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“It is Fyodor. He is bleeding, help me.”

“I mean, he’ll probably just keep bleeding if we don’t do anything. Problem solved,” I joke, getting a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder. Risky, that line of joking when her Volk family is in question. She’ll probably kick my ass later.

In the meantime, I’m hefting the heaviest sack of borscht up the driveway, through the door and into the kitchen. With a mighty heave I manage to get him up on the island counter.

He’s pale as fucking death. There’s blood everywhere.

And more pooling.

“Where is he bleeding from?”

“Where isn’t he bleeding from?” I settle his head on a towel, raising an eyelid to check his pupils, a finger at his neck for a pulse. That’s the extent of my medical knowledge other than stitching up a few of my own bullet wounds over the years.

“F-fucking Diamante…” gurgles out of his mouth and I can’t help but smile.

“Well, he’s not dead yet.”

Vanya tears his shirt open, tracking the worst of the wounds to a gunshot on his side. Scanning down his body, he’s battered. Two more bullet wounds gush a steady trickle from his upper arm, his lower leg.

Other than that, the only thing I can think that would cause as many cuts and burns on his skin and clothing is…

“I think he went out a window,” I sniff, helping Vanya turn him over enough to check his back. He must have been in the barracks when the bomb that clearly went off in the remains of that building went off. Not surprising he made it out.

The guy is basically an eighties movie action hero.

Dick.

“Second floor,” he mumbles.

“He will bleed out if I cannot stem the flow. But I need to know if bullet is still inside.”

“Th-through…” Fyodor mutters, passing out again.

“Hearty chap, ain’t he? And so helpful.”

“Now you be helpful. Get me hot water, towels. Medical kit is in hall closet.”

Immediately I hop to it.

I scramble through the house, gathering the rest of the gear she needs. The tool kit for cauterizing, the med kit for sewing and clearing. Every towel we have.

Soon the water is boiling on the stove and I’m standing by as she sets to work.

“I will do the best I can. You must hold him if he wakes. I do not have anesthetic.”

“Yes, doctor.” I chirp.

Vanya’s shoulders drop just a bit, her tense stance relaxing a fraction. The faintest smile passes over her lips as she meets my eyes. She nods once, as if to thank me.

Weird.

My humor has always gotten in the way.

For the next two hours, I play nurse to my least favorite member of the 1980 Soviet Olympic hockey team. It gives me time to think of some deep cuts to compare him to.

Adrenaline starts to fade in hour three, but when Vanya slumps back into one of the dining chairs, Fyo is breathing steadily. Sleeping from all appearances.

The sheer amount of blood on everything in the house would make Jackson Pollock jealous. That’s my only art reference outside of movies.