Work Text:
“The problem isn’t the material; it’s in the use of the material, the placement of it. Perhaps if I used metal crossbeams – yes, that might fix it. Thoughts?”
The small metal sculpture, a rather unsettling depiction of a tree baring a set of pointed fangs, didn’t answer Andrey. Typical behavior for it, and one of the reasons bouncing ideas off it worked so well. Andrey hummed softly to himself and looked back down at the blueprints. His shirt was open, the sleeves rolled up, and his torso bloomed with bruises both fresh and faded from last week’s boxing match and last night’s bar fight. Tonight was a day off, though, a day for pacing and talking to himself and puzzling through his brother’s blueprints. So it was a surprise when, shortly after midnight, there came a knock at the door.
“What do you want?” Andrey called out. There was silence, then another knock, slightly softer. Grumbling to himself, he went over and yanked the door open.
“What’s your pr-“
He was abruptly cut off in his own rush to catch Bad Grief, who had evidently been leaning against the door and now slumped against Andrey, very nearly falling. It was too dark to see much, but the fabric of Grief's coat was damp under Andrey's fingers.
“Andrey,” Grief mumbled, out of breath. “Sorry, woulda called, but… I mighta, uh, panicked.”
“Grisha,” Andrey began, startled, then stopped himself. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone was visibly chasing Grief, then pulled the man inside. “What happened? Where are you hurt?” As soon as he was in the light, it was clear that he was badly wounded, his face pale, his clothes sticking to him. He had probably bled a trail right to Andrey's door.
Grief grimaced. “Back,” he said. “Fucker shot me in the back, can you believe it?”
Andrey swore under his breath. "Over here, take off your coat and lie down on your stomach." He half-carried Grief over to his couch, and Grief let out a soft grunt of pain as he shed his coat and lowered himself onto the cushions. He was being unusually compliant, which was almost more concerning than the blood soaking his shirt.
"Guess I owe ya a new couch," Grief said. His voice was rough, like he might have been screaming at some point.
"Please. I've done much worse than bleed on it. As have you, come to think of it." Andrey looked Grief over and clicked his tongue. "Better take off the shirt, too." He slid his hands under the hem of Grief's shirt and eased it off, and Grief hissed.
"Fuck, it was way sexier the last time you did that."
"One of the disadvantages of getting shot, my dear."
Grief collapsed back down on the couch, groaning. "Yeah? You shoulda warned me, maybe I wouldn't've fucked with that guard."
There was so much blood that it was difficult to see the entry wounds, but Andrey spotted them after a moment; there were two, one in the shoulder, the other just above the hip. Both injuries were still bleeding sluggishly, such that when Andrey wiped some of the blood away with the hem of his shirt, it immediately welled back up and began to drip down the curves of Grief's back.
"Think I'll make it, doc?" Grief mumbled sarcastically. The playfulness was somewhat dimmed by his clenched jaw and the way his knuckles were white on the pillow he had grabbed to rest his chin on.
Andrey ignored him. "Is there an exit wound for either one?"
Grief snorted. "I don't fucking- ow, ow, fuck! Stop poking me! I don't know, yeah, I think that first one went- yeah." He stopped himself short, out of breath. "Shoulder," he added after a moment.
Andrey ran a hand through his hair, inadvertently streaking blood through it. "Shit," he muttered. So one bullet was still in Grief's hip, and the town guards weren't known for the sterility of their bullets, and Andrey sure as hell wasn't going to dig it out, not if he could help it. He would never forget the feeling of scrabbling in his own flesh for metal, of pulling out one scrap of exploded bullet at a time with trembling hands, his fingers slippery with his own blood and sweat, the pain of it, the way his nails dug in, the way his cuticles were stained reddish-brown for days. He didn't want to do that to Grief. But what was the alternative? Bandage him like this, risk infection, risk killing him? And Grief was still bleeding too much, and it had been much too long since Andrey took that one first-aid class, he couldn't remember what arteries were in the shoulder or how close they were to the surface of the skin. He pursed his lips, then pulled out his phone.
"Grief, don't you have a surgeon friend? You know his number?"
Grief made a noncommittal noise, muffled by the pillow (which he now had his face buried in). "He's on a date. Won't answer."
Andrey frowned. "This seems more important than- whatever. I guess mine'll do."
"Aw, am I too busted up for your magic touch?"
"Ha. Ask me again in a day or two."
Grief hummed softly, and Andrey laid a hand on Griefs head and idly ran his fingers through unkempt red hair while he dialed Daniil Dankovsky's number. It rang three times before going to voicemail. Andrey rolled his eyes and tried again. This time, it only rang once before it was cut off. Again. Same thing.
"Damn it, pick up the phone, asshole," he muttered. He dialed again. Four rings, and finally-
"Andrey, if this isn't important, you're dead to me."
"My friend's hurt," Andrey said without preamble. "How fast can you get here?"
There was a pause, then a sigh. "I can't believe- how hurt?"
Andrey glanced back down at Grief, at the rust-colored stain seeping into the couch cushions. "Pretty hurt. He got shot. Twice."
"Mother of God, Andrey, then take him to a fucking hospital!"
Andrey ground his teeth. "You know why I can't do that. How fast can you get here?" he repeated.
"God damn it. God damn it." There was a sound of muffled conversation; Daniil had covered the receiver to talk to someone, his tone apologetic. Who he could possibly be with, Andrey had no idea. Daniil never went out these days except with Andrey and Peter. He tapped his fingers impatiently.
"Okay," Daniil returned at last, "I can be there in... fifteen minutes, if I really push it. But you owe me for this. I have an actual, normal life, you know. With people in it."
Andrey scoffed. "What people, colleagues? They don't count."
"Colleagues don't have to just be-" Daniil cut himself off and lowered his voice. "Fuck you, Andrey, I just ruined a really nice date to do you a favor. You owe me big time. See you in fifteen." The line cut off.
"Huh." Andrey looked down at the phone for another second. "I guess he was on a date, too. Big night for doctors, I guess."
Grief snorted. "Imagine if they were on the same date."
"Ha! Wouldn't that be something." Andrey looked down. He couldn't quite keep his voice light, couldn't quite find the motivation to bother trying to. A heavy silence fell.
"Andrey," Grief murmured eventually. "Thanks. For opening the door."
Andrey was, for once, at a loss for words. "You're... you're welcome, I guess. You don't have to thank me for that."
"Mm." Grief turned his head to the side, so Andrey could see one of those piercing eyes looking up at him, the aquiline nose scattered with freckles, a smudge of red over his eyebrow. "You, uh... you don't think I'm gonna kick the bucket here, do ya?"
"What?" Andrey almost laughed, but he subsided and lowered his voice when he realized that Grief was utterly serious. "No, of course not. You'll be fine, Grisha."
"S'just that I've never been shot before." Grief let out a soft breath. "It surprised me, y'know? I barely even did anything to that guy. I was leaving."
Andrey felt something twist in his gut, the same protective fury he felt when people insulted Eva or tried something with one of his employees. He had never felt it for Grief, before; he didn't think he had ever had reason to. Grief was vicious and good in a fight, good enough to land more than a few blows on Andrey when the opportunity arose and the mood called for it. Regardless of the reason, he very much wanted to hunt that guard down like a miserable dog and tear him to pieces.
For now, he settled for leaning back and brushing a strand of hair from Grief's forehead. "Yeah?"
Grief closed his eyes. "I shoulda seen it coming," he muttered. "Piece of shit guardsman. He was blocking the bridge, so I threw a bottle at him when he wouldn't move, so what?" He had to catch his breath again. "It didn't even hit him. I decided he wasn't worth it and started to walk away, and he shot me. Fucker shot me. Can you believe that? Dyusha?"
Andrey gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I believe it."
"Fuck." Grief's voice was quiet, strained. "Shoulda seen it coming." He was quiet for another moment. "Ya know, I skinned my knees, too, how dumb is that? Yeah, when I fell down. Didn't notice he'd shot me for a second, 'cause my knees hurt like a bitch, and then I tried to get up, and, oh, boy, did I notice then." He took a measured breath in, then out. "This really fucking hurts."
Andrey grimaced. "Yeah. I know. Daniil will be here soon; he'll have some kind of painkillers for you."
Grief forced a chuckle. "The good shit?"
Andrey's lips quirked up, and he leaned down to kiss Grief, just on the forehead, just once. "Yeah, babe, the good shit." Probably. If he was wrong, well, there was always vodka.
Daniil arrived at last, and he had indeed brought morphine, though only enough for a few doses. He physically slapped Andrey's hands away from his bag when he tried to investigate.
"Oh, no, you don't," Daniil snarled. "I know exactly what's in this bag in exact numbers and quantities and if I go home and find so much as one pill missing, you're waking up with a scalpel in your perineum."
Andrey retreated with a scowl. "I was just looking," he muttered. "Aren't you supposed to focus on the patient?"
Grief had gone quiet and limp after a single dose of morphine, and fell unconscious with the press of a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to his nose, the only anesthetics Daniil had on hand. It was kind of cute how his jaw went slack and his arm draped to the floor, how his face relaxed and made him look younger, except that it wasn’t actually the relaxation of sleep. It would have been cuter under different circumstances.
"It'd be easier to focus without you here," Daniil said, going back to his work. "It's like having a feral cat in the operating room. I can't believe they ever let you in our classroom." He was fishing delicately for the bullet in Grief's hip with a pair of tweezers and copious use of water and disinfectant. The couch might really be unsalvageable after this.
Andrey rolled his eyes and got up to pace. "He's gonna be fine, right?"
Daniil quirked an eyebrow without looking up. "You really need to ask? If his life was in real danger, I would have called an ambulance, and to hell with your objections."
"Yeah, well." Andrey glowered at his feet. He was buzzing with energy, the kind of energy he would usually expend by picking a fight or picking someone up at a bar or calling Grief, but Grief was here, and he didn't want to leave him. He turned on his heel and continued pacing.
Eventually, Daniil pushed past him to the sink. "Just need to bandage him up, now," he said over his shoulder.
Some of the tension drained from Andrey. "Oh. Good."
Daniil narrowed his eyes at Andrey as he shook the water from his hands and crossed back over to Grief. "What's got you so anxious about this, anyway? Does he owe you money?"
Andrey went to punch him in the arm, but Daniil was already unwinding a roll of bandages, so he refrained and crossed his arms instead. "No, you're such an asshole. He's just my friend."
Daniil gave him a dubious look. "You're awfully worked up for 'just a friend.'"
"Shut the fuck up. You just don't know how normal people relate to each other."
Daniil snorted and said nothing else. He worked quickly and cleanly, as always, and when he stood to leave, Grief's wounds were completely concealed by neat bandaging. He handed another roll of bandages to Andrey.
"Make sure he changes those daily for the first few days, then every two or three days for another week or so. Call me if you see any – whatever, you know what infections look like, I don't have to explain it to you. If he gets thrown down the stairs or something and the wounds reopen, skip me and call a hospital. Got it?"
Andrey waved his hand dismissively. "I know, I know." He lowered his voice a little, growing serious. "Hey, thanks for helping him, Daniil."
Daniil punched him in the arm (it looked like he was doing his best, but it didn't hurt even a little) and left.
Andrey had spent many nights alone with Grief, some of them even chaste (usually either because they were fighting instead or because one or both of them was too drunk), but this was different. Andrey sat at the base of the couch and tilted his head back to watch Grief breathing slowly in, out, in, out. His nose whistled. The sight made Andrey's chest twinge uncomfortably, and he stood again. He should go back to those blueprints. He should go out, he should drink, he should box, he should find that guardsman and tear out the fucker's organs with his teeth. He paced. He sat back down. He waited for Grief to wake up.
Andrey woke with a crick in his neck and his legs asleep, but at some point during the night, Grief's hand had found its way into his. Andrey still sort of wanted to hit someone, but like this, with Grief's stupid little snores and their fingers tangled together, it hardly even felt like a chore to sit still.