The Universe's Mixer

Lois had received the necklace from Dr. Crane. It was gorgeous and she was flattered, but she also wasn't sure what to make of it. It was an awfully extravagant gift from someone that she wasn't dating.

She did pick up something for him as well-an intricately carved wooden chess set. She wasn't sure if he played, but what shrink didn't enjoy a game that was all about strategy, right?

She called Arkham ahead of time to make an appointment to drop in and give her thanks. The man in question was something of a puzzle to her, though that just made him all the more intriguing. Both Jonathan and Eddie were curious personalities. She sensed just a hint of danger from the two of them, though she couldn't put her finger on why. While some might run screaming from that, Lois was just the sort to want to dig a little deeper.

Enigma laid curled in the large bed she and Bruce shared, various monitors and IV's hooked up to her pale, broken body. She was resting, eyes closed but mind spinning rapidly, trying to figure out how to extract herself from the situation without losing everything she held dear to her.

Jack, as much as she hated to admit it, had been right. She couldn't say that the Joker had done this and retain her status (however tainted and tarnished) in The City. Oh there were some, those who knew her true nature she could tell...Bruce and Damon, her father and Crane (though she had a feeling Crane already knew), but those like Erik and Christine...that annoying reporter, Lane...the police...they couldn't know, not without consequence.

So Enigma thought...and plotted...and planned. The brilliant, gifted mind that was a trait all Nigma's shared spinning at a rapid pace, mapping out twists and turns, benefits and risks, and all the while she lay there in her bed at Stark Tower, trying to heal, to move on, trying not to think about a madman's maniacal grin as he tore into her flesh.

The stone blocks that made the walls of Maxie's Bistro and Wine Bar were large and ancient, showing signs of centuries of use. The wooden beams interspersed throughout were just as scarred. But the decoration - rich golden-framed art, warm red velvet upholstery, fantastic stained glass - kept the place from seeing like a cold, converted castle. It was comfortable here, soothing even -- a place his father would have enjoyed.

Christian followed the serving girl as she wended her way through various rooms until they arrived in a somewhat private nook. A small round table nestled inside a 3/4 square alcove lined with red velvet benches and padded with throw pillows. The wine list was waiting, and with a cursory glance, Christian ordered a bottle something that seemed reasonable - a chardonnay touted to carry apricot, oak, and hints of floral. Those bread knots he'd mentioned before to Fred appeared shortly before the wine carafe.

Some of the cares etched across his face seemed to ease in the muted, golden light. He glanced across the restaurant, then back to Fred. It was empty tonight, save for an elderly couple across the room. A crooning male voice sang in Italian in the background over hidden speakers in the wall. "Well," he said. "What do you think?"

Hannibal stood at the threshold of Erik's elaborate palace, waiting for the attendants that would grant his admittance. It was a routine that they had established over the past while, him having to wait on them, them knowing he would arrive, but not knowing when. He supposed that it would have made it easier for the staff if he'd set a schedule, but he was testing his charge with the surprise visits for a reason.

While he stood still, awaiting the response to his summons, he turned himself inward, wandering the halls of his Mind Palace. A place bigger than even Erik could have ever created. Not for the first time, he maneuvered his way to the room of Erik's surgery, decorated with a steel door, unlike the normal warm wooden ones he typically chose. Inside, the scene was set for the day that he had worked on the operatic genius' heart.

"The surgery is going to take a little longer than I originally told you, due to the wear you have placed on yourself since we spoke about it. Had you been in the health of that day, this wouldn't be so complicated. As it is, I enjoy a challenge." He had secreted Erik out of the Opera House and through a back door to the hospital. While Erik had not wanted to stay in one, Hannibal insisted that the operation itself take place in one. It was the only way he could be certain that he would have everything he could possibly need for every possible issue that might arise. He did, however, operate alone, not even bringing in a nurse to assist.

Hannibal's hands had been deft, his mind on his work and on the instruments around him at the same time. He was careful, sure, but quick. He needed to have Erik healed and out before anybody could question why a room was not booked for his recovery.

He had seen, before leaving the office, Erik's masterpiece, and the vial of morphine that sat beside it. His mind had worked over things very quickly, and had been confirmed at the sight of Erik's arm once the anesthetic took hold. Hannibal knew that he could not give Erik morphine for his recovery. He opted for the derivative, Hydromorphone. It would help Erik's pain, and perhaps even wean him off the actual morphine.

With precise cuts, he opened Erik's chest. Needing to do much work, he had to use a rib spreader instead of the more fancy laparoscopic techniques that would have saved much recovery time. It was a procedure that he would have had to do anyway, no matter if Erik had taken better care of himself, or worse. The man's heart was heavily scarred. It took Hannibal's careful hand a long time to cut away the damaged tissue and stitch together that which could be saved. And as he worked, he kept having one thought. One thing that kept returning to him.

Erik was a man that Hannibal admired. He respected him. Erik was many things, including intelligent, capable, headstrong, and talented. Hannibal had seen the darker side lingering where Erik tried to keep it hidden from the rest of the world. But like called to like, and it could not hide from the monster's adept red eyes. This continued to occur to him as he worked, and as he removed the last piece of damage, before he sewed up the last bit before he could begin to close the wound he had created in Erik's chest, Hannibal's blade bit into the muscle one last time. The piece was small, nothing that would be missed, but substantial enough for the doctor's desires.

He lifted it from the table with great care, eyes carefully on it, his decision made. Hannibal's movements had been steady enough that not even a single drop of blood fell from the section as he brought it closer...

Hannibal shifted his attention to the staff member that arrived and opened the way for him. There was a small nod in thanks and he passed through rooms and hallways, all decorated by Christine for the holiday season, without needing to be shown the way. After his first visit, it had all been mapped in his mind, and while some of the staff still tried to lead him, the smart ones left him to himself.

He stopped at Erik's door, knocking briefly to announce himself before opening it. Glad to see his patient in bed, where he should be. The bed rest would take more time than either man was happy with, but it was, again, Erik's own doing.