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Yakov wakes to the sound of glass shattering behind the examination curtain.
He jumps out of bed, certain that the thief is back, and bounds up the steps to confront her. He expects to find her cowering in the corner like a rat, probably already coming up with clever words he'll need to steel himself against, but when he turns the corner, he only finds–
“Sir?”
–Doctor Dankovsky, with his coat tossed haphazardly aside and a tourniquet cinched tight around his bicep. To his side, a broken bottle of rubbing alcohol leaks out and into the grooves of the floor. His eyes are wide, like those of a snared rabbit, and his hair clings to his sweaty forehead. In his hands are a syringe and a vial of something, but he can't tell what it is.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses, keeping his voice low as though there is someone here alive enough to catch them.
“I was just– Well, I–” There's no excuse that makes sense, especially not when spoken with his dull, clumsy tongue. He shakes his head and looks at the floorboards, letting the sentence trail away. The board directly underfoot is lifting at the edge. Hm. He must make a mental note to nail it down properly again tomorrow, lest it become a tripping hazard for the doctor or any of their patients. He's sure he saw a hammer out front, and there must be nails somewhere for when the troupe builds their sets, and he can't believe he never thought to inventory such equipment before–
“Why are you here?” Dankovsky repeats, slow and harsh. Right. That. Yakov gulps.
“I've been, er, staying here. Or sleeping here, rather. In one of the unoccupied cots. Over there.” He stupidly points to his bed.
“And why are you doing that?” he asks as though speaking to a dullard. "This isn't an inn."
“Well, some of the patients require constant care, and I don't want to keep the orderlies cooped up in here all night!” he explains too quickly, stumbling over his words. “I mean, most of them have children to get home to, so I usually only retain one or two overnight. And of the ones that stay, well–” He gestures in the general direction of the door. “I’m sure you've noticed that they aren't the most alert at this hour.”
For a long moment, they look at each other in tense silence, each caught red-handed, and Yakov silently prays that this won't reflect poorly on his performance.
“Hard to tell beneath the beak,” Dankovsky deadpans, setting the vial back on the table with a defeated sigh. Now that it's out of his hand, the bottle is immediately identifiable: morphine.
“Are you… hurt, sir?” he hazards, keeping his voice gentle so as to not renew the tension. The doctor does not return the favor.
“Shut up, Tochka.”
He brings a palm to his forehead and rests his elbow on his knee, leg jittering in place. The symptoms aren't dissimilar from those of the alcoholics the hospital sees: shaking, sweating, pallor, runny nose, agitation– he doesn't even need to cross-reference the diagnoses to be certain this is withdrawal. Without another dose, Dankovsky will only get sicker, and even if he does somehow inject it in this state, it's likely that he'll harm himself in the process.
He wonders how he never noticed sooner. He's heard the rumors, of course, but most of them seemed baseless, rooted only in the fact that the few Capital citizens among the townsfolk have all harbored some vice or another. Perhaps there is some truth to it after all; he shudders to think what life in the Capital must be like to create such tormented expatriates.
Yakov looks to the vial again, shining in the lamplight. He's seen the way it eases suffering, softens and smooths the roiling pain in bodies until it's only a gentle hum behind slackened eyes. For pain, there is no equal; it was one of the first lessons he’d learned upon starting here.
Whose pain, then, equals that of their good doctor? Who suffers more than the one responsible for their lives, who grinds miles into the soles of his shoes day in and out, whose shoulders slouch closer towards the earth each day from the weight of the Town? It is a different pain, but pain nonetheless, and pain must be treated. Who, after all, is more deserving of respite?
“Allow me, sir,” he says, taking a step forward. He holds his hand out for the syringe and Dankovsky looks up at him suspiciously, dark browline casting a shadow over his eyes as he brings it closer to his chest. “Please.”
“Do you even know how to?” he asks, the sneer on his face not matching the desperation in his voice– a man of so many contradictions, always some piece of him at war with another. Yakov forgives him for doubting his abilities; he has never seen him personally administer treatment, being as busy as he is, so the concern is justified. He does his best to assuage him.
“Certainly,” Yakov says, taking a new bottle of alcohol from the drawer. He pours some on his hands to sterilize them and then douses a clean rag in it. “I must have done a few dozen of these by now, at the very least. I know that's not very many in the grand scheme of things– especially not in comparison to a real doctor like you!– but I do believe I've gotten quite good. If I may say so myself,” he adds, pushing up his glasses with his forearm to avoid compromising his sterility. (A difficult habit to break! He certainly hopes the doctor takes note of his diligence.)
“I thought you'd have the orderlies do the menial work,” he says at last, offering his arm cautiously. Yakov kneels for a better angle out of habit, used to administering injections to bedbound patients, and feels Dankovsky tense up beneath him. He’s sure the doctor is unhappy with his technique, but tries not to let it deter him as he glides his fingertips over the landscape of engorged, tourniqueted veins. Several pinprick marks litter his pale forearm, and one of the more prominent veins has gone dark. (Is there a name for that phenomenon, he wonders? He'll have to look it up in the textbook.) Above him, Dankovsky clears his throat and he returns to the task at hand. “I didn't realize you took it on personally.”
“Oh no, I don't do all of it! The orderlies are responsible for the bulk of patient care, but sometimes there is more work than there are hands,” he chuckles nervously, skimming over his wrist in search of a viable candidate. “Besides, I don't always trust them with the more difficult cases.”
Dankovsky exhales a humorless laugh through his nose. “Is there ever a case here that isn't?”
“No, of course not, but the orderlies– I mean, they aren't known for their tact. When it comes to the patients, especially the advanced ones, I think they want to be near them as little as possible, so they aren't always very careful. That, and…” He pauses, pressing into a vein that seems suitable. Once he deems it sufficient, he begins to disinfect the site. “Well, I don't want just anyone touching the morphine, especially after the situation with that Clara girl.”
Dankovsky stiffens up and pulls his arm away. Yakov looks up at him, dumbly holding the alcohol rag in the air.
“I suppose you'll tell everyone that I'm the same, hm?” He speaks as though out of breath, a sudden fury in his voice. “A morphinist, nicking it from the patients?”
“What? No!” he yelps, and then, remembering himself, “I m-mean, of course not, sir. I would never say such awful, untrue things about you, I swear.”
He holds his palm out to him, asking silent permission to continue. He doesn't move on his own, but allows Yakov to take his arm once again and resume disinfecting him.
“I've seen them around before, you know," he says as he sets the cloth aside. "The morphinists, I mean. Day in and day out, they lay on benches or by the water and do nothing, but you– you do everything, more than it seems like a person should even be able to! That's how I know you aren't one of them.” He gestures with his head towards the table. “Ampoule?”
“Still, I don't have the sand pest, nor a bullet wound,” he huffs, handing it over. It seems a heavy dose, but surely the doctor knows his limits, so he carries on without question. Yakov disinfects the stem of it before carefully snapping the glass's weak spot and taking the syringe from Dankovsky's other hand. “And yet I’m still taking it. What does that make me?”
Yakov draws up the medicine through the filter and doesn't miss the hunger in Dankovsky's eyes as the barrel fills with liquid. He turns the syringe upside down and pushes the air out. When he looks up for confirmation, he finds him turned away, eyes watery and cheeks flushed with shame even as he nods his assent. He cannot remember the last time he felt such overwhelming pity.
“I see a person in pain,” he says softly, aligning the sharp steel tip with the chosen site. Its weight puts a little divot in his pale flesh, teasing the starving veins below that seem to jump under his hand. It’s an odd feeling, holding this power over his body, too unbelievable for him to even begin to reckon with. Still, he presses on and, swallowing hard, adds, “A person whom it is my duty to help.”
As the needle enters his skin, Dankovsky tenses, clenching his fist tight. Yakov feels the urge to soothe him like a skittish animal, but keeps his mouth shut as he pulls the plunger back and waits for confirmation that he hit his target. Once the solution reddens and he can see the bloom of blood at the syringe’s base, he slowly presses the medicine in. It takes a moment, but then, like magic, his hand uncurls and every muscle slackens.
“Oh god,” Dankovsky breathes, neck rolling back with a long sigh and catching the light beautifully.
It reminds Yakov of one of the textbooks he's been studying, the perfect anatomical diagram above him. There, the sternocleidomastoid, bordering the sternohyoid, in turn bordering the laryngeal prominence, each a strand of the huge and delicate web inside every human body. It amazes him that they've found it all, given each piece a name, and that he of all people has been given the chance to learn them. He wants to reach up and touch him, to recite each muscle and tendon and lump of cartilage under his fingers, but he doesn't. It's not his place. He probably wouldn't get the words right anyway.
Instead, he pulls the needle out and applies pressure to the puncture wound as he was taught, undoing the tourniquet with his other hand. He sets everything aside, but does not move to stand and discard it. Not yet. He's unsure of when he will be allowed this closeness again, and does not want to waste it.
“Better?” he says softly, and Dankovsky only laughs. This laugh is kinder than the ones he's heard from him before, no mockery or exasperation to it, only gentle amusement. When he smiles, he looks years younger, the premature wrinkles on his face smoothing out and rendering him boyish. He wishes he could make life so easeful for the doctor that every day brought with it that same smile.
“Thank you, Tochka,” he slurs, clapping him on the shoulder. He doesn't move his hand away after, seemingly too exhausted by the movement to take it back. Clad only in his thin undershirt, Yakov can feel the radiating heat of each individual finger laid on him. He realizes that he's never seen him without his leather gloves on. Dankovsky’s other hand hangs limply over the side of the chair, and even in his body's shadow he can tell they are the hands of an academic: clean, smooth and wrinkle-free, never exposed to long hours of sunlight or hard labor. They're beautiful hands, he thinks, and it's an honor to be held by one, so soft and warm against his skin; he only wishes he could know them both.
“Listen, I must tell you something,” he mutters, and his hand slides loosely from Yakov's shoulder and down his arm. The slow drag of contact makes him shiver, and he's grateful that Dankovsky is too distracted to notice the goosebumps left in his wake.
“Anything, sir,” he says too eagerly. He realizes then that his hand is on Dankovsky’s knee; his trousers are a fine material, supple and silky under his palm. He yanks his hand away as if burnt and for a second, he thinks he sees a mark left behind on his palm. Just like Nina.
“This dose wasn't from the hospital.” (Somehow, he finds he wouldn't be angry if it was.) “I would never do such a thing to the patients.”
“Of course, sir. I know that.”
The doctor nods and looks away, swallowing hard. After a moment of tense silence, a smile begins to creep up on his face.
“Would you like to know where I got it?” he says after a moment, eyes half-lidded and mirthful.
“Sure,” he says, returning the infectious smile.
(Infectious. Hm. Probably a word he should remove from his vocabulary for the time being. He makes a mental note to do so.)
Dankovsky leans in close, closer than he thinks they've ever been, and whispers like it's their secret, “I emptied a thug’s pockets for it in the Warehouses."
“Really?” he breathes, smile dimming, amusement replaced with… Something else. Something he doesn't know the name for.
“I aimed my revolver at his chest until he kneeled,” he breathes, his smile only growing as he imitates the shape of a gun with his hand and aims it at Yakov's racing heart. “And then I cleaned him to the bone. Can you imagine that?” he laughs, dropping his hand down again. “Me, a common mugger?”
Though he disagrees that anything about Dankovsky could be classified as common, he has no trouble picturing the scene. The grand doctor in his snakeskin, cold metal a natural extension of his arm, towering tall and sharp over a townsman. Yes, he's like Nina in that way too, so much larger than his physical form allows, a monument of a man shoved into a human body. Who could help but to fall before him and offer everything they have?
He himself has been genuflecting at the altar of the good doctor since the day he donned the suit he now dirties the knees of on the hospital floor. From here, he can see the shiny pink flesh of his upper waterline, dark lashes catching the lamplight. He doesn't want to die but thinks, deliriously, that for him he would do it a thousand times over.
“God, what is this town doing to me?” Dankovsky asks with a sudden melancholy, voice barely a mumble as his eyes drift shut. “I look in the mirror, and I hardly know who's looking back.”
Yakov’s eyes flick to the sink, its basin full of broken shards from earlier in the day. Is that why he breaks them, he wonders? Because he doesn't like what he sees? Or does he worry that his soul will stick, like that old wive's tale his grandmother used to tell him, that he'll leave himself in too many places until nothing original remains? Is he afraid that he'll be stuck here forever?
Selfishly, Yakov wouldn't mind if he was. There is room enough for another miracle in this town. Perhaps, once they beat this damned disease, Maria or Eva or another one of the extraordinary people who have fallen for him will draw him close enough to keep. Then, Yakov could have the privilege of orbiting him for the rest of his life, even if only at a distance. It's a childish dream, one that he knows deep down cannot come true, but for a moment he allows himself the fantasy.
When he looks to Dankovsky again, he finds him slumped over himself, caught in some liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. Every so often, he sits up as if awake, only to slouch back down again in the next moment. Perhaps the dose was a bit heavy after all…
Still, he's never seen him this relaxed and doesn't want to spoil the moment, so he makes no attempt to rouse him. He simply kneels there and watches, ignoring the aches in his legs in favor of prolonging this calm, and wishes things were always so simple. There isn't a sound in the theater beyond Dankovsky's slow respirations, and while such silence would normally put him on edge, it is a revelation now. How wonderful it is to be near him, close enough to smell the lingering tobacco and sweat on his clothes, the antiseptic stink long faded into the background. Yakov has already come to learn that the doctor's stress is his as well, so it stands to reason that his peace would be the same. He doesn't ruminate on what it has taken to get here, nor his collusion with it; he focuses only on the positive.
He isn't sure how long they stay like that, his own eyes drifting shut as he breathes in time with him, but as with all good things–
“Why are you still on the floor?” Dankovsky says, suddenly perfectly awake.
–it must come to an end.
“Oh!” He blanches, sliding back on the floor until the distance between them seems appropriate. “Well, you w-were resting, and I didn't want to disturb you, so I was just–”
“What time is it?” he interrupts, rubbing the haze from his eyes. Yakov scrambles to fish the pocketwatch out of the doctor's coat and reads it off to him.
“01:45, sir.”
Dankovsky stands suddenly, tripping over himself as he gathers his things. Yakov reaches out to catch him but somehow, he stays upright and manages to shove all of his belongings into his bag without breaking anything.
“Perhaps you should stay a bit longer?” he says, far too hopeful. He clears his throat and adds, trying to sound authoritative, “Until you're steadier on your feet, I mean.”
“I'll be fine.” There it is, that coldness leaking back into his voice, equilibrium restored. He pulls on his coat and gloves, then tucks in his cravat. “It's a short walk from here to the Stillwater. Eva will have stayed up for my return, and I don't want to keep her waiting.”
“Right. O-of course, sir.” He offers him his pocketwatch back, which the doctor double-checks before sticking it in his pocket. After a moment, he sighs and extends a gloved hand to him. The leather is cold against Yakov's palm as he allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He wishes he'd waited to put them on; they make everything so impersonal. He doesn't want to be impersonal with Dankovsky.
“I'd appreciate it if we kept this between us, Mr. Tochka.” There it is again: that painful detachment, a stark reminder that none of this means anything. In the light of day, they are simply a doctor and his assistant, and he was foolish to imagine anything else could be true. He nods, shoving away any grief he may have and refocusing on the mission, the role he must play in it.
“Of course, sir.”
“It was unprofessional on my part.” He looks everywhere except Yakov's eyes as he says it, clearly unpracticed in the art of apology. “An indiscretion. I hope you will not think less of me for it.”
“Never, sir.”
“Good. Now, in light of my transgression, let's forget this little– incident–” he says like it's a dirty word, “ever happened, shall we?”
“I don't even know what incident you're referring to,” he jokes with a tight-lipped smile. Dankovsky looks at him and after a long moment laughs, a real laugh, fond and relieved.
“Excellent.” He runs a hand through his hair and checks his watch again before grabbing his bag. “I must be going. I expect I'll see you tomorrow?”
“Naturally, sir,” Yakov says, bowing his head.
Dankovsky walks down the stage steps before turning to him again. “You should go home, Tochka. Get some rest.”
“Understood.”
They both know he won't.
The doctor nods and continues his departure, stopping briefly to point out a patient lying on one of the beds near the exit.
“More arsphenamine for this one,” he calls across the room.
“I'll see to it, sir.”
And then the theater of the dead is empty once again, a hundred doomed souls wheezing before him, their miracle once again off to the Bridge Square. He thinks he heard him kick the orderly awake on his way out.
Somewhere in the maze of beds, a patient gasps awake and coughs wetly (blood, he imagines– these days, it's always blood) and begins to sob for their medicine. Yakov quickly grabs some towels and rushes over to them, a new morphine vial in hand, and prays that the night will bring with it some small peace for everyone, from the Polyhedron to the Termitary. And if he prays a little harder for the patients of the hospital, and harder still for one resident of the Stillwater– well, that's between him and his God, whomever He may be.
