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The clock strikes eight, bell tolling through the town, and Dankovsky comes out of the theatre. He’s got a gun in his hand, pointed at Artemy, a clear shot.
Artemy doesn't take his hands out of the person's chest, carries on cutting. The organs moving beneath him so easily now because he knows the Lines. The town, the cure, rests on this, and Dankovsky will shoot, or he won’t, nothing can be done. He’s learned that over the last few days. You can’t do anything about Dankovsky. He will always be simply a Ripper to Dankovsky, a cutter of innocents.
He looks up. “It’s a nice night,” he says, “You can feel it on the steppe – the heat.” He’s going to mention the smell of Twyre, the smell of his home, and his childhood, but the blood’s drowning it out. “We’ve been blessed, I think.”
“I can certainly think of less bloody ways to spend the evening.” Dankovsky says gesturing towards the corpse, voice sharp, always sharp, better than them all.“There’s so much to be done.”
There’s almost a tiredness in Dankovsy’s voice, because there is so much both of them could be doing, but here they are. Squaring off, again, and he’s so tired. I’m not my father’s killer, he thinks, and your hands aren't clean. It doesn't work that way, not in this town. But Dankovsky is ignorant of his own ignorance because he refuses to see. Which is usually a dangerous thing, but especially here.
The prickly prick that will bury us all.
A smile, not enough to shift his face, and a nod. “Yes, there is.” A beat. He looks down, “Well, emshen? Are you going to bloody those delicate hands of yours?”
Dankovsky raises his gun.
The clock strikes eight, bell tolling through the town, and Daniil comes out of the theatre. He’s got a knife in his hand, but his grip is shaky, and he’s covered in blood. A doctor doing surgeon’s work. His pupils are huge, his movement wrong, too slow, and Artemy knows.
“You’ll get another set of organs, at least. No point wasting anything,” Daniil says, looking past him, always looking past everything into the future, but never actually seeing. This is too simple for Daniil, too quiet, and he’s annoyed at the lack of something, anything, else. That it’s going to end like this. A smile twists on Daniil’s face. “You know, I always liked you.” It’s said flat, but the words echo, spoken by someone like him.
Artemy can read the words: At least it’s you, it’s better it’s you.
Daniil is the last of the great Utopians, the only one arrogant enough to think he could defeat death, assuming he knows what needs to be done for the good of the whole. Daniil understands, in his way - it’s clear on his face - that his great enemy is going to win. Artemy’s not a doctor, he’s a surgeon, but he knows what needs to be done, too. Something gets infected, you cut it out. Sometimes the only kindness you can offer is to cut it out. A surgeon, doing surgeon’s work.
This is one dissection Stakh may have to do.
He’s seen what happens to those that get the Sand-Pest, what they become, they both have. The people they infect. He’d want the same thing. First, do no harm, he thinks, but the time for that is long gone. They’ve both done so much harm in the last few days. “I’m sorry, Daniil,” is all he can manage, because anything else wouldn't be enough, and because he is.
I always liked you. Feeling’s mutual. He raises his gun.
The clock strikes eight, bell tolling through the town, and Clara comes out of the theatre. She’s got nothing in her hands, but her hands are enough, if you believe the rumours. He does, because he’s seen it, seen her raise the dead.
“He’s looking for you, Ripper,” she says in that sing-song voice, “Try not to let him find you. I still need you,” A smile, or something that could pass for one, crosses her face. “I still need you both.”
He’s going to cut that son of a bitch’s throat when he finds him, before he gets them all killed. Him and his goddamn tower. If he has to be a Ripper, then he’ll rip. Might as well earn the name. “Good news. I’m looking for him too.”
Clara spreads her hands out and laughs. There’s a joke here, but she’s the only one who gets it. She walks over, squints up at him. “I prefer it when you two get along. Makes things so much easier.”
He frowns, not understanding. Clara always does this. It’s almost like she can see, really see. Like she’s one of the towns mistresses, except bigger than that, her sight stretching far forward, or far back. “Me and the Bachelor have never exactly understood one another. Call it professional differences.”
Dankovsky has never understood the town or it’s people. Never made any attempt to understand. So sure of his own knowledge, his own vision, that he didn’t need to. If his own arrogance didn’t blind him, it would make him quite formidable. Good job it does.
She smirks again, another joke just for her, and turns to walk away. “Go home, Burakh. I’d rather neither of you died tonight.”
Sometimes, he thinks, you don’t get to make that decision. Sometimes it’s made for you. And sometimes you get to make it for other people.
He starts to walk.
The clock strikes eight, bell tolling through the town, and Daniil comes out of the theatre. He’s got a scalpel in his hand; it’s dull, covered in rust.
Artemy is bleeding, and he’s not sure how badly, not sure how much blood he’s lost, but it’s enough that he needs help. Daniil walks over before he can call out, tilts his head. “Well, Burakh, it seems that some people find you as objectionable as I do.” There’s something underneath the words and he’s in too much pain to try and translate it. Instead, he huffs, tries not to laugh, pain shooting through him. This is all his own doing, and now he needs to face Daniil.
“Take the jacket off.” He’s going to protest, but Danill cuts him off. “Unless your plan for the evening is bleeding to death and proving once and for all what an idiot you are.”
He isn't an idiot, so he takes the jacket off, even though he hates all of this. He tries not to flinch when Daniil’s cold hands are suddenly pushing on the wound, gloves abandoned beside him. “Remind me” —a sting, some ointment—“That we need to talk about your bedside manner a little, oynon.”
A hum from Daniil, more ointment, “We can—when you're not bleeding.” A beat, “Although I am assured that my manner is immaculate.”
Daniil goes into his satchel and pulls out what looks like a suture set in a leather case and Artemy doesn't say anything. Daniil is all theories and ideas, not flesh and stitches, but he gets to work. As a surgeon, Artemy knows he makes the worst kind of patient, but doesn't flinch as the needle bites into his skin. Instead he watches Daniil, watches his hands move over the skin, oddly aware that he’s never seen Daniil without gloves. The stitches look so textbook that Artemy assumes they're Daniil's first fieldwork, but they are solid. “That’s some delicate work. Who knew you had it in you?”
Daniil stops, lets out a huff of breath. “I can’t do this properly if you keep moving, Burakh. You're going to tear them.”
He has to stop himself from laughing.
The clock strikes twelve, bell tolling through the town, and Daniil comes out of the theatre. He’s got a book in his hand, it’s red, gold on the cover.
He looks like hell, worse than Artemy has ever seen him, hair all ruffled. He runs a hand through his hair, spots Artemy, and then stops. Pulls himself up to his full height which isn’t really that impressive to begin with. “What are you doing here this time of night, Burakh?”
He nods towards the theatre. “Thought I’d get myself some culture.”
There’s a quirk of a smile on Dankovsky’s face. “I wouldn’t bother. The performance this evening was not up to the usual exacting standard. Bit far-fetched,” He stops, tilts his head. “I suppose I might as well. Control the timing, Acta est Fabula, Plaudite.”
Before Artemy can request a translation, Dankovsky reaches up, cups his jaw. His hands are soft, not surgeon’s hands. Perhaps Dankovsky’s gone mad, maybe the Sand-Pest has broken him, but whatever Dankovsky is looking for he seems to find, and pulls him down into a kiss. He falls into the warmth of it, softness and connection in the middle of hell.
Daniil is the one that pulls back, looks at him, properly looks at him. Then Daniil straightens up his coat. “Well,” he says, and he turns, starts to walk away.
Artemy follows.