Once upon a time, there was a man known as Aleksander Davydov. One foul night, he was shot by his enemies. His brethren, unable to take him to a hospital, brought him to a Family doctor instead. The doctor was occupied, but his daughter, Yelena, wasn't... (AKA: the Story of How Aleksander and Yelena Met)
Location: Tisza, Tauron
Related Scenes: 2237-12-05 - Past Made Present
Scene Number: 1557
It was a miserable night, for more than one reason. It was well past midnight but dawn was nowhere in sight, right at the mid-point where most normal people would be deep asleep and hate to be disturbed by the outside world. There is a gentle pitter-patter of rain falling on cars, roofs, streets outside. It would’ve been just another regular night in the Tisza region of Tauron until there is a muffled screech of a car hitting the brakes hard, stopping in front of Yelena’s and her father’s house.
There is the sound of the car doors opening and probably two men scrambling, then another car door opening. Sounds of some exertion and effort is made, along with the sound of a muffled voice through the rain saying, “Hang on, Alek! Doc will patch you up good as new!” No further answer or words are heard from the outside, just the pattering of rain until there is a sudden banging on the door, not the front door of course but the one that those who aren’t here on ‘official visits’ use. The pair, though very worried, are smart enough to not yell out for the Doc, as they would not wish to be banned from this place, even if this may be the last time they would visit.
Already they had someone in the house being tended. The son of a Lieutenant had gotten into a car accident and they didn’t want a hospital due to the rather inebriated and ‘stolen car’ circumstances of the exchange. The young man was being tended to in the spare room, but required most of Konstantin’s attention. Yelena had been assisting, but it was down to the old man now.
The car doors caught her attention first, from where she was putting things away. On a niggling suspicion, she withheld the standard kit and set it on the kitchen counter as she moved to twitch aside the curtains and look outside. It means the trio doesn’t have to wait long before the door is pulled wide enough to show the young woman, dressed in jeans and a slightly-too-large sweatshirt; her dirty blonde hair contained in a sloppy bun by a pen. She looks tired, but her only response is to look them over quickly before stepping aside to give them entry into the kitchen.
The kitchen with its broad, solid wood table. One almost never used for eating, if one is being honest. The Rezniks are far from a normal family unit. Father and daughter more likely to eat takeout in front of the vidplayer if they’re home for dinner at all.
“Get him on the table,” is what she finally says, once the door is closed behind them.
The two that were carrying Aleksander are definitely mafia, one is young, perhaps sixteen. The other is an older man, older than the wounded man they are carrying. He is in the usual suit, buttoned up shirt, tie, and slacks. The young man has blood on him, but not his, it all belongs to Davydov who is definitely not in good shape. His suit jacket is missing, either left in the car or discarded somewhere along the way here, and his shirt is a bloody mess, the source being his upper left shoulder-torso area. There is another wound at his left thigh, but the dark pants masks most of the blood that has soaked in.
Hearing Yelena’s command, the two snap to without argument, knowing that any protests or discussion would just delay treatment for Aleksander. This is certainly not their first rodeo. They lug their larger mate to the sturdy, wood table and on a silent count, lift Davydov up and on, letting him lie on his back. A groan can be heard from the gunshot victim, which is a good sign, since it means he isn’t dead already. But there is not much movement coming from him. The youth is already taking position at the shoulder, pressing his hands there again as he was probably doing the entire car ride there.
The older man finally looks at Yelena and asks, “Where’s the doc?” A hurried question before pointing at Aleksander, “He’s been shot twice, once in the shoulder, and once in the left leg.” Then he looks around the kitchen, certainly worried but also apparently in a hurry. “Let the doc know that if he needs anything, Pavel here can stay and help.” The last part spoken as the man looks at the youth, as if giving him an unspoken order to stay with Davydov until told otherwise. “I have to go. Save him please.” No other details were offered, about how they got into the situation, why he has to leave in a hurry, but with that, the older man heads for the door he entered and leaves just the same, the door shutting quickly behind him. Not long after, the sound of a car driving off in a hurry can be heard, no peeling of tires but the engine was definitely being put to use.
The expression the young woman wears is one of calculation. She’s young, herself. Not so young as Pavel, but closer to age to the man being put on the table. But she holds no fear or disgust at the sight of him. Nor does she wear the panic of someone paying witness to a man near death. She’s not calm, but the manic nature of the way she moves once the door is closed is of someone rushing on another person’s behalf. Driven by need rather than anxiety or fear.
“Konstantin is dealing with Volkov’s son.” One of the more persnickety Ha’la’tha Lieutenants and one who allowed his son to get away with just about anything while providing little back to the organization’s interests. Spoiled children. She’s already laying out the kit on the countertop and taking inventory. Yelena looks up only as the older man makes it clear he intends to leave. She frowns, but nods. At least she’ll have something of an assistant.
“I’ll do my best.”
There are no false promises in the Ha’la’tha.
As the door closes, she moves up alongside Pavel and reaches out with a dish towel grabbed along the way to replace his hands. “Down the hall, second door on the right is a closet. Get towels and the bin of jars.” Jars, bottles, and vials. The Reznik family’s rather advanced ‘medicine cabinet.’ While he’s gone, she gets the towel pressed in place with one hand while digging into the kit near at hand to pull out the medical scissors to start cutting away Davydov’s shirt.
“Hey,” she notes, at one point, while working at the fabric. She’s leaning over his face now, trying to get a look at his eyes. “You with me?”
Hearing those orders, Pavel nods his head once and is immediately on the move when pressure on the shoulder wound is replaced by Yelena’s hands. He will fetch the towers and bin without an issue. While the young man is gone, Aleksander is left with the daughter and there is a delayed response to her question. Eyes that were still closed open up in very narrow slits, as if the light is too bright, “Where’s… Pavel and Nikolai.” That is the answer Yelena would get to her question.
It’s obvious that Aleksander is too weak to move right now or he may have tried to push Yelena away and try to get up off of the table, for now he is forced to lie on the table. The pain is returning as more of his consciousness begins to come back, obvious at the wincing expression on his face. With the shirt cut away, the gunshot wound is obvious, a circular wound that bleeds. Luckily, it is not near the lungs or heart, nor did it hit the bone and shatter or ricochet somewhere else in the body.
“Where am I?” Comes another mumbled question, slight movement from the body as he tries to turn about, not liking the position he is in but again, not strong enough to protest too much.
The smile she has for Aleksander when he initially speaks is less meant for encouragement and more pleased that he's still conscious of his surroundings. She does place a hand on his chest opposite the wounded side to keep him still. She's slight, but decently strong. Dancing will do that to a person.
And how many writhing men and women has she held down for her father?
“Nikolai had to leave. Pavel is getting some things. Stay still or you'll lose more blood.” Her voice is gentle by nature, but her words are firm.
She pulls away the dish towel enough to see the wound underneath. Her expression is flat as she gauges entry trajectory. Then she's moving her hand from his chest to reach beneath him to check for an exit wound. “You're in Konstantin Reznik’s home. I'm Yelena.”
“What's your name? And do you know what calibre you were shot with?” Pavel could surely answer the questions, too, but she's trying to distract Aleksander from his pain until she has drugs in hand.
It is not surprised that Aleksander is worried, this is a place he has never been to and the young woman holding him down is someone he has never met. He can’t see a friendly face and his mind is still probably lingering with what happened before he lost consciousness. However, when Yelena mentions the name Konstantin Reznik, there is an obvious reaction, a good one. The weak struggle ceases and he is no longer moving, instead content with laying on his back on the hard surface.
As for her questions, he doesn’t offer his name but he does answer her second question, which may be another good sign that his mind is conscious enough to process some thought. “Ten millimeter.” A pause before he asks, “How bad?” His opposite hand was going to reach over to search for the wound on his shoulder before he thought better and laid it back down.
That is when Pavel returns with the items that Yelena had asked for, in one hand are a stack of towels, the one his hand is touch is already staining red. The other is the bin with an assortment of jars, bottles, and vials. Nothing extra was taken, the youth sticking strictly to the instructions given. When he sees that Aleksander is sort of awake, Pavel looks a bit relieved but doesn’t speak, perhaps afraid to say anything unless spoken to since there are non-famiily members present. Davydov does speak, his head turning slightly when he sees Pavel, relaxing further when he sees that the young man isn’t hurt, “Where’s Nikolai?”
The whole Reznik family is known in Tisza. Never especially high ranking, but often enforcers, lieutenants, and other loyal members of the Ha’la’tha. The strength behind the crown, as it were. One of the pillars that keeps the operation stable. And Konstantin? Has been giving his service as a doctor for decades. Longer than Lena or Aleksander have both been alive, for a certainty.
“Shouldn’t be too much internal damage, then.” It’ll probably incite new pain when she finds the exit wound for how she has to seek blindly. She was going slow enough, however, that her fingertips brush then come away. “The bullet isn’t still in there. That’s good.” There may be shards of bone or metal, but they lack the facilities to fully clean a wound. Such is the life.
Too late does she realize that her sleeves are still down. When Pavel returns, she’s taken her hands from the wound to push them back; staining the heather gray thoroughly. The logo on the sweatshirt is of the local university. “I haven’t seen your leg yet,” she admits down to Aleksander with an apologetic look before she’s nodding Pavel back in for applying pressure once more.
Yelena moves methodically, then. A few towels are rolled up to place under Davydov’s head before she picks through the bin. It’s a local anesthetic she goes for. Targeting the wound sites; unwilling to give him anything that’d put him out. Her work on his arm is quick. Cleaning the wound, having Pavel help lift Aleksander up to get to the other side. Her sutures are rather straight and clean; surprisingly, perhaps, for someone as young as she is. Then the sites layered with bandaging.
Then she’s moving to his left leg. Once again, cutting away the fabric to get at the wound beneath. “You’re lucky it missed the artery.” He’d have never made it to the Reznik kitchen if it hadn’t.
There is a grunt and gritting of teeth when Yelena pushes back down on his wounds, but there will be no cries or complaints coming from Aleksander. Pavel will of course assist where he needs to, following her directions to the letter and with surprisingly sure hands. He isn’t a timid young man, timid doesn’t last long in this business.
At first, Aleksander tries to reject the application of anesthetics, but when reassured that it is local only and he won’t pass out again, he finally relents. As Yelena works on his shoulder wound, closing the hole that was made there, Pavel finally answers Davydov’s question, though in hushed tones and perhaps a cryptic response. “He… had to go, he couldn’t stay. They will still be searching.” Aleksander doesn’t look pleased but he accepts that answer and remains quiet while Yelena continues her work.
When she begins working on his leg, Aleksander can only smirk and shake his head, “If we were lucky, none of this would have happened.” A pause again before he asks, “Do you still need Pavel’s help?”
All it does is shut out the pain in the limb. It won’t help the pain in the leg nor the weariness and potential for euphoric moments from bloodloss. It may even bring the leg into a sharper pinpoint of discomfort, in the end. He likely also retains the pain and discomfort deeper in his shoulder. Local can only go so far, after all.
Yelena doesn’t interrupt their cryptic conversation. She’s been privy to similar exchanges since she was a child, assisting at her father’s side. But in those days, she was in Pavel’s role rather than the one she serves now. The woman briefly lifts a hand to push errant bits of hair behind her ear; smearing some blood across her cheek.
“No, I can get the rest of this.” Though she is frowning, just a bit, as she gets the fabric of his pants cut away to reveal he wound. “You are only half-unlucky. You get to live to suffer more.” It’s meant as a joke; complete with a hint of a smirk. She rolls up more towels to place under his leg to lift it from the table and soak up blood as she works.
The leg wound is more a flesh wound than anything else, the bullet that hit grazed the side of the leg so the result is more a angry, bloody slash than an actually bullet hole like the shoulder was. That also means the majority of the blood Aleksander lost was from his shoulder. When Yelena mentions that Pavel is no longer needed, he quickly tells the young man, “Go and get me a change of clothes, and the bag. And don’t forget the packet.” Words spoken with a very tight tone, since he is still dealing with pain. With the instruction given, Pavel turns to leave, but not before saying a quick word of thanks to Yelena. Then he leaves out the door that Nikolai had used earlier and into the darkness of the night.
When Yelena is putting more towels under him, Aleksander shifts his position to accommodate, eliciting another groan of discomfort. But he lies back instead of trying to sit up to watch, apparently trusting the daughter of the well-known doctor to do a good job. Not like he had a choice, the doctor was occupied elsewhere and there is no one else, which is why he was brought here in the first place. The silence from Davydov means he is no doubt thinking about what has transpired earlier in the night, and what the next steps are. The tightness of his face from the pain is there, but there is also a troubled expression, his thoughts being the source. His focus anywhere but here as he is worked on by Yelena.
There’s a look over her shoulder as Pavel leaves. Perhaps to make sure the door is fully closed behind him. Perhaps in case someone is lurking beyond. Maybe she’s nervous about what the lad is going to retrieve. There’s a touch of anxiety in her expression, but she swiftly dissembles as she turns back to Aleksander and her work.
His leg is quicker going than his shoulder, as far as treatment goes. Largely just a matter of cleaning the wound and applying a bandage. There is, at one point, sounds of movement further in the house. Yelena just mutters under her breath about the ‘damn Volkovs.’ While she’s getting the bandage in place, she looks up to Aleksander. “What can I call you? I feel strange having no name for someone that bled all over me.” There’s plenty on her arms and sweatshirt, never mind the streak across her cheek.
Once she’s done bandaging the injury on his thigh, Yelena returns to the bin of vials and the like. “Do you want drugs or just some vodka?” Well aware of his earlier protest.
Aleksander doesn’t do anything to alleviate Yelena’s anxiety or worry if he sees it, leaving the situation as is and staying silent as his leg is being worked out. Just a grimace here or there but no vocal complaints. Hearing the sound deeper in the house, he gives that direction a glance but doesn’t react, perhaps trusting the doctor when inside his domain.
When the question is addressed to him though, he looks at the doctor’s daughter and appears to be deciding whether or not to answer. Finally he does speak, “My name is Aleksander.” No last name is offered. As for the option of vodka or drugs, that answer is easy and quick, “Vodka. No drugs.” His policy stated rather clearly. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first time you’re doing this, since you didn’t just faint at the sight of blood and can work the needle, cleaning, and bandaging.”
“Aleksander,” she repeats. “I’m Yelena.” In case he’d missed it in his pain earlier. Did she even say it earlier, to the others? It was such a rush of tending to the man’s wounds. When he makes his policy known, she steps away and to the sink, washing her hands. The sweatshirt is stripped out of, too; leaving her in a thin, sleeveless top underneath. She drops the blood-stained top into the pile of towels used during Aleksander’s care. When she’s done, there’s still blood stains on her jeans and the smear across her cheek, but at least she’s not leaving bits of the man across the kitchen as she gets a couple glasses and a bottle of liquor.
Back at the table, she holds the bottle out to him. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable. The sofa’s just in the other room.” If he takes it (thus freeing an arm), she’ll get her hand by his uninjured shoulder to help get him upright. Again, relying on that strength earned from years of dancing... even if she still struggles a bit.
For his question, there’s a smile, but one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve been helping my father for a long time.”
There is a slight nod from Aleksander when Yelena offers her name but that is about it, as if he is purposefully not offering much more and keeping their exchanges minimal. When she returns with the bottle, he does reach out and take it before slowly sitting up with her help. Pain is still there but it is a dull ache with the local anesthetics, it will no doubt hurt more later and be sore as it heals, but he pays it no mind for now.
After sitting up, Aleksander doesn’t slide off the table just yet, “I can wait here for Pavel to return, it is no problem and I do not wish to bother your father and his other guests,” Perhaps choosing that wording purposefully. He does pull the top off of the vodka bottle, so that it is ready to be poured.
She was standing close, ready to help steady Aleksander to his feet. But when he declines to leave the kitchen, she shrugs and pulls over a couple of chairs. She drops into one, nodding to the other; left close enough that he wouldn’t need to move far. Yelena holds both glasses up once the top is off the bottle. She doesn’t offer to take over pouring, but rather watches the movement of his right arm intently as he moves.
Judging her work. Judging if there’s anything she might have missed.
“If it were a bother,” she says, quietly, “it wouldn’t be known that our door is open.” Especially so late (or early, if one wishes to look at it that way).
Slipping off the sturdy, wooden table, Aleksander leaves on hand on the hard surface to help balance himself as he tests the wounded leg. He then slowly moves to the second chair and takes a seat, wincing slightly again as he does so. However, he does pour the alcohol with his right hand, having no issues there. The clear liquid is poured into Yelena’s glass first, then the second before the top is stoppered back onto the bottle.
Putting the bottle on the ground next to his seat, Aleksander reaches out for his filled glass, his head nodding, “I understand, though I do not want to further inconvenience you and your father more than I already have.” Lifting the glass, he takes a slow but long sip, letting the liquor warm his throat and chest.
Satisfied that there's no lingering issues, Yelena takes her glass and leans back in the chair. She goes into a weary slouch, some lines showing by her eyes despite her youth. The look of someone who isn't getting enough sleep and hasn't for quite some time.
“He's a doctor. We're Reznik. This is what we do. It would bother my father more, I promise, if he found out someone he could have helped had died.”
She takes a long drink then, inhaling sharply through her teeth in the wake of it. “Bother would have been if whoever shot you had followed you here. Considering…” She looks towards the clock in the kitchen in silent acknowledgement of how much time has passed since he was hauled through the door. “I think you're safe from being considered a bother.”
“The ones who shot me have no chance of following me here, I assure you.” That, Aleksander says with full confidence, apparently trying to put Yelena at ease, at least on that subject. With that said, he returns the glass to his lips to take another long, slow sip. He would most likely lapse to waiting in silence unless she breaks it with more questions or comments.
“Good.” Yelena lifts her glass and downs the rest. She presses her palms to her knees as she leans forward, eyes closed against the burn. There’s a slow exhale as she pushes upright to her feet. Passing to the refrigerator, she tugs it open and hovers there, staring within for a moment. “Are you hungry? I need to eat something.” Without knowing how long it’ll be before Pavel returns, she’s at least trying to play hostess.
After having already played doctor.
“Nothing fancy,” she assures, quickly, lest he put on another refrain of not being a bother. “Mostly leftovers from takeout.” An older doctor and his college-aged daughter? It’s doubtful anyone in the house cooks with any sort of regularity. The state of the kitchen seems to speak to appliances largely left untouched. “Pizza, some noodles-” she leans in, nudging containers around. “Some sort of chicken curry from that Canceron place downtown.”
The offer of food is answered with a shake of head from Aleksander, maybe he doesn’t want to be a bother still or just wants to maintain a solid distance from people outside of the family, even if Yelena may have saved his life. “I’m good, not hungry. No appetite right now.” What he does do though, is finish the rest of the vodka from his glass and reach down for the bottle, pouring himself another to drink. His eyes do seem to focus more on the door where they dragged him in than anything else. Just quietly, patiently waiting.
“Suit yourself.” Yelena isn’t bothered by it, clearly. She just grabs a pizza box and returns to the table. No plates. Not bothering to reheat it. Just half a pizza revealed. And entirely within reach of Aleksander should be change his mind. She flops back down into her chair, reaching for the bottle to refill her own glass. Soon enough, she’s got drink in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. It leaves the woman lapsed into a sort of silence, watching the man sitting next to her.
It’s not a sense of her not trusting him left alone in the house, but more that she’s unwilling to leave him alone so soon after he was bleeding profusely. So she’ll wait with him until Pavel returns.
The time passes by without much conversation, at least what is initiated by Aleksander, eyes more or less focused on the door though his thoughts may be miles away. After some time passes, the sound of a car arriving on the premise is heard, which causes the Tauran to rise from his seat, glass placed on the table. Heading towards the window, he glances out from a small slit at the side of the curtains. Always suspicious at first but when he sees the familiar face of Pavel, Davydov visibly relaxes.
Moving away from the window, Aleksander heads to the side door and opens it up just in time for Pavel to come in. He has a large duffel bag which he brings over to the side of the kitchen. Instead of kneeling over the bag to fetch the items himself, the tall Tauran is smart enough not to test his wounds, instead letting the younger one do it. The bag is unzipped and a thick envelope is procured. That is handed to Davydov who then tosses it on the kitchen table, the one he was just worked on. "That's for you and your father." Not hard to guess what's inside.
What's pulled out next is a change of clothes for Aleksander, wrapped in wax paper. Which he heads to the side of the kitchen, using the counter next to the sink to set the clothes down. Then he tries to start peeling off his torn and bloodied clothes, before nodding to Pavel to assist him.
There's glance to the envelope, but Yelena doesn't move to pick it up. It's in no danger of being stolen. What she does do is finish the slice of pizza she was eating, washed down by the last of her vodka. The blonde gets to her feet, ferrying leftovers to the fridge before putting up the vodka. She has to step alongside both men to sit the glasses in the sink.
“If you want to wash up before you go, we have a guest shower.” She says it in a flat tone; already fairly sure what his answer will be. She does, however, pull the chair Aleksander had been in over near to the sink. It's left without comment, but is clearly there if he finds himself in need of rest.
The younger Reznik steps to the kit she'd been working from then and starts packing things into a plastic bag. Bandages. Antibiotic ointment. She grabs a bottle from the bin before moving to stand where Alek can see her. She holds up the bag first.
“Change out the bandages twice a day for the first few days.” Then the bottle is held up. “Antibiotics. Since we can't clean out the wound as thoroughly, there might be shit in there still. I want you to promise me you'll take these.”
As Aleksander dresses, slowly, with the help of Pavel, he is silent. The only exchange was when the younger youth leans in to whisper something to the taller Tauran, prompting a furrowed brow in return and also a nod of understanding. As for Yelena’s accommodating manner in offering the guest shower, he shakes his head, “Thank you but I will have to decline. It is better if I leave as soon as I can, they don’t know I am here but they are casting a wide net tonight.” Luckily for the group here, they probably don’t realize that Davydov was actually shot and needed emergency medical attention.
When the plastic bag of medical supplies is offered, Pavel accepts it quickly before Aleksander could even reject the offer, causing the taller man to give the younger a look, but there is no reprimand there. Finally, he looks back to Yelena and inclines his head appreciatively, “Thank you, Yelena. I promise I will take the antibiotics and will change the bandaging accordingly. It won’t do my family any good if I handicap myself unnecessarily.”
With that, Aleksander is done dressing and looks almost good as new, except some blood stains on his cheek and chin which he will have to wash off later. Looking into the duffel bag, he gives Pavel a nod of approval but doesn’t pull anything out of it. When the younger of the two lifts the bag though, there is certainly sounds of solid items knocking up against each other, most likely an assortment of weapons so Davydov is armed again. “We will show ourselves out, and hopefully not see each other again.” Because if he is here again, then he would have frakked up a second time. “Good night.”
“I would imagine they’d leave a healer alone,” Yelena murmurs of the net being cast. “Ha’la’tha never stoops so low.” But others will. A lesson she’ll learn in a few years time. That certain groups will go for those not on the front lines, without remorse. Anything to get their way and succeed. For the time being, however, she’s secure in the knowledge that she’s safe. That Konstantin (and at times, herself) will tend to the needs of Ha’la’tha and associated families… even some who are not always friendly with the Ha’la’tha.
This Reznik family is one of healers. Other Rezniks, well…
She offers Pavel an appreciative nod when he takes the bag; satisfied enough. Her expression turns more appeased when Aleksander confirms that he’ll take care of himself. “Good.” She even manages a bit of a smile, then.
“Hopefully not, no.” The rare business in which you don’t want repeat customers. There will always be money, always be injury, but deep down: you hope and pray you don’t see them again. She passes to the door, reaching to pull it open after a cautionary glance outside.
“Be safe, Aleksander.”