Chapter Text
Bachelor Dankovsky killed like it was personal. He looked haunted, eyes like mirrors: not a flinch as the gun went off. His hair was in disarray, dark circles under his eyes marred ashen skin, and Artemy had never been more grateful to see him.
The attacker slumped over him and was swiftly hauled off. The pain hit him again.
"Are you alive?" Dankovsky grouched in front of him, roughly turning his face this way and that, prying open his eyelids to check the pupils. "I saw you hit your head." The man who had crowded Artemy, a big guy, reeking of booze and desperation, had bashed his head against the wall a couple of times. Still-
"I'd worry about the stab wound first", Artemy choked out.
"The- '' Dankovsky paled, an impressive feat considering he already resembled a bed sheet. Hands moved to probe at Artemy’s torso.
"He didn't stab you, this is just a slash. Shallow one at that."
"I don't particularly care about the pedantics right now, oynon. The adrenaline is wearing off."
Dankovsky was already applying a makeshift bandage. "You'll live. Apply pressure here."
Moments later Dankovsky was doing his best attempt at hauling up a man much larger than himself. "Can you walk?"
"Probably."
Artemy swayed dangerously even as Dankovsky supported him with his wiry frame all the way to the Works. There was a fiery determination in the city doctor's eyes; he didn't look at Artemy, only straight ahead. Perhaps it was not determination but despair that drove him.
At the lair Dankovsky all but shoved him to sit on the examination table, and began pulling items out of his bag. Water, bandages, a chunk of bread.
"Strip."
Every movement hurt. Artemy grit his teeth and obeyed.
Dankovsky cleaned the wound with rough hands. There was something fervent in the harsh downturn of his mouth. He was trying to be considerate: Artemy couldn't stop a hiss escaping his lips as Dankovsky poured alcohol over the wound, and he muttered almost sympathetically, "it must be done, haruspex."
"I did not realize you thought so warmly of me." Artemy said, half to himself.
"Excuse me?"
"There has been much unkindness between us. We walk in opposite directions. You could have left me to bleed."
Dankovsky swallowed hard. "Much of your unkindness towards me has been deserved."
He wrapped bandages around the wound and Artemy waited for what the man left unsaid.
Finally: "You and I are the only ones with any social standing in this godforsaken hellhole who have any chance to stop what is happening." Dankovsky’s hands stilled, falling on the table to cage Artemy’s thighs in an ironic approximation of intimacy. He went on like he was forcing the words out of his throat: "If you fall, it is on my shoulders. Forget the Clara girl, she is a lunatic. If you fall-"
He paused abruptly, and then rasped: "I do not trust myself not to load my gun and blow my brains out. I can’t take this on my own, Burakh."
Dankovsky was standing so close, breath ghosting Artemy’s skin, and it was easy to wrap an arm around the man’s shoulders and pull him in. Ten days of hell and here they were. Despite their differences Dankovsky, too, was a man faced with impossible decision after impossible decision, and here he was, breaking. Artemy recognized himself in shaking hands and desolate eyes.
"Do not extend me kindness," Dankovsky whispered into his shoulder. "Please. I will fall here and now if you give me a moment's respite."
Artemy did not release him, not right away, because he needed this too, and what the Ripper needed, he took.