CHEMICAL / * BURNS

The garden is lively, and just about one of the nicest places he's been to in New York City. While Zed finds ease in listing off all the poisonous species, Rahi compliments the conversation with names that are top of the list in NASA trials for growth in outer space.

"I don't know why you haven't applied yet," he jokes. "We could road trip to Mars. Have you ever thought about that?"

Then, more plants, and tea.

Sometimes what's prompted isn't genius. Sometimes it's as simple as, "Because people love drugs." Beat. "Do you think that shows up in a tox screen?"

Mostly, he doesn't think he'd like to come back. Silence, no people, very little in the way of stupidity to irritate him —

"My mind would not be there." Zed confesses in all its ambiguity. Ever the man to miss the joke even when told by the only mind he'll ever listen to wholly. "It's always been you — the planets, and the stars —" He often steers his tone clear of sarcasm, but Zed's interests in space and time starts and ends with Rahi Kumar.

And apparently, the botanical garden, too.

He flicks a leaf of something harmless and weed-like with a glimmer of growing interest. Observing the collection for its potential, is better than viewing it as it is.

Zed breathes a laugh — head turns to survey the flowers, beautiful, deadly, a selection Movska might have dried in a box somewhere.

His mind wanders to a wedding gift —

Casual — he muses: "Only if you want them to."

Eva was one phone text away from having that old thing replaced with a shiny new one. At least this way, she wouldn't have to endure the taste of plain, brown water.

"Would that be poisonous?" a brow arched at the coffee now dripping into her cup.

He is fine, кузен.

Words that failed to reassure her, much like any other words that left her cousin's mouth. He might have been older, perhaps even wiser on a good day, but unreliable when it came to predicting a good outcome out of a terrible situation. He simply did not think that far into the future, nor did he posess any psychic abilities — at least none that she was aware of.

So, another look shot. A stone cold expression that surely got the point across.

The door swung open and a blonde head of hair peaked from the corner.

"Дядя Зед, я вернулся! Я покупал столько еды — " he paused, when blue eyes met his mother. It was safe to say, Zed wouldn't see a dime in return, from the sight of the three heavy bags the kid was carrying. Chinese for the whole apartment building.

Sasha joined his uncle's side.

Just as Sasha is fine.

Two pairs of Movska eyes cut through the other, up until the third manages to tear the older, aged ones off their game.

Just as Zed said, fine.

"Ты хорошо провел время, Саша." Acute gaze follows the boy as he jostles the bag in his hand, making his way over to them. Zed's containing his smile when he tips his head at his cousin. The childish expression that says he knows better, as ever. But there's an unusual string of amusement that coils around his bones.

Zed moves to pour himself a drink, holding a glass towards Sasha in obvious question, "Да?"

"Like brother, like sister." Final words on the matter and a look. Zed and Vanya had a certain affinity to using their fists as weapons, while Eva always chose a more verbal approach — If only her own siblings, were more like her.

Eva moved past him, helping herself to a cup of coffee, if there even was any left. "On his own?" her brows furrowed in slowly. She did not mean to accuse him of endangering her child, yet her tone implied otherwise. How long has he been gone for? Motherly instincts that had long caught rust poked at her insides. Sasha was an easy target, if anyone liked to get a piece of Movska flesh.

"Are you using my child to run your errands?" her arms had crossed over her chest, back leaned against the counter, when the door swung open with a creak.

An ocean's a perfectly fine line to keep. Eva can have all the conversations she likes with Vanya, and Zed will continue to shrug off the updates. It's enough to know that she's alive.

When he sees her opt for caffeine. His fist hits the side of the coffee machine with a thunk. It's broken, and it requires a certain touch to begin spewing coffee into a cup.

"It's right outside the window." If she took a peek, maybe she'll catch him ordering kung pao, and attempting mandarin. "He is fine, кузен."

Both their eyes then wander to the door opening.

Send me a symbol…

"Zed, I know you enough to know you're the type of guy that doesn't care to know the details of people's lives. I know if I wanted to talk, you'd be there, listen, you'd store the information and you wouldn't care to talk about it again but... honestly, there's nothing more you need to know other than I appreciate all your help that night." Isabelle didn't like talking about it, that much was clear. Mathias had left her traumatised, yet furiously determined to give him a taste of his own medicine. She still struggled sleeping alone in her home, even with the newly installed and highly recommended security system, and if she did sleep, it was like she relived it in her nightmares. "I'm fine now, almost fully healed." It had been a month, maybe two. Isabelle was on the mend and doing good physically. "At the point where I can at least buy you a drink to thank you." There was no doubt in her mind, she would likely have bled out without Zed's help.

It's like him. She's like him.

It's all an unforeseen result of something Zed has no background for. He does not know if Lockwood plans to use his silence, or disinterest as a beacon to call on when whatever travesty may befall her again. He does not want her secrets, he's got plenty of his own.

But it hadn't been an accident; the wounds of that night. He knows better to assume, or believe a lie she might try on him. Maybe he knows better than she does, even in this.

And her assessment of him, and her perception is identical to the next doctor that passes him, and knows to mind their business. Zed's not exactly sure he'll be there to listen, though. Movska's not sure he wants to be involves in Lockwood's brand of misadventure.

She wouldn't like his.

And he doesn't have to say much, to compress all his thoughts and feelings on the matter, into one deadpan question:

"Do you plan to live long enough to buy me a drink?"

"More like, sneaked off. He's not really a runner." Of course, she knows Lev is across the room, speaking to someone named Tristan. Of course, she knows it's not the best subject to touch on now. The sooner she could forget about it, the better.

Lola interlinks her hands together, and instead of joining Zed in drinking games, she just leans back and watches him instead. Yeah — there's no forgetting about it.

He moves slowly, calculating. There's only a certain amount of times he can irritably adjust his cuffs before even the most inebriated eyes notice that this Movska is out of his element. Lola doesn't even need to blink, she already knows.

And perhaps, the subject Lola stirs, is equal parts agitating. But at least, it's something he does find familiar. Ironically, comforting.

He stares at her, assesses the woman's disposition; the details in the way she refrains from taking a glass, the careful but nearly callous way she asks —

"I see you've cleaned." an observation that brought a genuine smile on her face. She had stopped in her steps, and was now taking in the clean space, that now lacked chocking hazards for small children. Although, Sasha was no longer a small child, he was almost eleven — although still curious enough to touch, whatever it was, that stained most of Zed's furniture, or simply curious enough in science.

She once was, not to her cousin's extent, of course.

Her finger dragged slowly over the counter top; thumb meeting index one to smudge the small remainings of god knows what. Her eyes narrowed, "She gave a very important man a black eye."

When they were younger, she remembered admiring that — her instict, that impulse striking a spark —

"She's fine." her eyes met his. It's all that mattered to him, anyway. She'd never find him caring for an image.

Her lips had formed a small smile, that slowly faltered at the quiet she was suddenly aware of. "Is Sasha taking a nap?"

He's not much better at looking interested when he learns what Eva's implying — and he doesn't poke the bear. Not this time. Not about Vanya, or black eyes. The chemist's heard enough about it as it is.

"Good." It's curt. Because much about he and Vanya were. Eva's a step up — but only because she's right in front of him.

Their eyes meet, and then they quickly part; a conversation had, understood and ended, in a few moments.

Sasha. Ah.

Zed starts to make space on the coffee table — anticipating the smaller of Movska's arrival (hopefully, with food in hand): "He is picking lunch — just outside." A careful head nod towards the window, to hear the bustle of Chinatown outside.

It has always been a point of agitation for Lev, the way the Movska brood as a whole debates him and his intentions, capabilities, all of it. If it isn't Eva trying to strongarm him into submission, it's a peppering of fucking questions about every little fucking thing. He's never been a serious fucker, but he fucking knows when it's time to cut the bullshit.

Like now.

He wants fucking names, though, so apparently the bullshit is back fucking on.

Lev is a statue for a moment as he thinks things through. He lies, Zed will know. He says too much, he ruins everything. It's a question of where loyalties lie, and though there is a great, bitter fucking chasm between himself and his best fucking friend: "Нет." There's no amount of strongarming that will make him go further. They may disappear, is enough to tell him all that he needs.

"было ошибкой что-либо говорить." He shouldn't have fucking come up with this shit, shouldn't have let his own anxieties get the fucking better of him. "Nothing happens so long as we're in one fucking piece." It's not lost on him, the chances being taken. Not being the first to move is a dangerous fucking gamble—he's gonna have to be fucking okay with that.

He's gonna have to find a way to fix this, first.

Lev pivots.

It's sharper than a knife. It's as if Lev's taken it and slashed open the scars on Zed's arm, drawn a twisted line to his throat. Held it there, and the man's heart is thumping against it in a steady, but aching rhythm. Zedekiah's hit a nerve.

And he recognises that his cousin lashes at it struck.

They're frozen here.

You came to me Lev. Вы просили моей помощи.

"Why a mistake?" He asks as the cup clacks against the countertop. Hands free, thumb presses firmly down on each finger in a snap, snap, crack of bones clicking. "Потому что я бы сделал то, чего ты не сделал бы?"

That's never been an issue. Lev, of all of them knows exactly what Zed is, was and could be. Say it a dozen times, it never changes. Lev has a wife; bearing the Movska name, and a dash of hope that could be something Zed has never envisioned for himself. So, the mere idea of sitting back, until someone else lands a fatal blow —

Нет.

Lev's walking away. Always walking away. It's an unfair thought, considering he poses the question that Zed's always assumed his cousin already knew.

It's easy to say, scoffed even:

Then Zed offers a reason to talk, and god, does Max go off. It's clear that the resident hasn't just done the tasks, he's also read further into it; has done further research. The clinical effects of anesthetic techniques on the respiratory system, all explained and quite obviously well understood. The second task he's not perfectly safe with, but he asks his questions; his what do I do if's, and what do I give when's. It's his way to show that his interest is sincere, that he seriously put some time and work into tasks not even official.

They reach the ICU just as Max finishes talking, and the blonde stops to open the door with his badge; "Anything I should know before we start?", he asks, then, "Or do you have more questions I should answer?"

Zed isn't childish enough to pull out the card of: You know how long I have been doing this? That, among a hundred other unsavoury things Max will never know.

Max — admittedly — looks different; alert; alive, and without the tremor in his hands that had Zed mocking his doctorly desires last time they met. Zed's healed up since too. Another thing that Max would do good to not mention.

Fortunately, he tallies off the answers to the list of textbook questions that Movska's supplied him with.

They're equally as much textbook answers as Zed expects — the occasional adlib on method and the sharking question that has Zed peppering the occasional yes or no in between the spiel.

Teaching. He's teaching.

And then they're at the ICU, and Zed's ushering Max inside with a lazy sort of dismissal. He'd expected Max to be off his game, considering the last sweaty encounter. Nice recovery, Miller. How long will that last? Movska's seen it a thousand times.

Anything Max should know?

"There's a postoperative patient I want you to see," Zed clarifies, careful to be clear as they walk in, Zed's leading: "— admitted after a thoracic lung resection surgery. Respiratory complications resulted in mechanical ventilation, as caused by a choice anaesthetic technique. Check the chart, tell me what you might have done differently." A beat, and a toothy almost mean smile, "Then, you're going to extubate them."

One orbited above all; the first that ever comes to mind. But, Vika had a gravitational pull that had Zed aware that journalism is a dangerous territory, when partnered with Movska's. It's an inescapable web, he's spent decades attempting to avoid, with little success.

They're here.

"That is like announcing vodka existed before you, Vahl. We know that." Facts. Put those in an article. Not clever metaphoricals that have Zed tolerantly invested in a conversation. "With your testing," the to and fro of playful, satire exchanges, "—you must have a high threshold for student acceptance."

Maybe Zed should begin streamlining his. "How many made it this time?"

Or the — insert hand-getting-its-nails-painted-pink emoji here — men, which Zed didn't come close to even on a good day.

There had been no want involved.

"You think I picked this?" Of course she doesn't. But he's asking the woman for the truth that follows the truth.

Zed's just thankful that he can sit, and hide. Ride this out. It's not so much he cares for opinions, it's more for the fact he doesn't want to be involved in the discussions of such opinion.

"Oh, no. Definitely not." Kristen said with a laugh. "These events... I go to pretty much all of them. Doesn't mean I care for the food they provide, though." Sometimes, she didn't mind. But tonight... she was craving pizza.

She lives for such events. Of course. It's all over her.

"You should speak to someone about that," Since, well, VIP? He adjusts the right cuff of his sleeve, a habit-like gesture. Eyes flicker between his sleeve, and the yellow-clad woman. Zed doesn't want the attention — she's welcome to it all. "I can find it myself," a beat, to add: "Thanks."

Familiar, refreshing — he's almost fucking glad.

He wonders if he could auction it, and donate the proceeds as a late gift to Eva's party. Maybe it'll put him back in their good graces, without enduring the rest of this. Eyes glance around, to make sure he isn't overheard by anyone besides Lola.

who: open to all that attend

"Do you think someone will order all of us pizza tonight?" Kristen asked as she sipped on her third martini. "I mean, we have to have something to go along with our drinks, don't we?"

Zed breathes a laugh. It's unusual for him, but he's projecting his best attitude tonight. "Is this your first time?" It's certainly Zed's. And he hasn't got the first bit of knowledge from Eva's crash course on food arrangements.

He'd have assumed it was a series of things difficult to pronounce.

All the glowing orange and reflectors of his jacket are gone, and now replaced by dark blue scrubs, and a white coat. It feels wrong to wear it still, and Max can't quite get over his name engraved into it's front, font barely readable, and still.

It's quiet around. Max is waiting for Zed, ready to tour the ICU, which he already knows inside out, anyway. He has prepared for almost every question Zed might ask, he knows his abbreviations inside out, every single vein, artery, bone, muscle. He works well under pressure, the best even.

But today feels different - and he has long admitted himself that he asked Zed because he was scared. Because he has a feeling that in the worst cases, Zed could understand anything.

A familiar face comes into sight, and Max lifts his hand with a grin and a wave, before letting it flop back down to the side of his body. He's been clean two months now, off everything one possibly could be. He's done it for Luis, and himself, and for Zed's nerves, too. Maybe.

"We have about eleven hours left to keep me busy." Grinning softly, the resident holds up his little notebook and pen, "And I'm so ready for you to talk my ear off."

"Eleven, if all goes as scheduled." Zed slides his gaze to the eager, white coated intern next to him as he arrives. Max will quickly learn, much like in the field — Zed assumes — nothing ever goes smoothly. Very rarely does anything finish as written on paper. Printed ink, is a formality that rarely gets to be held at truth.

Eleven, if you're very fucking lucky.

Eleven, if Zed is too. Any longer with Miller, and he might do something frowned upon.

Lazily gesturing with his hand, he expects Max to start walking to the ICU. It's been a task passed to him, since Miller got lumbered on his service. He spends his time in consultancy talks, or in an OR.

Even more infrequent, is Zed walking aimlessly through the walls of a hospital. There's intent, in everything he does.

Miller disrupts his patterns. Zed's accustomed to tutoring; lecturing, but that isn't how this works. He's in the wrong walls, for that. "You will be doing the talking; I gave you tasks, tell me as we walk. Explain your understanding."