Work Text:
A sigh of frustration rang like a bell in the dark and quiet room. The unintelligible murmur that spilled from chapped lips was no better.
An ancient desk lamp clicked on as Fyodor stood up from his chair, closing his laptop along the way. His cloak lay forgotten on the chair just as a chill ran through his back. The rat-like man shivered despite himself.
Fyodor made his way over to a shelf, lined with empty glass jars and a few medical supplies. While picking up a jar and the supply kit, he noted that he was running out of proper bandages. He needs to start paying attention to things like this.
With the jar and kit in hand, he headed over to the bed, his red boots clicking against the floor. The bed itself looked worn and in desperate need of a wash, a stale smell permeated the air. Deciding that he could get to that later, Fyodor sat down, a frown slowly creeping up on his face as he set the glass jar down in front of him, the medical supplies placed nearby. This was not an aspect of his work that he looked forward to, but it was necessary for his recent plans.
Fyodor prepped his arm with some rubbing alcohol and cleaned his scalpel. It’s thin and sharp. Dangerous, but rather small for its capabilities. Unassuming, his mind supplied. Fyodor hummed in acknowledgment of his own thought.
Picking up the scalpel, Fyodor held his breath in anticipation. It was never pleasant. His hand drew back, getting into position, right above his other.
Like a bow to a cello, the scalpel grazed the skin until it dipped in. Fyodor let out an involuntary gasp. Ah, how uncomfortably familiar was the feeling of metal in his skin. That is until the scalpel was removed, allowing the blood to gather and overflow, dripping slowly into the glass jar.
As the jar filled and the scent of blood claimed his nose, Fyodor felt his limbs grow weaker, his body more tired. His head spun. Though, none of this was unexpected with his anemia. A chill ran through his body once again, as he realized he should’ve brought his cape. It’s too late now, though. He’s not sure he’d be able to walk.
Deciding that it was enough, Fyodor took out the remaining bandages and wrapped them around his wrist, feeling them press against the wound. He resolved to ask Nikolai to get him some more bandages the next morning.
After closing the jar with his uninjured arm, Fyodor picked up the half-empty cup of long-cold tea from his nightstand and took a few sips. The taste is now indecipherable, muted.
With each action, Fyodor grew excessively tired. So he took off his boots, hearing them fall on the floor with a thud each, and got under the covers, looking for some warmth for his now shivering body.
Cocooning himself in soft blankets with his ushanka still on his head seemed to help him warm up. With his desk light still on and his dark hair tickling his face, Fyodor drifted off, too exhausted for anything else.