen. Anthony will make you something to eat.”
Hank nodded his thanks and turned away.
“And Hank...”
He turned his head to see Boris giving him an intense look with his blue eyes bright.
“You are welcome to return to Shadow Pond at any time.”
*-*-*-*
Hank was not planning on staying in the Hamptons any further than the weekend. No matter how many of a paroxysms of joy Evan had over the gold bar which Boris had sneaked into the backseat of Hank's Turbo convertible. Or how charming and handsome the man had proved to be. Or how quickly Evan had joined Boris' side – traitor! – in insisting that moving away from Manhattan was the best thing that Hank could do at this point in his life.
“He gave you a gold bar, Hank! A real gold bar! Do you have any idea how crazy my Talent is going at the feel of a real gold bar?” Evan whispered, barely managing to keep his voice down in his excitement.
Hank popped his head from the bathroom where he was about to start brushing his teeth. “Yes, so you've told me a million times how much you love the gold bar. And before you ask, no, you can't marry it.” Hank said, not bother to lower his voice even as Evan hissed at him him and made frantic 'hush' motions as he looked around the hotel room with wide paranoid eyes. Exasperated, Hank rolled his eyes and ducked back into the bathroom to stand before the white vanity sink.
“I'm just saying, that gold bar translates to enough cash to put you in the black for several months. And if this is the kind of money he's willing to pay you...”
“Not everything is about money, Evan. And I'm pretty sure the gold is a one time sort of thing.” At least, Hank hoped so. Getting paid in gold bars was too ostentatious. And just plain ridiculous.
“Yeah, okay, I kinda agree. Sorta. Okay, not really. I'm just saying, Hank. You've been looking for a job. And now one has landed at your feet. And is practically begging for you to take it.”
Hank grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, his traveling toothbrush sticking out the side.
“Take it, Hank. It's begging for it. Take it hard.”
Hank spat out his mouthful of toothpaste and spun around to stab the foamy end of the brush at his brother. “Never say that again,” Hank said flatly. He rinsed out his mouth wishing it was as easy to scrub his brain. Why couldn't his healing craft work as brain bleach? Now that was a question he needed an answer for. Maybe if he knew which brain cells to burn out...
Evan said enthusiastically, “Don't you see how perfect this is? You'd have a job and you'd get to live in the Hamptons!” Evan's voice became somber and quieter. “But more importantly, you wouldn't be risking your life in a hospital with a lot of patients.”
Hank came out of the bathroom, mentally agreeing that Evan had good points but unwilling to admit to them. Everything and everyone he knew was back in New York. It had been his home for so many years, even Evan was close enough to drop by for a visit every once in a while. The thought of just uprooting... well, the thought was rather discomforting. “But that's the thing, Evan. I didn't become a doctor to help one person. I want to help everyone I can. That's why I chose to work for a hospital in the first place.”
Evan stepped right up to Hank and grabbed his shoulders. “I know that, but Hank... you've got to give yourself some time to get back on your feet. No one says you have to stay with this job for the rest of your life.”
Hank snorted, remembering how quickly Boris' previous personal doctor had been dismissed. “Yeah, it doesn't exactly have job security.”
“But it would be perfect for the summer. Just long enough to earn some money and give yourself some breathing space until you found another job,” Evan said enthusiastically. “Just a week ago you were complaining about getting nagged by those Craft-rights groups. They won't be able to bug you if you're here. Give it a couple of months and I bet everyone would have forgotten about you.”
Which... was a really attractive idea. Between them, the media and the occasional hate mail from anti-Craft bigots, Hank could appreciate having a new place to live. Mind you, he'd thought he would be looking for another apartment in the city, not moving to a guest cottage in an estate which he was starting to suspect was bigger than the island of Manhattan.
Hank sank flat on his bed, pressing his arm over his eyes. “I'll tell you what I told Boris: No.”
“Hank,” Evan whined. “Hank, come on. This is a great idea!”
He continued on, even when Hank tried to hide under his pillow and sincerely considered using his Craft to make himself temporary deaf.
Giving up, Hank pulled off the pillow to glowered at his little brother. “Alright, enough. I'll think about it, Evan.”
Evan grinned.