not a nice man

Saburov straightens his back in acknowledgement of the tall clinician that approaches, despite the soreness. The edge of discomfort was coming back with the painkillers cycling out of his system, but he still thought it prudent to maintain an air of decorum, in spite of all circumstances that led up to this… well, his being at the clinic to begin with.

He takes the bottle offering, “Thank you, Rubin,” he murmurs before clearing his throat with the fluid, washing off the taste of bitter herbs from his teeth and gums.

Due a bandage change, certainly. The freshly opened scars that he carried through fire and pest were seeping clear, scabbing, and hardly bloody anymore. A good sign at least that his constitution hadn’t failed yet, and the road to recovery would be relatively short- even if it was a bitch to get through.

In all honesty, it was the final kick to the chest that was the most frustrating injury. Alexander still felt as if his sternum had caved and wasn’t quite back to the right form. Breathing was a little more of a chore.

But Rubin asks if there was anything else that he needed, and Saburov gives a curt nod in response.

“Yes, actually. I had a proposition for you.”

Rubin typically listens more than he talks, and he knows that the honest man didn’t need turgid verses or long-winded preambles to appreciate reasonable requests.

So, Alexander speaks when he has the acknowledgement of attention, and allows Rubin to continue with his work- which was equally as important as the request.

“I am putting together a council to help manage and determine the direction of the town and its survivors. I would like you to be on it.”

He sets down the water on the side table, “There are plans to establish a proper hospital and health facilities. You’ve the most experience with both medicine and the people within the town. I trust your judgement in determining what is necessary to run a smooth operation, as well as the equipment, funding, and staffing.”

“It will be your decision,” Alexander says, bluntly, “It’s a lot of responsibility to ask, and I won’t begrudge anyone for refusing, but I do think of everyone in town, you are the best suited for the position.”

For a moment his head swims, certain he couldn't be hearing right. Heading health services and facilities... for the entire population, on some form of council? Him, not Artemy or Daniil? A small chime rings out in the silence following the Governor's proposal as Stakh accidentally drops two morphine vials into the same partition. The concept of a council is intriguing, it would have been inconceivable at any point prior to the wildly fluctuating present, the ruling families would never have seriously considered or supported such a thing.

His hands slowly recover their pace as he processes, plucking up the superfluous capsule and slotting it into the next cell. Even under Isidor's guidance maintaining the clinic had been a constant struggle, a bottom-up attempt to manage the health of the town on a trickle of resources. Despite that, Stakh had aspired to take up responsibility for the clinic following Isidor's eventual retirement, back when the lack of replies from Artemy had rendered him dead or worse in his mind. With Artemy returned... he had quietly set those thoughts aside.

Aware of time passing, he hums a thoughtful acknowledgement as he drops the last vial from his palm into the case and slides the clear lid closed. Saburov's quiet presence isn't oppressive, but it is palpable as he awaits Rubin's response. Although he’s just thirteen years his senior, the same age as some of Rubin's older cousins, Alexander belongs to a class of people he's loathe to keep waiting. "Forgive my pause, this is quite the proposition you've brought me." It's force of will that brings those words forth rather than a blurted, half-contemplated "Yes."

The only outward signs of Stakh's mental process are the drumming of his fingers between tasks and a subtle rigidity to his neck and shoulders. He sets the stitching supplies and fresh bandages on the side table before pulling over a seat himself and gesturing for Saburov to remove his dress shirt and hold out his arms one at a time. Cold, wet bandages uncoil, revealing scars and wound margins around his burns. The pest had carved a brutal path here, but the grafts somehow held. Stakh clears his throat as he sets about cleaning and stitching, "I've considered... something like this before; a medical system, a proper hospital. The town outgrew this clinic before I was even born but there was never time for anything but treading water."

Arms attended to, Stakh turns his attention to the purpling contusion marring the left side of Alexander's chest, alert to his shallow breathing. A dislocated rib or two, most likely, "Sit forward for me, and raise your elbows." Ever the model patient, Saburov's compliance is a given. Laying the fingertips of his right hand in the grooves of Saburov's ribs, he directs the governor to rotate slightly to the left as he draws his hand toward his midline, feeling for deviation in the bones. "With the scale of casualties we've suffered... this could be the best chance we have to get it right. It's grim, but that's no cause to let the opportunity slip away."

"Intimidating” Stakh leaves bread and butter. He leaves an apology much more effective and lasting than words on the counter next to all of the clock pieces and repair tools. The man fills his woodstove for him, and it’s very, very hard not to feel out of control and quite guilty when the small kindnesses add up. Notkin listens to the directions even though he isn’t fond of them, and sets a pot from his kitchen up to boil some water.

Grief does his part, hooking his fingers around the stool leg and slowly tugging it over the floor into the back wash room. It disturbs most of the floorboards and leaves a scrape impossible to find among the other dozens and dozens of identical scrapes in the swollen boards. The house is in disrepair, the heat doesn’t carry, and there’s not much he could do about old awful history or how it shaped the house around it.

“Never thought I’d get you chirpin’ to strip me down to my knickers. People usually pay for that, Stakh.”

He laughs, quietly, throwing the old curtains in the washroom open to let the winter light absolutely blind him for a moment. Even the glass is cracked and home to a few very determined spiders. It’s chilly in here, and he shivers when he strips his many coats and vests off to make a puddle of clothes. His shirt’s stuck to him with mild fever, and unbuttoning it turns to regret immediately when the chill hits him full force. 

He’s a mess of ink, blood, sinew, and wounds old and new under all the clothes. It’s a hide that Isador used to treat. There’s been fatal wounds before this latest, and most effective fatal wound. Stabbings, slashings, explosions, burns… His ink’s destroyed in some places beyond a possible repairing point. Some of him refuses to heal anymore, despite the fact that he’s young. Artemy had packed the last wound with Stakh’s help and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of a sad joke their inheritance was. 

They got to inherit the work of their father, which was him. It’s just scorched earth and it’s so much work to keep him moving.

Grief leans forward and braces on his knees. The crack in the window casts thin shadows over him.

“… When we were told Olgimsky hired people, we weren’t really told from where. Turned out he scalped a labor camp and prison for recruits, n’ when they came in they were… hard to control for me. N’ one of em’ was a fuckin’… I don’t know, contract killer. Kind of guy that slits the throats of well guarded folk. Look at this jab, n’ tell me I ain’t wrong.”

It’s a fatal blow he managed to live through. The wound’s still suffering from poison damage, leaking, and bleeding. 

“Ain’t none of em’ left now. I don’t make a habit of gettin’ stabbed.”

He had a few stab wounds, regardless.

The sound of the stool dragging across the floorboards should irritate Stakh, but something about the unnecessary noise feels more right than silence. There's comfort in knowing exactly what Grief would say if he took the bait and groused at him, something about just following doctor's orders and not exerting himself. He lets the bait lie, but the temptation to fall into Grief's rhythm tickles the back of his mind like always.

Stakh snorts at the joke, "Nothing I haven't already seen, and for free." The flood of light throws Grief into silhouette as he abides instructions, revealing ribs adorned with stitches tugging man-made gills closed. Grief's as skinny as they've always seemed to Stakh, and he's seized by the image of them turning with a wink and simply disappearing. Instead, Grief shivers and lowers himself onto the stool, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his knuckles, looking like he's ready to bear the world on his back.

Stakh moves his supplies into the space; the light is good, and the dust settles quickly. Old dirtied bandages wind into coils on the ground around their feet. The bullet glance and gashes on Grief's shoulder and sides are already healing decently, the wound ends puckering around black thread that will soon be overstaying its welcome. Stakh makes a note to have Artemy remove the outermost stitches at the next check-in. It's a visual effort to take in the texture of Grief this close, the edges of tattoos chewed up by burn scars, burst capillaries and semi-permanent bruises crisscrossed with cut marks and topped off with chaotic freckles.

Notkin bustles in with the water and hovers curiously as Stakh fills the unusual looking water bladder he brought with him. A long flexible tube extends from one end of the watertight pouch, tipped in a wicked-looking hollow metal needle. Stakh tucks the vessel under his elbow gingerly, taking the tip in his fingers like a dart. Calling on nearly two decades of apprenticeship, Stakh expertly directs a spurt of water at the back of Grief's neck, just behind their ear, to wake them up a bit before moving on to clean the lesser wounds. The dig on Grief's collar bone and the blessedly uninfected bite on his leg are taken care of in quick succession as they ease into a conversation.

Filin fills him in on the who and the how while Stakh pulls his stuffing out. He's not surprised to hear about the elder Olgimsky cutting corners, it fits everything else he knows about the bastard. He gives a whistle of acknowledgment regarding the expertise of this particular knifeman, this last worst wound was clearly intended to kill and would have been successful were it not for some form of miracle. Stakh casts his mind back to the sight of Grief on their throne in the warehouses when he went begging for a place to hide. Absorbed in his own troubles, he hadn't given a second thought to the other people scattered around Grief's domain, to where they had come from or why.

Now the last vestiges of Brin's existence fester near Grief's spine, still trying to drag him into a grave. Stakh can feel a slight fever simmering under the surface of the skin, and doesn't have to lean in to catch the scent of necrosis. He gestures for Notkin to come closer and is pleased to see he has already washed and scrubbed his hands pink. He hands the boy a spare cloth mask and directs him to take hold of two squares of sterile gauze, "Here's where I'll need your help; palms flat on either side and press gently in opposite directions. Keep ahold of the gauze and don't let your fingers touch the skin. You probably won't want to look." Turning to Grief he adds, "This will hurt, but we have to be thorough. Cross your arms for me, left over right. Ready?"

Notkin follows his orders to the letter upon Grief's go-ahead, and Rubin gets to work with the water tool and a curette. The necrotic tissue seems to tuck along the lower border of the gash, and comes away in reds and yellows, washing out of the wound and down onto the floor, exposing the pink of healing tissue underneath. Notkins cheeks and forehead go pale above his mask as he watches the tip of the curette slide into the hidden depth of Grief's wound and Stakh feels the barest tinge of guilt for his macabre amusement. Years of this work may have permanently altered his sense of humor, "Look at that, you open right up for me, Grief. You don't have to do all this to get my undivided attention." He plumbs around the deepest part of the wound gently, but no amount of gentility can hide the sensation of metal where it shouldn't be and he can see the spasms of pain and cold wracking Grief's ribs as they endure Stakh's attentions.

@candleburningup

After a very late start to the day, courtesy of Bad Grief and Burakh’s painkillers, when Saburov finally does wake, it’s to the curious eyes of Murky, the little girl who was technically Artemy’s child- but not legally.

He sighs, half at the unexpected presence, half at the constant corralling, trying to get Artemy to understand the importance of the writ and accountability.

It’d be a lecture for later, he doesn’t like bothering the doctor, save for important things.

“Yes?”

No response from the grumpy-looking ragamuffin of a girl.

He quirks a brow in response, and then, just as mutely, begins to examine his clothes to dress himself again for the day. Now, in the brighter light, he can see that his coat, despite his best efforts to keep it clean, the coat still sported his blood on the inside, along with the missing button he spent to get the children to give up Grief’s location.

Giving up entirely on that venture, he elects to stay in just his dress shirt. His bandages would need changing anyway- the wet he feels seeping from them adds to the chill he feels all over.

He tears off another button from his coat instead. He’s not concerned about the repairs. There’s matching buttons in a sewing desk at the Rod, and a tailor right next door to him.

The little girl watches, curious of the gesture. He displays the silver button to her, a disc with an etched circle and four lines quartering the edge.

“Be a dear- ach, and fetch Rubin for me?”

He kneels down to her (a notable mistake, as he finds himself wincing with the effort), and displays the button as a small offering.

Murky snatches the button, like a gremlin, examining it before she nods, “Uhuh. Rubin? I’ll get Doctor Rubin.”

Clutching the little button in her hand, she trots off to go find the humble giant, and Saburov rises slowly from the ground to sit back atop the cot. He couldn’t leave until his dressings were changed and he had another dose of painkillers anyway.

Murky doesn't have to go far to find her intended target, nor does she have to look very hard. Stakh stands out to her like black twyre poking sleepily through a snowdrift, standing on the snow-covered pharmacy stairs across the courtyard. He's tucking the fruits of his resupply run into his inner right coat pocket when he registers Murky's approach. She skirts his direct line of sight like a nervous cat, stepping soundlessly up the stairs to tug at his pocket. Twisting to look down at her he musters a small smile, "Message for me?"

She holds up her hand and he can see the silver shine of one of Saburov's buttons glinting on her palm briefly before her fist closes and disappears back into her pocket. "He wans'ta to see you," she says simply, and Stakh doesn't press her for more. He starts to offer his hand to walk her back home when he notices how she's shifting from foot to foot.

"No socks again?" She stalwartly ignores the question. Stakh sighs and leans down to scoop her up, tucking her against the side of his chest not occupied with morphine vials and sachets of pills. Once she's back on her two bare feet in the entryway of the Burakh clinic he retrieves a chestnut from one of his pockets and repays her for the message. "Socks next time." She rolls her eyes and darts around the corner to head back up to her room, mission completed. Stakh’s not sure where he stands with her, but she doesn’t listen to Artemy about socks either, so who could say.

It’s slightly more painless than he’s expecting it to be, actually. If it had been for anyone else, it might have been a different story, but this was Gravel they were talking about. Even if Stahk’s words have a bite to them, he agrees to give them to Artemy without too much of a fight.

His mind flickers to the man grabbing him early on, one of Saburov’s messengers. Your father’s house is being robbed! He had come back to find a few of the doors busted, the cabinets ransacked, and the door upstairs that had been boarded off kicked open.

The medicine cabinets remained locked, thankfully, so most of his father’s work equipment was either untouched or in the Lair already. He hadn’t thought about the valuable information stored in the clinic – but Stahk had, so things ended up fine in the end.

The leather wrapped bundle is handed to him. It’s not his fault he lost them. The words are so backhanded he can feel them, especially when Stahk’s eyes slide towards the desk in his room with zero subtlety.

“ Stahk, can’t you ever say something nice and leave it at that? ”

It looks messy, he knows, but he also knows how things are organized right now. He’s trying to figure out what happened in a decade on his own.

“ If you’d like to be so kind and show me what you and Father did while I was gone since he can’t, then fine. ” There’s an open palm sweep towards the files he’s going through, like welcoming an actor to a stage.

“ Be my guest. ”

It satisfies some deep itch at the base of Stakh's mind to watch Artemy's frustration bubble over. Just as he'd expected, within a few breaths they’d returned to prodding at each other's soft spots. It feels almost compulsive, like worrying at a bruise to remind yourself it hurts.

An ugly smile threatens to cross Stakh's face as Artemy vents his spleen. There's satisfaction in watching him give up on ignoring the chasm that stretches between them. What does take him by surprise is Artemy putting a name to it. Father. Master. Departed. Buried. Even living in a world defined by his loss, Stakh almost expects to hear him clear his throat from the other room; his usual sign he could hear them working up to butting heads.

But Artemy is painfully right. Isidor can't do anything anymore, because Isidor is gone. 

Stakh scoffs bitterly at Artemy’s theatrical gesture, "You really must have forgotten the way he ran things if you expected Master to hold your hand when you returned. Even if nothing had happened, it would always have been me showing you these things. You seem intent on forgetting he wasn't the only one keeping this place alive." 

The crunch of snow on the steps again has him wondering when he had become the most popular crow in the flock. Even more interesting when there’s a knock at the door. That’s a little strange, and narrows down the list of possibilities to nobody who wanted him dead. Even Saburov just takes the time to call out and walk in. Yesterday was a shitshow, and he hardly had the energy to bound up and go answer it, so he calls tiredly for Notkin.

The kid gets the door without a fuss, and he’s thrilled with who was looming past it. All the Souls love Doctor Rubin. There’s greetings from the chief and Grief makes a mental note to listen to Stakh’s footsteps a little more closely next time. Grief looks at Notkin for a moment. The kid’s still working on the gloves in the front room, and he’s committed to cording them properly. Good on him, there’s plenty of tykes that wouldn’t put half the effort into it.

“F’ course’ you knock. Toughest son of a bitch in th’ Town walks in my door n’ he knocks.”

And it makes him smile. He’s too tired and sore to play at real needling. Grief sets his lens down overtop of the miniscule pieces to not lose them, and the shapes of them magnify and make shimmering flecks of light dance over the wall. Rubin looks like he’s standing on shaky ground just as much as the rest of his people were. The good news, the Barbers didn’t manage to kill them. The bad news, they sure as hell tried. 

Rubin blocks the overcast day from the windows. Grief’s grey-blue eyes shine in his shadow.

“Stakhiest fellow I’ve ever seen.”

Hell, he’s glad he stopped when he did. It was at its heart, a huge, potentially fatal misunderstanding. Completely accidental. Made him nauseous later, briefly.

“Chez moi. ‘Ve got apologies special ordered from you, straight from the heart. Sorry about your neck, mate. You hit like an entire mustang, y’know that?”

He shook it off. It doesn’t bother him as much as getting stabbed bothered him. He’s going to have a handful of holes in his ink that need filling. Grief doesn’t get up to go greet him. He stays sitting and perched. 

“Need somethin’? Ain’t in the business of arms anymore… officially. But f’ you need somethin’ for them damn dogs, got poison.”

And he’d tried to clear them out with some success. They weren’t around the Town at the moment.

It’s a funny conversation to have in his sepulcher of a house. 

This house is cursed as hell. There’s a bloodstain under the carpet beyond the counter that’s unmistakably close range gunfire. It’s freezing in the mornings despite the stove, and uncomfortable to be in by one’s lonesome. Sometimes he hears unmistakable footsteps on the stairs and feels like he’s ten again and needs to run.

Funny that too, considering his eyes are tuned in to see ghosts.

He’s never seen ghosts here while waking. In his dreams, however…

He picks the lens off the pile of work to pluck some of the tiny gears up that were bent and misshapen. It’s hours of work and waiting that he has to do for restitution. The kiln’s not hot enough yet to get to pouring. He really needs to chop wood. He needs to get wood.

“Fuckers broke my watch,” he sighs, as if his entire body was secondary and didn’t also get broken.

A short pause, and then Notkin's enthusiastic face brightens the doorway as he welcomes Stakh inside. It's slightly warmer here, the tepid heat of a room occupied, but nowhere near the temperature called for by the weather or Grief's condition. Stakh returns Notkin's greeting and pats him on the shoulder, "Keep nearby, might need a helping hand in a minute." He pays little mind to Notkin's lack of cheer at the prospect of being called on for medical work, you work with what assistants you can find. Not everyone could be like Sticky, who was practically sewn to Stakh's shadow nowadays if Artemy wasn't around.

Stakh sets his bag on the counter and rolls his eyes as Grief's prod about his knocking habit registers fully, "People can find it intimidating if I forgo the courtesy." He can see the good humor in Grief's odd eyes and hear the sincerity of his apology; it softens Stakh’s demeanor just the slightest bit. "You're due an apology as well," Stakh reaches into his satchel and hands Grief a loaf of fresh bread and packet of firm butter wrapped in wax paper. "I'm sorry. Here, for after we're through this."

Unwinding his scarf from his shoulders, the chill of the room really starts to become evident. The shiver that runs across his shoulders makes his stitches ache. "Nothing I need from you Grief, you know that. It's you who needs the check-up. Although; wood, stove?" Grief tosses him some keys and points out the appropriate directions, though he neglects to warn Stakh that the wood appears to be stored alongside a small arsenal of weapons. Dampening his impulse to interrogate, at least he was keeping the room locked, Stakh focuses instead on building up the fire and getting the little shop to a more habitable temperature.

Speckles of light play across Stakh's features as he gives Grief a flat look.  "Fuckers broke more than just your watch, Grief. Got a less fancy locale you prefer for this? Sure you don't want blood 'n pus in your rug." Stakh smooths the toe of his boot across the out-of-place carpet. Despite accruing some stains, it looked like it belonged in some general's house, not this hastily abandoned tomb. Grief had never invited him here when his mother, if you could call her that, still wandered the rooms. As it is, he looks uneasy on his perch, suspended above a sea of plush fibers hiding blood-soaked wood, pecking at the broken shell and spilled innards of his precious watch.