Chapter Text
Daniil Dankovsky is a man of many principles. He knows how science, logic, rationale works. He understands life and death. He understands disease.
But apparently not this fucking bastard of a disease. There is no carrier. He stares at the blood samples, his brow heavily furrowed. Six days of being in this damned town and it has only succeeded in giving him more questions.
He was so sure that he would find an answer here, in the blood. But no. They're all clean, even Clara, who's blood is so unlike anything he's ever seen before. But it's clean. He scowls, leaning away from the microscope to change the samples. Maybe if he just looks at Anna Angel's again…
His stomach growls and gurgles at him, but he ignores it. Food is expensive and besides, he's busy, he doesn't have time for trivial things like eating and sleeping. Rubin is relying on him to find something in these samples, so find something he shall. Daniil changes the slide again, adjusting the microscope. Perhaps under a different light? The sample remains unchanged, even after he fiddles with the lamp to light more of the room. In a fit of frustration, Daniil throws his hands up and pushes his chair back. What use is he as a doctor if he can't find the carrier of the disease?
His eyes itch with exhaustion and his limbs feel like lead. Forty three hours without sleep isn't great for anyone. But he can't stop now; there's too much still to be done. The sun may have set, the clock ticking long into the night, it doesn't matter. Daniil rubs at his eyes for a moment. It will all be worth it when it's over. It will be worth it when the Sand Pest is destroyed and can never threaten another person. Then, he can sleep. But right now, he needs to run Clara's blood through as many tests as he can, to understand what makes her different . And so, he changes the slides again, pops a few raw coffee beans in his mouth and refocuses.
At least another hour passes. The only change Daniil notices is that he develops a splitting migraine but resolutely ignores it. Nothing else matters. He screws his eyes up and blinks repeatedly as the auras swim before his vision. Now is not the time for this.
He's so busy trying to simply force his body to not have a migraine that he doesn't notice he's not alone until,
"Oynon?"
Daniil startles so badly that he almost tips back off his chair.
"Burakh!" He chokes, twisting to look at the surgeon. Artemy Burakh stands in the doorway, his clothes dirty and stained with dried blood. He looks the same as every other time Daniil has seen him. He isn’t a surprising visitor; Daniil had asked him to test the bacteria on bulls that morning.
"You look like hell, erdem," Burakh's rumbling voice contains a surprising amount of worry. "When was the last time you slept?"
"What concern is it of yours?" Daniil snaps, automatically defensive. "I am a grown man, older than you, able to care for myself." The surgeon raises his hands, in the universal sign of surrender.
"I meant no offence, Dankovsky. My concern is only for your well-being. I cannot cure this plague alone." Daniil squints at him, cursing the lamp beside him. It's all far too bright. But is Burakh mocking him? That would make sense. Before he can retort, Burakh sighs.
"Have you eaten recently?"
"Food is expensive at the present moment," Daniil replies primly, still not willing to admit anything. But by the pained look on Burakh's face, he doesn't need to. Not that it’s particularly easy to focus on Burakh; the migraine is seeing to that. His form continues to swim with the edges of the aura battering the Bachelor's mind. The Haruspex gives another heavy sigh and crosses the room to Daniil's side, pulling a half crushed hunk of bread from a pocket.
"It's not much, oynon, but it'll help."
"I don't need your charity," Daniil hisses. He doesn't care how hungry he is. Nothing in this town has ever come free and he doesn't trust Burakh, not quite yet. Burakh has been helpful over the past few days, especially in bringing him infected tissue, which Daniil knows must have taken great sacrifice to obtain. But Daniil is slow to trust and his stay in this little town is only exacerbating his natural tendency towards suspicion.
There is a twitch of frustration on the Haruspex's face, but he doesn't move away. Instead he bends down to Daniil's seated height. The look on his face is softer than the Bachelor has seen aimed at him in a long while.
"It is not charity. Dani- Oynon, you look like you will not survive the night. I need your help to cure this damned Sand Pest and you can't help if you're dead. Please, eat." Daniil doesn't miss the way Burakh went to use his first name, before deciding against it. He scowls at the bread as his stomach growls loudly.
"Fine," the Bachelor spits and takes the bread, quickly biting into it. It truly takes all of his self-control to eat the bread like a normal person and not devour it all in seconds. He doesn’t speak as he chews, Burakh keeping a careful eye on him.
“I came to ask if you had made any progress with the carriers,” he rumbles, then winces at the thunderous look on Daniil’s face. “I take that as a no.”
“They are all clean,” Daniil mutters, as cold as a blade. “Clara’s blood is very unusual, but it is not infected. I cannot tell you how the disease managed to get into the Cathedral.” Burakh gives a low sigh, but nods anyway.
“Well, we have ruled out a simple carrier, erdem.” The Bachelor tries not to scowl at the nickname. Burakh has always been casual with his use of the Steppe language, though Daniil wonders what the two terms he uses consistently for him mean.
“Have you had any more success?”
“I have brought you some more blood to analyse.” Burakh sounds almost sheepish as he produces a vial of blood from his pocket. Daniil scowls, but quickly prepares the slide. The Haruspex hovers, his attention more on the other man than Daniil would appreciate.
“When was the last time you slept?” Burakh repeats, but far gentler than before.
“A day or so ago,” the Bachelor replies dismissively, adjusting the microscope to look at the slide. “Maybe two. Acta non verba , Burakh.”
“You are going to kill yourself like this.” The reproach is not as cold as Daniil expected, still filled with concern.
“This is the bull’s blood?” he replies instead, trying again to change the topic. “There are antibodies within this; they are preventing the bacteria from multiplying but they are not destroying it.” He turns back to look up at Burakh who scowls, a grim, cold look.
“This cannot cure it. We would need…”
“Some sort of bull-human hybrid, yes,” Daniil’s sigh is heavy. “It is impossible.”
“No. Not impossible. There are still a few things I don’t understand about this blood; I do not trust its origins completely. Leave it with me; I shall continue my search.”
“You are certain of this, Burakh? That it will help?”
“I am. Thank you, oynon, this has been most informative.” The Haruspex’s tone is solemn, but not defeated in the way that Daniil might have expected. “But now, you need to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, there is still much to do,” Daniil waves him away, about to return to his microscope when there is a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Dankovsky. You are going to kill yourself if you do not sleep. I can’t do this without you,” Burakh’s voice is low and warm. “Please, get some rest.” Gently, he pulls the doctor up from his chair and into the bed beside him. “This will help.” As much as Daniil wants to fight, the minute his body touches the bed, his muscles cry out, his whole body leaden with exhaustion. Burakh presses a cold bottle of white liquid into his hand; meradorm.
“Burakh…” he tries, looking down at the bottle.
“Don’t argue with me,” comes the reply, with more bite than Burakh has been using before. He looks so tall, standing above him like this, but there’s no coldness in his stern gaze.
Daniil wants to argue more with the Haruspex, to complain about not needing his charity, to scowl with enough fury that he will be left alone, but all of the fight has drained out of him. He is so tired. He takes the meradorm quickly and with it, the exhaustion becomes all consuming. The last thing he remembers seeing is Burakh, smiling, ever so slightly. It is warm, kind, and washes Daniil into dreamless slumber.