Blueprints of a New Age

by fireladywitchqueen

Summary:

A year post-canon, Artemy and Daniil have settled into a blessedly (mostly) mundane life. But the calm couldn’t last forever, right? Some new endeavor always has to come along and spoil everyone’s undisturbed domesticity, though this new life-changing development may not be so unwanted as the last.

___

(Daniil and Artemy are having a baby. That’s the fic.)

Chapter 1: Honestly, What Does Artemy See In Him?

Artemy Burakh isn’t expecting two children to show up out of the blue in the middle of his work day. Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say that he isn’t expecting these particular children. They’re a couple of blondish brats dressed in dirty pastels and washed-out grays. One wears her hair in lopsided pigtails, the other prances about town in only his socks. Both of them refer to Daniil as “Uncle Bachelor”, and both of them had gotten to know Daniil in the midst of the plague, when his patience (and temper) were at their worst. How they’ve managed to stay invested in him after all this time is a mystery to Artemy, but most days he thinks about them very little- they simply aren’t important characters in his own life.

He certainly can’t be familiar with every little girl and boy in this town, but he recalls these childrens’ names at the very least; the girl is Shrew, the boy is Sleepyhead.

They come jogging up the clinic’s front steps, claiming to have some urgent news to deliver, despite their apparent nonchalance. Artemy opens the door for them, and they mosey right on in, heedless of his surprise and his demand for answers. These two are far nosier than either Sticky or Murky, and before Artemy can move an inch, they’ve begun pilfering through his tools and destabilizing the paperwork lying on his desk. He maneuvers himself between them and his belongings, and so they quickly- terrifyingly- turn their attention to Stakh’s workplace; a call for violence if Artemy’s ever heard one.

He catches them before they can make a mess and bring the fury of dear old Rubin down on themselves.

“Hold it, both of you,” he barks, just loud enough that the children startle a bit and turn their round, deceptively-innocent eyes on him. He sighs. “Touch anything on that desk and there’ll be hell to pay. Hell I can’t save you from.”

Sleepyhead and Shrew exchange a glance. Wordlessly, they shuffle away from Stakh’s desk. Artemy watches them with a firm gaze, standing tall and puffing his chest a bit. The children of this town are very much their own distinct entities, functioning in a manner incomprehensible to most older adults, but very much apparent to someone a bit newer and more caught between naïveté and world-weariness. Artemy is one such person, though he does his best to let the children know he is not to be harassed, cheated, or lied to. Shrew looks up at him, her face seemingly unaffected, betraying not a single emotion. Sleepyhead just looks annoyed.

“Well? Out with it- what’s so urgent you’ve had to come and pester me about it?”

Another exchanged glance, a rapid conversation held entirely without words, then Shrew turns back to look at Artemy, finally showing some modicum of concern. Her shrill little voice chills Artemy to the bone when she says, gravely, “Uncle Bachelor fainted on his rounds. Stakh told us to come and find you.”

Artemy’s heart immediately begins pounding, the adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream quicker than he ever would have thought possible. Fainted? Why? Had something happened? Was he hurt? Had someone else hurt him? Artemy pulls on his coat with haste, opens the door into the chill early-autumn air, and hustles both children out of the clinic, locking the door dutifully behind himself because he just knows that’ll be the first thing Daniil asks him- ‘did you lock up?’ Artemy is halfway down the street when he realizes he doesn’t know where he is going. Fortunately, the children have kept pace with him, scampering at his heels like a pair of trained cattle dogs, awaiting a command. He glances down in Sleepyhead’s direction and asks, “where is he?”

Sleepyhead replies, easily, “Stakh took him home. Looked pretty pale, yeah? Like those unlucky bastards that caught the plague.”

The young boy looks to his companion, who nods along enthusiastically, a mix between concern and morbid fascination. Artemy schools his tone into sternness, not brutish anger. He cannot allow himself to yell at these children- Daniil would be so cross about it if he ever heard. No, Artemy is entirely calculated and carefully controlled when he says, with an air of finality, “it isn’t the plague.”

Sleepyhead makes a strange, cut-off squeaking sound as he opens his mouth to argue but is silenced by Shrew’s elbow in his rib cage. Artemy turns down one street, then the next, anxious to get home, to see Daniil and know that he is awake and coherent and that this has all been a rather funny misunderstanding…Artemy’s anxiety ties his body into knots. He needs to get home.

“Kids,” he says without looking back, “go back to your parents.”

“Ain’t got none,” Shrew responds. Artemy huffs with impatience.

“Then go back to whatever savage little club you’re a part of. This is a family matter.”

When the children don’t heed his order, when they pick up their pace and begin to flank him, little faces wrought with worry and betrayal, Artemy knows he has to change gears. He slows himself to a gradual stop, rubs tiredly at his sore neck, then drops down on one knee to meet the kids at eye-level. They look understandably upset with him, and he does his best not to look upset right back.

“…Look,” he begins, dropping his tone to what he hopes might be a soothing rumble. “I’ll have Sticky come find you as soon as we know what’s happening. But Dankovsky could be very sick, so it’s important that you two keep yourselves safe. For his sake.”

Reluctantly, the children voice their understanding. They fall back and allow Artemy to leave them in his wake, and he does, feeling a touch guilty about it. They’re not bad kids, of course- they only want to help. But they’ve helped all they can in this instance. Keeping them around to witness whatever hardship Daniil might be going through wouldn’t be fair to them, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair to the Bachelor. Christ, he’s probably humiliated enough as-is, no need to add more spectators to the mix.

When Artemy returns home he doesn’t bother shucking his coat off at the door or unlacing his boots. He races straight to his and Daniil’s shared bedroom, throws the door open, and finds Daniil abed, Stakh standing a fair distance away with his arms crossed and his grouchy face creased, and Clara, of all people, sitting at the foot of the bed. All but Daniil turn to watch the Haruspex come barreling through the door, face a flush and clothes rumpled. He looks and feels like a stampeding bull, though his companions don’t treat him as such.

“Burakh,” Stakh greets, chilly as always. He nods in Daniil’s direction, then holds Artemy’s gaze. His brown eyes are intense, but his tone is rather edgeless. He says, “He seems fine, all things considered. No fever, no rash, pulse strong, and breathing even…” he stops for a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts. He seems perturbed by something. “He’s perfectly healthy, as far as I can tell. Perhaps a minor bout of overwork…?”

The wind rustles a chime outside, filling the room with faint, muffled ringing. Artemy’s blood runs cold at the thought of it.

“The twyre?” He suggests, his mouth dry. Rubin nods grimly.

“Could be,” he agrees.

“It isn’t,” the Changeling says from across the room. She isn’t looking at either of them, her childlike gaze fixed on the unconscious form of Bachelor Dankovsky. Stakh looks as though he’s going to throttle the girl, but Artemy reaches out and puts a stop to the brewing outburst with a placating hand. He wordlessly shakes his head and Stakh slowly turns back toward Artemy, huffing out a beleaguered breath. Evidently, the Changeling has already made herself rather unwelcome in Rubin’s company. Artemy just hopes he can focus a little longer.

“When did he lose consciousness?” He asks, voice hush. “Where was he? Did anybody catch him?”

“A little over half an hour ago,” Stakh supplies, “visiting a pharmacist near the cathedral. I was there with him. He seemed a touch strained, like maybe he’d not gotten enough sleep last night, but then all of a sudden he reaches out and grabs my arm like his life depends on it. Goes limp against me, and there I am, supporting his weight in both hands. He’s a touch underweight, by the way. You might want to have him eat more.”

Ha. Like he’d ever be able to convince Dankovsky to settle down and quit forgetting meals. He’s far too studious for that, too involved and committed to his ideals. Nothing Artemy could say would ever convince him his forgetfulness is a problem, but then…well, it’s not as though Daniil doesn’t eat- he just doesn’t eat as often as Artemy would like. No reason to pick that particular fight at the moment.

“And he hasn’t woken up since?” Artemy whispers, heart thudding in his chest. Stakh barks out a scoff.

“No, of course he has. Woke up damn near the instant I got him situated in my arms, demanding I put him down, calling me a brute and a barbarian and a million other colorful little things in that horrific dead language of his.”

That, at least, makes Artemy feel marginally better. Not only had Daniil not been truly unconscious for long, but he’d also been very much himself upon waking. No delirium or lapses in memory. The Haruspex sighs in relief, but Rubin’s not yet done with his assessment.

“Actually,” he begins again, thinking hard. Artemy waits, itching to go to Daniil’s bedside, to cup his face and kiss his hair and ask him what the matter is so he might bring some relief. “When was the last time he ate something substantial?”

Artemy’s mind is blank. Humiliatingly so. He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head helplessly.

“Not sure,” he admits, “but…probably at breakfast?”

“Any idea what that might’ve been?”

“Bread and jam,” Artemy says, more certain now. “Half a sliced apple, I think? Tea with honey…”

“Right, so low blood sugar is an unlikely culprit,” Stakh mumbles to himself, scratching idly at his chin and scrunching his eyebrows up to think. Artemy watches him, still feeling rather useless. Clara, only a few feet away, starts humming and swinging her feet. She’s perched on the wooden frame by Daniil’s feet, and the moment she starts to hum, the Bachelor stirs in his sleep.

The little Changeling, attention still fixed on Dankovsky, stretches an arm behind herself to wave Rubin away.

“Bye, Stakh!” She chimes, feet still swinging. “We can handle it from here.”

Artemy looks from Clara to Stakh, then shrugs. Stakh slaps him on the back as he goes, still muttering to himself, and Artemy, finally free to race to his beloved’s bedside, finally does so, shouldering past Clara in his haste. She doesn’t comment as he kneels down to check Daniil’s complexion, his cognizance- Artemy watches Daniil blink himself awake, and almost immediately the groggy haven of sleep tugs away and leaves only the pompous ass he knows and loves.

Daniil grimaces at first, running a hand through mussed raven hair and rubbing at his eyes. Artemy can barely help himself; he reaches out and lays a hand against Daniil’s cheek, then repositions it to check the Bachelor’s temperature and pulse just behind the corner of his jaw. Daniil’s own hand rests atop Artemy’s for a moment, as though Artemy is the one in need of tenderness and attention.

“Hi,” is all he says at first, his lips quirking up at the edges, and Artemy feels a lump form in his throat. He shuffles his hand away from the Bachelor’s jawline and instead holds Daniil’s fingers tight in his grip. Daniil sighs, familiar and distantly endearing. Artemy lurches forward and kisses the top of this foolish man’s head before replying.

“‘Hi?’” He intones his voice in a mockery of Daniil’s city-lilt. Daniil looks vaguely offended by it, but he doesn’t get a chance to voice this offense. “You faint on the job and the first thing you can think to say is hi?”

Daniil rolls his eyes, then doesn’t quite manage to suppress a twitch, a twinge of discomfort which Artemy notices, and which Daniil seems content to ignore.

“I just felt a bit lightheaded is all,” the Bachelor insists, shifting his weight minutely beneath the blankets. He isn’t shivering, which eases Artemy’s mind somewhat, and though he does look a touch pale, it’s not as though he’s haunted by a deathly pallor. No, it just seems like he might be feeling…well…

“I’m more than a simple colleague, you know,” the Haruspex says, gently carding rough fingers through dark hair. Daniil closes his eyes for a moment and sighs, gradually dropping the walls he keeps between himself and the general public. This is a private moment, a familial moment. He can afford to be a bit less formal in his suffering. “Tell me what the matter is- I’d like to help.”

Daniil swallows a touch convulsively, like just the thought of speaking puts a sour taste on his tongue. Clara hums in thought but doesn’t say anything. She lets the Bachelor speak on his own behalf.

“…My stomach,” he admits quietly, leaning into Artemy’s touch as he cups Bachelor Dankovsky’s cheek in a calloused palm. One of the Bachelor’s own hands is hidden beneath the bedsheets, no doubt clutching at his middle. The other is free, currently being used to rub tiredly at Daniil’s face as he explains, “I…I feel a bit sick, to be honest with you.”

“Food poisoning?” Artemy suggests.

Daniil makes a low whining sound at the back of his throat. He shakes his head.

“No- everything I’ve eaten today has been something we both shared.”

Artemy’s gaze slides over to the grandfather clock sitting against the far wall, gathering dust. He squints until the time comes into focus, then turns back to his precious heart and grunts. “You haven’t had anything since this morning?”

Dankovsky shakes his head, trying to push himself into a sitting position against the headboard. Artemy, ever the worrywart, is sure to prop his Bachelor up with pillows behind his shoulders and head. Daniil doesn’t shirk the help, which only worries the Haruspex further.

“No, I- God, what time is it? How long was I asleep?”

Artemy opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Clara’s voice which supplies the number: “Five till three,” she says, grinning despite the situation, almost as though she is excited to be witnessing something so private. “Don’t worry- I had your back while old Bloodyknuckles was here.”

Daniil regards her first with confusion, then when wariness and exhaustion. He clearly doesn’t have the patience for her shenanigans at the moment. With a palm pressed firmly over his stomach, the Bachelor fixes the Changeling with a half-inquisitive, half-withering stare, then politely asks that she remove herself from his home. Chuckling menacingly, the girl responds, “No-can-do, sap! You still need help. Plus you like me too much to toss me out in the cold.”

“It’s September,” Daniil says, unamused. “You’ll manage.”

Clara pushes her lower lip out in feigned hurt. “Ouch. I have feelings, you know,” she remarks, dramatic as ever, to which Daniil can only huff out a defeated breath and admit, “unfortunately, I do.”

“Don’t pester him, Little Rat,” Artemy tells the girl. “He’s been through enough. Either keep vigil or come help me make this idiot some proper lunch.”

Clara clicks her tongue against her teeth, tsk-tsk-ing while Daniil only goes a shade paler at the mention of food. Fortunately, their resident “little rat” notices this and redirects Artemy’s attention with a simple, painless smack to the front of his coat. He’d been up and on his way to the door when Clara intervened, and now, as he turns back to find Daniil looking positively miserable and all too alone, he feels guilty for even standing up in the first place. He closes the short distance between Daniil and himself in just two steps, sits at the edge of the mattress, and rests a hand on the curve of Daniil’s spine, just between his shoulder blades. The Bachelor’s breathing has hitched, losing that lovely, rhythmic quality which told Artemy everything was going to be alright. Daniil’s face looks uneasy, almost pained. He gulps and sucks air through his teeth and takes slow, deliberate breaths. He’s clearly struggling against something, but Artemy had no idea what. It’s distressing to witness, and doubtlessly ever moreso to bear.

“Danya?” The Haruspex’s voice dips again, becoming that same soothing rumble he used on the children. “Are you okay?”

The answer to the question is obvious, but Daniil doesn’t so much as cast him a sidelong glance. He just leans into Artemy’s side with a miserable groan and shakes his head. To say this open display of weakness strikes fear into Artemy’s heart would be an understatement. He rubs at Daniil’s back and brushes his bangs from his face, looking to Clara for assistance. The girl, looking soft and concerned, kicks her boots from her feet, swings her legs over the frame so she sits wholly on the bedspread, then shuffles on hands and knees toward Daniil’s prone body.

“May I?” She asks, rocking back on her haunches to raise her hands up. They’re cleaner than usual, the ragged fingerless wraps clearly recently washed, and her fingernails free of dirt. She flexes her fingers for emphasis, and though Daniil would usually rebuff such an offer, he just nods along, head resting on Artemy’s shoulder, and murmurs out a tormented, “please.”

Clara scoots forward again, pressing up against Daniil’s thighs and reaching out to put one hand on his chest, just over his heart, and the other on his knee, seemingly to keep herself- and her patient- stable. Artemy waits and watches as the Changeling moves her palm from the Bachelor’s heart to his belly. She hums again as she goes, wrinkling her nose while she examines whatever mystical, unseen force she claims to dabble in. Working one of her miracles, Artemy guesses, though he’s never put much stock in their validity until this point. He watches each face that she pulls, each twitch of her fingers, every held breath and tiny murmur…until Clara Saburova sits back once more, scratches at the short hair beneath her beanie, perplexed, and mutters out a stumped, “huh…not much to heal, I suppose…”

“What?” Daniil squawks. Artemy feels his own stomach clench at the proclamation, at least until Clara remedies the situation.

“I mean- nothing’s technically wrong,” she explains, sliding her hand back over Dankovsky’s stomach and furrowing her brow. “Huh!”

“Spare us the inane noises and just say whatever you’re thinking!” Daniil snaps tiredly. Artemy rubs his back again, hoping Clara doesn’t continue to prod her ailing co-healer into a spitting contest. Mercifully, she seems to recognize the source of Dankovsky’s frustration, removes her hand from his middle, then laces her fingers together and says, cheekily, “Let me ask you this, dear Bachelor: when was your last period?”

Artemy watches as Daniil’s face goes slack with dread, the realization slamming into him, full-force. His dark eyes dart over the blanket on his lap as he counts backwards through the weeks, one hand resting, once again, on his belly. He shakes his head, lost and desperate.

“It’s always been irregular,” he says, meeting Clara’s gaze. “I…think my last was…eleven weeks ago? Perhaps twelve?”

“Daniil!” Artemy exclaims, quite by accident. Daniil turns a guilty, apologetic look on his partner, only able to offer a single shrug in lieu of explanation. The truth is this: Daniil Dankovsky has lived much longer as a man than as a woman, and as such has come to almost forget the more typically ‘feminine’ things his body is wont to do, such as bleeding and the like. Clara just nods along sagely, reaching out with palm up, for Artemy’s hand. The Haruspex just looks at her for a few seconds, wary of her childish tricks, and soon Clara tires of his suspicion and just snatches his hand up, placing it against Daniil’s abdomen, right beside his own digits. Artemy can feel him tense up at this intrusion, but he doesn’t push him off, so Artemy keeps his hand right where Clara’s put it.

“Can you feel it?” The girl asks rather creepily. “The way his insides change?”

Artemy, concerned, glances over at Daniil, who looks positively wretched; beside himself with worry, too humiliated to speak, and clearly nauseous. He groans again, and Artemy leans forward to brush his forehead against Dankovsky’s. Clara hums again.

“Of course you can’t,” she comments, disappointed but not surprised. “Anyway- you will want to start eating better, Danko. You’re having a baby.”

The room is silent for a moment, completely and utterly still. Then Daniil leans over the edge of the bed and throws up, and all three of them are brought back to reality.

Chapter 2: Announcement? Nonsense. They Find Out When They Find Out.

Summary:

Mild CW for descriptions of violence/injury. It’s purely clinical but still. Daniil *also* could’ve done with a content warning.

The air in the room is rather stark and tense. Daniil watches, arms crossed, as Artemy presents him again with the cut bundle of unbloomed grain. He sniffs once, haughty and annoyed. Artemy just sets his jaw in place and refuses to give an inch.

“I am not,” Daniil says slowly, “pissing on that wheat.”

“It’s the easiest way to confirm,” Artemy argues again, having already brought this point up in a futile attempt to convince the Bachelor to, well, piss on that wheat. “My people- hell, the whole town- have been using this trick for decades!”

Daniil scoffs, which is annoying. He’s such a self-righteous bastard that sometimes Artemy wonders how the hell either of them manage to put up with one another.

“I’m not a traditional man, Burakh. You should know this by now.” Smug. Self-satisfied. Acting as though he hadn’t spent an entire day bedridden with what each of them fear was morning sickness. Artemy rolls his eyes.

“Just do it, Danechka. What’s the worst that could happen? You feel a bit silly? Grow up.”

The Bachelor narrows his eyes in disdain, snatches a few stalks of grain, and retreats to the bathroom in a huff. Artemy, who loves Daniil’s stubbornness but, nevertheless, finds it trying at times, sighs contentedly to himself and counts this as a win. A few minutes pass by. Artemy settles down at the edge of his and Daniil’s bed and opens a book. He, predictably, gets very little reading done, which is just as well. He’s far too anxious to concentrate on anything other than Dankovsky’s reaction.

And Dankovsky’s reaction is precise- a quick “dammit!”, followed by an agitated, “are you kidding me?”

He emerges, carrying the meager handful of wheat stalks in one hand, the ends of which are covered in tiny greenish blooms. He holds them tightly, glancing from the flowers to Artemy, as though unsure which one to be mad at. He rather quickly settles on both.

“Here,” he says, jabbing the grain in Artemy’s direction. “Dispose of these. I haven’t the words for how I hate them.”

Artemy chuckles, takes the insignificant plants, and then looks Daniil up and down, head to toe. He’s got his arms crossed. His bangs are mussed; in his face. He looks pissed, and all Artemy can do is smile.

“Danya,” he says, his excitement rising by the moment. The Bachelor still seems perturbed. He turns his face away to sigh at the floor, uncrossing his arms to cup a hand against his belly. Pensive. “You’re- we’re-“

“We’re having a baby,” Dankovsky says flatly. He rubs wearily at his face, then fixes his posture, takes a breath, and continues: “in approximately seven months.”

The Haruspex’s heart practically soars at the thought of it- and this is made plain by the grin on his face. He chucks the bloomed wheat in the bin at the corner of the room and makes to wrap Daniil up in an embrace…but stops short when he sees just how troubled the Bachelor has become. He taps his foot rapidly, tugs anxiously at his hair. He even begins to pace, which is how Artemy knows something’s definitely not right. Something Dankovsky will want to verbalize before he is satisfied.

“Danya?” He reaches out and lays a hand on Dankovsky’s shoulder. The gesture is not rebuffed but rather encouraged. Daniil draws nearer to him and rests his forehead against Artemy’s chest, huffing out an anxious breath. Artemy, intimately familiar with these moods and with the grinding of gears in the Bachelor’s magnificent brain, wraps his arms around him but doesn’t squeeze. He wants Daniil to know he can bail if he needs to. “Speak, kheerken.”

There’s a sigh, then the Bachelor lifts his head to meet the Haruspex’s gaze.

“Forgive me,” he says, “I…this is rather unexpected. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten that my body is capable of…well, never mind.” He looks away.

Artemy, heart aching, brushes a thumb along Dankovsky’s cheek, bringing his attention back. “Are you alright, Danya?”

Daniil closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep, shaky breath, then looks up at Artemy and says, “fine. Just…a touch frightened, I suppose.”

The Haruspex’s demeanor melts. He gathers Daniil up in his arms and holds him close, swaying them both gently from side to side. Daniil holds tight to his partner’s broad frame, hiding his expression in Artemy’s sweater, allowing himself to be coddled. For now.

“Is this something you want?” Artemy asks. Daniil feels the origin of his voice in his chest, deep and soft, akin to the turning of the earth or the rumbling of a train on the tracks. Distantly, Daniil recalls the train which brought him to this wretched place…a place now resting deeply within his own heart. “You know I can help if it isn’t; there are Steppe tricks for that too, though you might have to spend another day in bed.”

Daniil makes a small, contemplative sound. He turns his head to the side so his ear rests just over Artemy’s heart.

“It’s…well I don’t not want it,” he says, feeling frustrated. “I’ve just…never given it much thought. Me- a father.”

Artemy laughs then, and the sound of it in his chest is heavenly. Daniil regrets that he cannot be closer, cannot physically close the distance between the two of them any further.

“We’ve already got two children, emshen! Plus a strange preteen who claims she isn’t ours, but nonetheless owns a key to the front door!”

“Well yes,” The Bachelor agrees, “but I didn’t give birth to them! When I met them, they were already walking and talking!”

“And you’ve done beautifully by them,” Artemy purrs. Daniil’s cheeks go pink. He holds on just a little tighter.

“I’m…it’s just…”

“I get it,” Artemy interrupts, voice soft. “It’s a big decision. Much bigger for you than it is for me. You don’t have to come up with an answer right now.”

Daniil sighs again. He feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Thank you.”

Artemy presses a kiss to the crown of Dankovsky’s head. It’s a ginger and intimate gesture which causes a fluttering in the pit of the Bachelor’s stomach. Overwhelmed with affection for this brutish surgeon, Daniil goes up on his toes and catches Artemy’s lips with his own. They remain there for a moment or so, sharing their breath, their heartbeats- until there comes a huge crash from down the hall followed by the sound of shattering glass. Sticky shouts something indistinct, Murky shouts back, and Daniil and Artemy break apart to race down to the kitchen and assess whatever damage the children have already caused.

Daniil burns the wheat later and begins cataloguing his symptoms. He doesn’t tell Artemy, but he suspects his decision has been made by the time they curl up in bed that night.

 

_____

 

-Lethargy/drowsiness. General lack of energy.

-Lightheadedness. Loss of consciousness.

-Nausea/vomiting.

-Increased appetite, somehow.

-Slight anemia. May be related to the lethargy.

-Estimated gestation: 10-11 weeks.

-Expect delivery some time around March.

 

_____

 

The first of their friends to find out is Rubin, though the reveal is far from artful. It’s about three days after Artemy’s confirmation of the pregnancy, and all three of the town’s doctors are bustling about the clinic. It’s not a slow day by any means, but the place certainly isn’t packed- Stakh and Daniil tend to the walk-in patients while Artemy takes pre-scheduled appointments. They’re on top of the workload and functioning smoothly right up until one of the factory workers comes in with a nasty, uneven gash on his forearm. Stakh is busy helping somebody else, and Artemy is, of course, with another patient, which means the task of disinfecting, stitching, and dressing falls on Dankovsky’s shoulders. A rudimentary task, all things considered, but the instant he sees the wound, all oozing red and yellowish tissue, the venerable Bachelor feels his stomach turn. Fighting off a panic, he plasters a pleasant, neutral smile to his face, promises the patient that he’ll be back in a moment and instructs him to keep pressure on the cut, then steps out of his office and into the staff common room. The instant the door shuts behind him, he gasps, leaning against the wall for support. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes slowly, trying to regain some sense of composure.

Not a minute into this breakdown, and the door to Rubin’s office squeaks open. He saunters in, drying his hands on an old towel, then stops short once he sees Dankovsky, hiding from his patient and going green around the gills. Heedless of the question in Stakh’s gaze and posture, Dankovsky gestures over his shoulder and ushers his colleague closer.

“Please,” he begins tersely, “I’ve got a patient- needs stitches.”

Stakh, the great big buffoon, just stands there and replies, “so stitch them up.” Dankovsky swears he can feel his blood boil. His stomach screams at the memory of torn flesh.

“I am- indisposed,” Daniil informs him, coming up with some very creative descriptors in his head. “Please, Rubin.”

Perhaps it’s the desperation in his voice, perhaps it’s the sight of the Bachelor’s hand pressed tight against his stomach, or perhaps it’s the fact that he brings the other hand up to his mouth to stifle a gag, but Rubin, with a beleaguered sigh which implies much more effort than is really required of him, agrees gruffly to take Daniil’s place.

“Take a seat,” he tells him, gesturing to the sofa. “And don’t throw up on the rug. I’m not your maid.”

Daniil withholds the thanks on his tongue and instead wordlessly steps to the side, allowing Stakh to enter Daniil’s office and finish seeing to the poor sap with the sliced arm. He shuffles over to the sofa, sinks down onto the cushions, and puts his head between his knees, trying desperately to regain control, to think of something else and keep his breakfast down where it belongs.

He isn’t sure how long he waits there. It’s likely no more than half an hour, perhaps less, but eventually Stakh returns, finds Bachelor Dankovsky bent double, hugging himself around the middle, and heaves another annoyed sigh. Honestly! Daniil would like to give the stone-faced bastard a quick kick to the shins. Instead he just hums anxiously to himself as the nausea rises up again.

“Cub!” Stakh calls, putting a hand on Daniil’s shoulder. Almost as if he cares. “Your city-slicker needs you!”

“I resent that term,” Daniil mumbles, defiant.

“And I resent your ineptitude,” Stakh shoots back. Daniil bites his tongue before he starts a true argument, though he has to admit, the idea of tossing insults back and forth seems like an effective distraction from…the- the blood…

Oh, God.

Artemy enters the scene, takes one look at Daniil, and comes to kneel in front of him, taking his wrists in warm hands, brushing his thumbs over the tendons.

“Danya?” He asks, tender. Brutally so. Dankovsky takes a breath, finds his beloved’s steppe-green eyes.

“I’m alright, Tema,” he replies hoarsely. “Just- just a bit queasy, that’s all.”

“You shouldn’t be here in this condition,” Stakh comments. “One would think a bachelor of medicine might know that.”

“I’m not contagious,” Daniil says, sitting back at Artemy’s insistence. The Haruspex lays  a hand firmly across Dankovsky’s chest, pushing him to lie down against the cushions. Dankovsky does so, quietly grateful for the excuse to unclench his jaw and exist apart from the world for a few minutes. Stakh only grunts.

“You’re sick,” he says. Daniil takes a deep breath- in through the nose, out through the mouth. He keeps his eyes pleasantly closed while he responds:

“Not exactly.”

Stakh, unconvinced and petty, decides to dig in his heels and be a real bastard. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he crosses his arms across his chest and recounts his experience in Daniil’s office.

“You know that unlucky fucker who came in here a few minutes ago? The one bleeding through an entire towel?”

Daniil’s stomach clenches. He scrunches his nose up and takes another breath. Rubin doesn’t relent.

“Rubin,” Artemy warns, voice dropped to a growl. Stakh ignores him completely.

“Well. He required eighteen stitches. Hear that, Danya? Eighteen! Watched the whole time too, almost like he liked the pull of the needle.”

The Bachelor whines at the image of it. He mutters out a frustratingly small “you unbelievable ass,” and staunchly refuses to open his eyes. He rests his hands atop his belly, quietly begging the morning sickness to subside before he embarrasses himself in front of Rubin again.

“But the best part,” Stakh continues, “was that I had to dig out a few splinters of some busted-up fence post! They were in there deep, too. Had to really separate the tissues to get all of em out-“

Daniil presses his lips together and whines again, much more audibly this time. Artemy, who has been hovering dutifully by Dankovsky’s side, now turns the full force of his ire on Rubin, who has begun to smirk at his colleague’s discomfort.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?” Artemy’s throat spits fire. He’s ready to charge.

“Me? Our resident stack of hubris is trying to start the next outbreak! Not to mention pawning off his patients on me-“

“Oh, for the love of-“ Artemy cuts himself off with an angry huff, shakes his head to put himself in order, then blurts, “he isn’t ill, Stakh! He’s pregnant!”

Daniil, who had been focusing on settling his stomach and pushing the thoughts of embedded shrapnel and oozing lacerations from his mind, can only gaze, slack-jawed, at Artemy in shock.

“Tema!” He squeaks, face going pink.

For a short while, none of them speak. They all stare at one another, gazes shifting from one face to the next, trying to think up something to say. Daniil pushes himself into a sitting position. Artemy rises from where he’d taken a knee on the floorboards. Stakh stands awkwardly by, running his thumbs over his clenched knuckles. The tension is palpable.

Then Stakh musters up an extremely flat “oh….congratulations?”, and the room devolves, once again, into petty squabbling.

 

_____

 

Unsurprisingly, the second to find out is Eva.

At fourteen weeks, Daniil is beginning to notice a slight swell to his abdomen. It’s easily missed by anyone not intimately familiar with his figure, but, of course, it’s extremely noticeable to him. Artemy has seen this tiny baby-bump. He’s kissed it, laid hands upon it, rested his forehead against it; Artemy adores Daniil’s new body. Daniil, however, is a bit more unsure about it.

So he does what he always does when he’s feeling a certain way and isn’t sure his dear Haruspex can offer the counsel he seeks- he pays Eva Yan a visit.

They meet at least once weekly, regardless of the status of Daniil’s reproductive organs, but this particular week, the Bachelor appears at Eva’s doorstep a full three days early, anxious and looking for a bit of distraction. His coat hides the still-dismissible evidence of his condition with ease, and yet he is always aware that it’s there. Perhaps he’s just paranoid, or perhaps the transformative influence of the Sand Pest has had a much bigger impact on him than he realized, but the extra weight leaves him feeling exposed, no matter how many layers he’s wearing. He’s certain no one could discern that he is pregnant merely by looking at him, and yet he finds himself wary of almost every stranger on the street. God, if he’s this anxious now, then how the hell is he going to function three months from now, when his baby-bump is readily apparent to anyone who bothers to give him a second glance?

He knocks at the Stillwater’s deceptively plain door, feeling prickly and ill at ease. There are no costumed orderlies posted outside the premises, no prying officials trying to convince him that he must leave this place, that it’s unsafe, unnatural, haunted. He stands at Eva’s doorstep and waits for her to answer his call, and he tries again and again to push those memories from his mind.

Eva’s whole demeanor lights up the moment she sees him. She reaches out and takes one of his hands in both of hers and jerks him through the threshold with wild abandon, already chattering about how lovely it is to see him and how much she’s missed his company since the last time they’d spoken. She closes the door behind him, shutting the chill of autumn outside and leaving only the rich, welcoming scent of burning incense and boiling tea. Daniil takes a long, deep breath, and relishes the absence of that morning sickness pit in his stomach.

Eva helps him out of his coat, and Daniil carefully unlaces his boots and leaves them by the door- Eva’s implemented a strict “no shoes inside the house” rule since the two of them became friends, and Daniil quietly suspects it has less to do with keeping the polished floorboards safe and more to do with the tipsy evenings spent running and sliding across the halls like a couple of children. Happy memories, to be sure, which is why Daniil has never once opposed this decree.

Now, stripped of his coat and feet clad in nothing but warm socks, Daniil follows Eva into the kitchen where she’s got tea on the stove and cookies sitting out in a wide, flat basket on the table. Daniil takes a seat and helps himself to the cookies, already familiar with Eva’s hospitality and love for the sharing of snacks. God bless this woman, honestly, because suddenly Daniil is fucking starving. He finishes his first cookie, then a second, then is halfway through a third when Eva approaches the table, kettle in hand, and giggles to herself.

“My, my, Bachelor,” she smiles, swiftly and elegantly pouring him a cup of tea. Chamomile, by the scent of it. “Is our Artemy not feeding you properly? You’ve never had such a sweet tooth before!”

Daniil stops, flushes, and glances away for a moment or so. He sets the half-eaten cookie down against his teacup saucer and admits, softly, “actually…that’s what I’m here to talk about.”

Eva looks confused for a moment. She cocks her head to the side, wrinkles her nose in thought, then returns to the pressing task of serving herself some tea as well. Daniil stays quiet for a bit longer, waiting either for his hostess to give in and ask what he might mean by that, or to brighten like the sun, spring to her feet and declare that she’s unraveled the mystery. Either way, he’s content to let her have her fun with this. He already knows she’s going to be thrilled- that’s the whole point in coming here. He needs a touch of her infectious energy.

She sits down, sips thoughtfully at her tea, then takes a cookie from the basket to nibble on. She also slides one toward Dankovsky, heedless of the fact he’s already holding one, but he doesn’t complain. He just waits, chewing his next dessert, drinking his tea, and waiting for Eva’s response.

“You’re not sick,” she muses, chin resting atop steepled fingers. 

Daniil smiles. “I’m not sick,” he confirms.

Eva purses her lips, hums a bit, fiddles with the end of her ponytail and drapes it across her upper lip to mimic the appearance of a bushy, blonde mustache. Daniil, who has developed a bit of a sweet tooth since he stopped throwing up every time he even thought about eating a full meal, rises from the table to retrieve Miss Yan’s sugar dish from the counter. He’s barely gotten to his feet before Eva gasps happily, pushing herself up and letting her chair screech rather unpleasantly across the tile floor. Daniil winces a bit at the noise, sugar dish held in hand, and he has just enough time to brace for impact before Eva Yan gathers up all her adoration and collides with him like a train off its tracks. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and squeezes, then pulls back and kisses him once on each cheek. The Bachelor is stunned into relative silence, save a few undignified grunts and squeaks as his friend manhandles him. Once Eva’s affectionate attack is done, he realizes, before she even says anything, that he’s given away the secret. The hand which isn’t clutching the sugar dish for dear life had moved unconsciously to support his belly- a habit he’d never displayed prior to the pregnancy.

“Oh my God, Danya!” Eva’s voice is shrill, but appreciated. Daniil can’t help but smile again. He sets the sugar dish aside and hugs her properly this time, holding her body closer to his, feeling her chest against his, her stomach against his bump. It’s tiny, barely there at all, but she notices the instant his vest brushes up against her navel. “A baby! You’re having a baby, oh my God!” She kisses his cheek again, all energy. Daniil laughs.

“Surprise?” He says, a touch unsure. He rubs a hand over his stomach, thinking, feeling the nervousness rise up again in spite of Eva’s enthusiasm. “Honestly…it’s a bit hard to believe. Like I told Artemy, I’d almost forgotten that this was even a possibility-“

“Please let me be the godmother,” Eva interrupts, face pink with excitement. “God, they’re going to be so cute! Can you imagine? A teeny-tiny Dankovsky?”

Daniil laughs again. He promises to let Eva be his child’s godmother, though he also warns her that he isn’t much of a spiritualist. Eva responds that this is fine, as she tends to practice beliefs far closer to paganism than anything the church currently offers. She just likes the idea of being in the child’s life, of having a title. Then she insists that Dankovsky stay for lunch, which he is more than okay with.

 

_____

 

At eighteen weeks, Daniil Dankovsky, bachelor of medicine, the man who has dedicated his whole life to the thwarting of death and pursuit of eternal transcendence, sits at the bar in the Broken Heart one frigid December evening, absently snacking on peanuts and pretending that he’s even a decent source of conversation, when he feels a strange fluttering in his gut. He furrows his brow at first, shifts his weight a bit, but ultimately ignores it. It’s so brief and so subtle that he assumes he must have imagined it, though one Andrey Stamatin picks up on this strange shift in the Bachelor’s behavior.

“You alright,” he asks, one eyebrow raised. “You aren’t drinking.”

Daniil grunts, annoyed, though not with anyone in particular. The hormones swirling around in his brain are making the mere act of thinking quite tiresome, honestly, and he just wishes Artemy would hurry up and finish his final house call so the two of them can walk home in peace. Daniil had promised to wait, and wait he had. For close to an hour now, he’d waited, and he’s getting pretty damn tired of sitting here, whole body fatigued from a long day at the clinic, sipping gingerly at a single glass of water and wishing he weren’t so damn hungry because, honestly, he hasn’t been feeling very well all day. It’s a fucking conundrum, and Daniil is in no mood to go around solving complex problems. He just wants Artemy. He wants to be sure Murky and Sticky get tucked in properly. And he wants to fucking sleep.

“Can’t,” Dankovsky says, sitting up and bracing his palms against the bar. He leans back in a stretch and- there it is again. The fluttering. It’s stronger this time, more prominent, and it leaves a funny, inquisitive look on the Bachelor’s face as he settles back in near the bar, hand resting curiously on his middle. “I’m…pregnant…”

Andrey looks mildly surprised for a moment. He picks a glass from behind the bar and begins absentmindedly cleaning it, gaze fixed cautiously on Dankovsky. “Oh,” he says. Then, “everything…okay?”

Daniil nods slowly, brows knit close, glancing down at his own stomach in a mixture of awe and inquiry. For the time being, Daniil forgets that his soon-to-be-husband is late for their meeting. He forgets about the cold lingering just outside the pub, or the work that still waits at his desk for tomorrow morning. He just focuses on the quiet sensation in the pit of his stomach, hand pressed against his belly. His bump is obvious now, given that he’s not actively hiding it behind a bulky winter coat. Which, of course, he is. Still though, he unfastens a couple of the buttons and slips a hand between the pleats, putting a gloved palm over the curve of his stomach. For a few moments, there’s nothing. Just a stillness and a silence left in the wake of Andrey’s last question. Then the flutter happens again, more forcefully this time. It’s a strange, almost thrilling sensation, and Dankovsky lets out a short, surprised “oh!”

Andrey, who is beginning to look a touch on edge, polishes the glass in his hands with a little more gusto than before. “Danko…?”

“Right, yes. Sorry. I’m fine, it’s just…” Daniil pries his eyes away from his middle and surveys the increasing stress present on his friend’s face. “Kicking. The baby’s kicking.”

Andrey nods, though he still looks concerned. Daniil rolls his eyes, pops another peanut in his mouth, and remarks, “you can relax, Stamatin. I’d just never felt them before, that’s all.”

“Right,” Andrey replies, nodding more for his own benefit than Dankovsky’s. He sets the glass aside, glances at the half-stocked shelves over his shoulder, then asks, haltingly, “er…should- can I get you anything?”

Daniil sighs. Heavily.

“Christ, Andrey, I’m not made of glass all of the sudden.”

Andrey holds his hands up in mock surrender, eyebrows raised and gaze cast sideways. Daniil narrows his eyes, sips slowly at his water, and says, “you’re about to say something horrendously stupid, aren’t you?”

Andrey Stamatin considers the question for half a second, then busies himself with something else, wiping down the bar and tidying up a few abandoned drinks. Then he says, “hey, so long as you’re not giving birth on my floor,” to which Dankovsky sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Kicks, Andrey. They were kicks. I’m only eighteen weeks in.”

“So?”

“So babies aren’t born at eighteen weeks!”

The flutter returns with a vengeance at the sound of its father’s exasperation. He sucks in a sharp breath, hand moving instinctually to his middle.

“What’s this I hear about eighteen weeks?” Oh. Oh, that voice is heavenly.

Daniil turns and finds Artemy standing maybe two feet away, snow still clinging to his coat and to the ends of his hair. His face is flushed from the cold, and he’s still shivering slightly, tapping one heel against the floor to disguise it, but he smiles broadly when he sees Daniil, and Daniil, in spite of Artemy’s tardiness, can’t help but smile back. He holds a hand out to his darling Haruspex, gesturing for him to come closer.

“Tema! Perfect timing!”

Artemy, amused, places his hand in Daniil’s and allows himself to be tugged gently forward, toward the bar. “Is it?” He laughs. “I’m sorry I’m so late- I ended up having to stop at-“

“Shh,” Daniil hushes him, pushes his hand beneath his coat, and waits. “Shut up for a moment- I need to show you something.”

Artemy shuts up for a moment, somewhere between concerned and curious, and, just as expected, there comes a barely-perceptible shifting beneath Artemy’s palm. He gasps softly, then lifts his gaze to Daniil’s and asks, breathlessly, “was that a kick?”

Daniil, smiling, nods, and Artemy envelops the whole of him in a clumsy, snow-dusted embrace, kissing him sweetly on unprepared lips, and threading his fingers through mussed raven hair. Daniil laughs and buries his face in Artemy’s shoulder, the flutter returning full-force. Artemy pulls back for a fraction of a second, then kisses him again.

“God, I love you,” he muses, resting his forehead against Daniil’s. Daniil huffs out a breathy laugh, eyes closed.

“I know,” he says, coy. For which, Artemy tilts his Bachelor’s head down and kisses him on the hair as well.

Chapter 3: Stranger in a strange land.

Summary:

Daniil needs to acquaint himself with people who have very good reason to mistrust him. He’s carrying their heir, after all.

Needless to say, Aspity is not pleased with Artemy’s choice in partner. And she’s even less pleased when she comes knocking at Isador’s heir’s door one morning and a noticeably pregnant Dankovsky comes to answer it.

His expression, once mild and almost pleasant, stiffens the moment he sees her. Thoughtlessly, instinctually, a hand flies to his belly. Aspity sizes him up, her eyes lingering on his stomach, and she scowls. The Bachelor’s recovery is swift and unwelcoming, though that much is unsurprising.

“What do you want?” His voice is flat. Accusatory. Aspity blinks blandly, unaffected by this outsider’s coarseness.

“I am here on business from a dream,” Aspity says, shouldering her way past Dankovsky and into the house. He yelps a bit, begins a hollow threat which is cut off before it can come to fruition. Aspity wrinkles her nose at this house, at the Bachelor’s presence in it, and at the child in his womb. “Though I was hoping to find my mind had slipped up just this once.” She levels a withering stare at Daniil’s stomach. He shuts the door and presses both hands protectively against his bump, glaring daggers at Aspity.

“Tema,” he calls, turning inward, towards the stairs, “your wild-woman is here to see you!”

“Actually,” Aspity counters, fed up with Dankovsky’s attitude already, “I am here to extend an olive branch to whomever carries Artemy Burakh’s heir.” She looks him up and down again. Daniil feels exposed in spite of his layers and in spite of the shawl draped over his shoulders. He finds himself pulling the loose fabric in front of his belly as though he might “hide” his pregnancy from her wanting eyes. A shiver runs up his spine. This woman always leaves him with an unsettled feeling in his gut and a damp coldness in his bones. The baby shifts and squirms, as if to agree with its father. Dankovsky winces and runs a hand over his bump, and Aspity takes notice. Of course she does.

“Am I to assume that is you?” Her voice drips with venom, with disdain. She wishes Daniil wasn’t pregnant, he just knows it! His child is a mistake to her- a burden! Anger sparks at the edges of his nerves, and though he does his best to stand by and quell the flames, he is distantly aware that Aspity better watch her fucking mouth- he won’t tolerate any implications about his children, unborn or otherwise.

“Unfortunately,” he says, pointed, fixing Aspity with an accusatory stare. He’s still got a hand on his belly, stuck there for security, and Aspity stares at that hand and at the swell of the Bachelor’s abdomen, and she asks, very simply but with no shortage of disgust: “How long?”

“Fuck you,” Dankovsky rolls his eyes, speaking very softly so as not to alert the children. Aspity chuckles to herself, but the cadence of it fosters no amusement. It sends another shudder through Dankovsky’s frame.

“How long?”

“Twenty-four weeks.”

“Pity. So this is happening, then.”

Daniil feels his face go flush. He presses his hand against a different spot, lower on his stomach, and grits his teeth against his better judgement. How dare this woman! How dare she come into his and Artemy’s home and imply that their child may as well not exist, for all she cares? He’s just about to deliver a scorching verbal assault when Artemy appears from around the corner, clothes rumpled and hair a limp, damp mess.

“Sorry, Danya, I was in the shower when you…” he trails off upon seeing Aspity, glancing between her and his fiancé. He looks a touch lost at first, then worried, then a bit betrayed when he notices the way Daniil shifts his weight and rubs at his stomach. He’s red in the face, and clearly uncomfortable, and Artemy sidles up next to him, puts one hand on his shoulder, and the other over Dankovsky’s, against his belly. “What happened?” He’s immediately on edge- Daniil takes a moment to tuck his head against the crook of Artemy’s neck and assuage his fears.

“Nothing, Tema. They’re just a bit restless this morning.”

Artemy kisses the crown of Dankovsky’s head, removes his hand from his stomach, and turns back to speak with Aspity, who has glanced away from this sickeningly-sweet display, and is waiting impatiently for them to finish.

“Sahba,” Artemy greets with a polite nod. Aspity nods back, though it’s clear she’s still rather displeased with his closeness to the unwanted Bachelor.

“Young Burakh,” she says in turn. “Am I correct to assume that your babe lies in our Bachelor’s belly?”

Dankovsky flushes again. He almost comments on Aspity’s immediate dismissal of him as an entity capable of answering his own questions, but refrains to allow Artemy to smooth things over with an important member of his community. This is his culture, after all. And Dankovsky is an interloper here- a bizarre playing card, shoved into the wrong deck. It really isn’t his business to decide how Artemy’s people react to his union with an outsider.

“You are,” Artemy responds, lifting his chin with a degree of pride. Aspity makes an indistinct noise at the back of her throat, searching Dankovsky’s expression again. Daniil tenses up under her gaze. The baby wriggles. The Bachelor rubs protectively at his stomach once more.

“So you are aware that this child must be introduced to the Kin before its birth?” Aspity poses the question like a viper might coil to strike. She knows the answer, and she knows what Artemy will say. She just wants to hear him say it.

“I…yes, Sahba, I…just wanted to give Daniil some time before we announced it.”

The Bachelor turns his dark gaze on Artemy, face a mess of questions, and Artemy meets that look with his own- a reassurance; a promise to speak more on this matter later. Sufficiently appeased, Daniil settles back a bit and lets the conversation continue, nerves prickling despite his best efforts. Aspity eyes him briefly, blinks, then turns her focus back to Artemy, and to the matter of his father’s bloodline.

“Tomorrow, then,” she proclaims creakily, “on the Steppe. I assume you know the place.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Artemy still says, “yes, Sahba,” in spite of it. Aspity nods, draws a long, deep breath, but doesn’t quite release it, then looks once more to Daniil and mutters, “May Mother Boddho guide your child safely to your arms. And may she provide a somber check for your unruly ego.”

And, just like that, she leaves. There is only a chilly emptiness in her wake- a space which once held her which now feels strange and cavernous and empty. Daniil is thoroughly unsettled. Artemy looks guilty, which isn’t helping the situation. Why should he look guilty? What more is he hiding?

“Don’t give me that look,” the Haruspex says, shuffling off toward the kitchen to start on breakfast. Daniil hadn’t even realized he’d been scowling. He follows Artemy to the doorway, leans thoughtfully against the frame, and folds his arms in front of his chest. Still scowling, of course, as that is his way. Artemy only opens the icebox and grumbles to himself. Trying to dodge the obvious annoyance crackling around his fiancé’s body like the aura of an oncoming storm.

“Oh,” Dankovsky says, tone rising an octave. “You don’t like ‘the look’? As it happens, I’m not overly fond of being paraded about like a show pony- but I suppose so long as it makes your nanny happy.”

The Haruspex sighs heavily, pulls a bottle of milk from the box, then sets it aside on the countertop to search the cupboards for dry oats. It’s best, he’s found, to keep himself busy when he feels an argument brewing; tempers can occasionally be curbed by a healthy, semi-productive distraction.

“Careful, Danya,” Artemy warns, voice low and even. He’s no fan of quarreling with Dankovsky at the best of times, but he’s been even less inclined to make a scene since learning of the pregnancy. He knows it doesn’t matter much, but he can’t help but feel guilty, exchanging angry, charged words with someone who is currently carrying his child. He already feels bad enough, having technically been the cause of all the fatigue, the morning sickness, the dips and sways in the Bachelor’s emotional state. This pregnancy has not been easy by any means, and Danya has faced the whole thing with a very reasonable amount of complaint; he doesn’t want his beloved to believe him ungrateful for such a sacrifice. Still, though…

Daniil sighs to himself, rubs at his temple, and says, “Right. Sorry,” which is good enough for Artemy. He lights the stove, mixes oats, brown sugar, and milk into a slurry, and sets it in a pot over the flame to warm. Once that’s out of the way, the Haruspex pulls up a seat at the table across from the counter and sits, gesturing for Dankovsky to do the same. He does, eventually, given a little persuasion. And once they’re both sitting across from one another, only a short expanse of unpolished wood to separate them, the Haruspex reaches out and invites the Bachelor to take his hand. The Bachelor doesn’t comply right away, instead taking the time to pause and scrutinize because, again, that is simply his way.

Once Artemy has his hand, however, he squeezes just tight enough to be felt, just enough that Daniil could pull back if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. So Artemy continues:

“It’s important, kheerkhen- you know this.”

Artemy knows this about Daniil: he hates when others assume he is out of the loop. He will get prickly at the implication of his own ignorance. He wants to learn, and will go out of his way to do so in most circumstances, but to imply that he simply lacks crucial understanding and to quash all opportunity for him to seek answers is to alienate him from the conversation. So Artemy refrains from any insinuation that Daniil does not know what is going on- he makes it clear that he believes Daniil does know, and simply has a reason to be upset. One should never tell the Bachelor what’s what, they should only ever lead him to the answers he seeks.

“I know, Tema,” the Bachelor replies softly, squeezing Artemy’s hand in turn. “It’s important to you; to your people. Likely, it holds a significance I can only wonder at.”

And Daniil knows this about Artemy: he is a man torn between worlds, empathizing with every tortured soul in this poor town. He is a man of the Steppe, too strange for the Russian townsfolk, and he is a man of Russian sensibilities, too plain and foreign for the Kin. What he wants most, out of anything in the world, is to be understood in his entirety, and though Daniil cannot promise he will always understand each and every inconsistency to its fullest, he can promise to listen, and to wait, and to compromise. When he says ‘I know’, he means less that he knows factually what is going on with the inner machinations of Kin tradition, and more that he knows that this is something he has no reference for; it is significant for Artemy, and for his people, but not for Daniil. The Bachelor knows this. He lets the Haruspex know he knows this.

“It’s…” Artemy considers it for a moment, wrinkling his nose while he thinks. Daniil adores that look, imagines kissing the Haruspex’s face and eliciting that lovely, rumbling laugh from his chest…but instead he keeps still, waits for Artemy’s next explanation. “-not vital, but it’s a big step, as far as integrating the child into the community.”

Those lovely green eyes search Dankovsky’s expression, and Daniil can’t help but wonder if their child will bear those green eyes, that sandy hair, that strength and warmth and openness. With a sudden pang in his heart, Dankovsky realizes that, more than anything, he hopes the child is very little like him in face or in spirit. He wants them to be happy and loved and to feel like they are truly a part of this place, like Artemy is a part of it. It’s so much easier to be happy when one is loved and accepted. He does not want a little Bachelor to come of this mess- to hope for such a thing would be far too cruel.

Suddenly, he almost feels like crying. There’s a lump in his throat that he has to swallow. His face heats and his eyes burn. He averts his gaze to try and hide it- how close he is to tears- but he has a feeling Artemy notices anyway.

“I know,” he says again, “it’s just- all those eyes…the staring…” he sighs. “They don’t like me, Tema. I can’t exactly blame them, but the sentiment is there just the same.”

Artemy feels sorrow clench at his chest, squeezing the breath from it like a vice. He frowns in sympathy, squeezing Daniil’s hand all the tighter. Daniil’s breath hitches in the tiniest possible way. He brings his free hand up to discreetly swipe at the growing dampness in the corner of his eye. Artemy doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t let on that he’s noticed. Daniil abhors crying, and Artemy knows that pointing it out will only make the problem worse. So he lets the matter lie, hoping there will be no breakdown, and Daniil won’t have to plunge headfirst into his work to make up for the perceived failure of shedding a few tears during a very stressful moment in his life. The whole of it seems exhausting, but there isn’t much the Haruspex can do. He carries on with the topic at hand.

“They’ve been…trepidatious about you in the past,” he agrees, “but look at how far you’ve come! You live here now- you’re one of us. If not Kin, then local. You’re learning the tongue, you’re engaging with the customs-“

“I’m terrible at the tongue,” Dankovsky interrupts, turning back.

“I said learning, not good,” Artemy replies. “And no one cares if you’re eloquent or sophisticated, or whatever else you need to be to get by in the city- the Kin might be wary right now, but that is because they don’t know you.”

Daniil takes a breath, leans back in his chair, and mutters out a defeated, “fine.” Artemy feels a lightness in his chest which is only slightly dampened by the tired look in Daniil’s eye. Something’s still bothering him, though he doesn’t seem in the mood to share it at the moment. The Haruspex, though concerned, doesn’t want to push his dear Bachelor any further. So instead, he rises from the table, kisses Daniil on the top of his raven-haired head, and serves them each a bowl of oatmeal. They eat in mostly-comfortable silence, Daniil reassuring Artemy that there’s no lingering anger with a tiny, affectionate, kick to the shin. Artemy smiles around a mouthful of oats and kicks him back. They chuckle to themselves in tandem.

 

_____

 

The following day is a hustle and bustle of names and faces. Daniil, Artemy, and the children bundle up in the warmest clothes they all have and trudge out into the snowy, frost-bitten steppe at so early an hour that the sky is black and star-speckled when they first set out. The air is frigid, clinging to their breath and leaving false smoke trails in the space around their heads. The baby is restless and Daniil is already feeling the fatigue of his condition. He’d been carrying Murky on his hip to begin with, the girl still too sleepy to keep herself upright, but he very quickly transfers her weight to Artemy’s shoulders. Sticky manages to keep pace with the grownups without complaint, but both the Bachelor and the Haruspex can tell from the boy’s quietness, his devotion to putting one boot in front of the other, that he’s only barely holding it together. The children are cold and exhausted. Daniil wishes, distantly, that they’d gotten a rotten cart to hook up to that blasted bull Artemy insisted on keeping as a very large family pet.

But they make it to the site in one piece, regardless of fatigue and regardless of rosy faces and numb toes. The Kin have got fires going out there- proper, blazing campfires, and Artemy’s family’s arrival is celebrated with a chorus of hearty cheers which Daniil cannot hope to comprehend. He smiles regardless of the language barrier, hoping to make a decent, if not good, impression, but truthfully he’s got no clue how he comes across. A handful of herb brides pick their way through the trodden, grayish slush (with bare feet! Daniil shudders to think on it!) and offer to ferry the children off for breakfast at a nearby tent made from sturdy, cured animal pelts. Cattle pelts, most likely, but Daniil staves off his curiosity and takes the brides up on their offer. They smile at him. One of them takes Murky from Artemy’s shoulders and holds her like something precious but not breakable. Another presses a chaste kiss to Daniil’s cheek. He has no clue how to read any of these signals.

Artemy seems content, though; smiling and chatting and showing Daniil off to anybody who asks, anybody who approaches. There are so many people, so many names, so many words Daniil cannot so much as picture in his mind…it starts to get overwhelming after only half an hour. He’s been on his feet far too long, much as it pains him to admit.

And, just as he’s begun to fidget, to shuffle his feet and move his weight from one pressure point to another, one of the Kin women- a mother, if the toddler nipping at her heels and tugging on her dress is an indication- steps forward and offers her arm to him. The Bachelor, a touch bewildered, finds himself glancing back, for just a moment, at Artemy. Beautiful, sunny-faced Artemy, who has noticed this occurrence, and who now smiles and nods encouragingly, subtle and small so as to preserve some of Daniil’s ego. Daniil nods back just once, turns to the Kin mother, and links his arm with hers. She beams at him, her cheeks dimpling. Daniil smiles back, a touch nervous, and allows himself to be led to a small group of women sitting around a wonderfully warm fire. The honeyed light of it makes them all seem so sweet, so ready to accept. Perhaps they are.

Or perhaps…perhaps they are only being polite. Daniil doesn’t relish the thought, nor is he at all keen to entertain it, but still it stays. He tries to banish it from his mind, but it stays. The baby squirms in his womb. He feels a touch nauseous.

“Bachelor,” the mother begins, her child coming to sit unceremoniously on her lap. He wraps himself up in her woolen shawl, and just as Daniil finds himself longing for something to bundle up in, a new pair of hands appear from behind his back to drape him in a heavy quilt. It’s sewn from a million colors, and it smells well-loved. Used. Experienced. He draws it tighter around himself and sighs just for the sake of getting to know the thing. To bring it into his lungs and therefore comprehend it. “How many months…are you?” The mother gestures vaguely toward Daniil’s belly, the shape of it now entirely hidden beneath the quilt. This is a question he can handle.

“Approximately twenty-four weeks,” he responds.

“And this is your first child?” One of the other Steppe women, this one younger than most of the gathered mothers and, notably, childless, asks. Daniil opens his mouth to respond, but the mother with the toddler beats him to it.

“No, Anka. First baby!” She giggles like the first woman was being comically foolish, somehow.

“There are already three children,” someone else chimes in, “but none from him, see?”

Anka flushes a bit, clearly embarrassed, then nods her head with stone-cold resolution and comes to sit by the fire as well. “Right, yes,” she says, crossing her legs and folding her skirt over her lap.

“Ah,” the Bachelor says, feeling strange and foreign. “Yes, that’s right. Artemy and I have adopted three children, but this-“ he glances halfway down toward his midsection, pressing a hand against his bump beneath the quilt where no one can see, “is my first, um, pregnancy.”

A few of the women shuffle closer, murmuring gently in their mother tongue. Daniil can pick up on very little of it, but soon enough they come around to Russian and make their feelings known.

“First ever?”

“And with the year we’ve had!”

“Poor thing!”

“You must have questions!”

It is, once again, a touch overwhelming. Daniil waits, gaze swiveling from person to person for a minute or so, before finally working up the courage to just speak over them. Much of the group had broken off into side-conversations anyway.

“Please, please- may I speak freely?” The chatter died down. Daniil sighed in relief. “I appreciate every bit of advice you lot are willing to give me, but first I feel I should ask- what are your names?”

 

_____

 

Daniil and Artemy are “officially” engaged before the gathering is through. It’s some sort of Steppe tradition which Daniil struggles to fully understand, and which Artemy promises to explain in further detail later. Not that it bothers either of them all that much- they’d already planned on being wed once the baby comes in the springtime.

The Haruspex listens with pride on their way back home, as Daniil quietly repeats the names he’d learned that morning, again and again, trying to keep himself from forgetting. He hadn’t wanted to be a bother, but he’d checked over his shoulder once or twice throughout the event, just to make sure his Bachelor was staying afloat. And he’d watched as the Kin, slowly but surely, found a way to bend around him, to make room for this strange man in the stuffy clothes.

The only lingering issue is that of Aspity. Daniil has yet to win her over. She has yet to cut him any slack. Artemy owes her a certain amount of respect, given her position, but he cannot shake the feeling that she hasn’t yet given up hope that his and Daniil’s union will not come to pass. The baby is non-negotiable, but the marriage…Aspity may well be preparing to pitch a bit of a fit over the marriage.

“Tema?” Daniil’s voice pulls Artemy from his pointless worrying. It doesn’t matter what Aspity says, after all- there is one person in all the world whom Artemy wants to share his life with, and that person is walking right next to him, hand in hand, pressed so close their shoulders brush. “Are you alright?”

Artemy gives his Bachelor a smile. It’s soft. Understated. Real. “Yes, Danya,” he responds, slinging an arm over Daniil’s shoulders and pulling him in close. He can smell the soap his darling Bachelor uses in his hair from this distance. It’s mild and flowery- hints of lavender, thyme, perhaps rosemary? It’s intoxicating. Artemy can’t get enough.

“Just lost in thought,” he supplies, kissing Daniil atop the head. Daniil rolls his eyes and leans his weight against his betrothed’s, watching with a smile as Murky and Sticky blazed on ahead, their footprints mixing with one another in the disturbed snow.

Chapter 4: A Well-Earned Respite

Summary:

Dankovsky’s not feeling his best, and his heart-of-hearts worries about him.

Artemy knows how Daniil despises special treatment. He knows all too well that doting too much, fretting too obviously, intervening and providing assistance when no assistance was requested, are all good ways to get Bachelor Dankovsky good and pissed off. Artemy knows all this- of course he does! And yet he just can’t seem to help himself.

Daniil is thirty weeks pregnant now, and it’s obvious his condition has begun to take its toll on him. His center of gravity is off, the growing baby and, by extension, his uterus, are pushing on his diaphragm, leaving him breathless more often than not. He won’t admit it, but Artemy can tell he’s in pain. A dull, mundane, throbbing sort of pain that grips at his feet, his knees, his hips…and yet he insists on soldiering on.

Artemy can’t help but worry. And any attempt to show this worry ends with Daniil growing ever more annoyed and storming off to complain to Eva about whatever terrible act of service his beloved Haruspex had just attempted to woo him with.

He’ll be alright, Artemy thinks, at the very same time that his mind supplies: anyone could do anything to him right now. It isn’t even noon yet, and he’s probably exhausted. He could trip and fall and injure himself gravely and it’d be all your fault for not insisting on walking him there and back again!

Much of that train of thought is irrational, and he knows as much. But some of it genuinely disturbs young Burakh, to the point that he gets up from his desk and begins to pace- pacing’s always been Dankovsky’s thing, not his. But he paces anyways because he’s too jittery to remain stationary any longer.

Daniil arrives home a mere half an hour later, and Artemy, of course, feels silly about his attack of nerves. But…well, then he catches sight of Daniil, and all those fears suddenly seem entirely justified.

Okay, well. Maybe not entirely, but the Bachelor is looking a little worse for wear.

Dankovsky doffs his coat and hangs it on a hook by the doorway. He kicks off his shoes and doesn’t bother to place them in their designated shelf- it’s not like he could bend over and reach them anyway. He’s huffing and puffing with the effort, and Artemy emerges from his study to watch him, and he yearns to step in, maybe make his darling betrothed feel a little better…but he thinks better of it. If Danya wants help, he’ll seek it out. Probably. Hopefully.

“Alright?” Artemy asks, careful to keep his tone casual. He can practically smell Daniil’s foul mood from here.

Daniil grunts out a response, takes three steps into the house, proper, and stops short, a hand coming out to brace his weight against a wall. He winces, his posture falling, other hand against his belly. Artemy approaches, stops, approaches again. He’s got both hands up and at the ready, about chest height, itching to reach out and do anything at all.

Like Artemy is able to sense Dankovsky’s bad mood, Dankovsky can sense Artemy’s tension. He shakes his head, removes his hand from the wall and holds it up to motion for Artemy to stop and wait.

“Kicking,” he explains, panting. “Hell on Earth, but they’re strong!”

“Well,” Artemy smiles, finally coming forward to press his hands to the Bachelor’s belly. Sure enough, he can feel their child kicking, grasping, writhing…it’s wondrous and ethereal at first, but it quickly becomes concerning. This can’t be comfortable for Dankovsky- and, knowing him, he’s been downplaying it all day long. “They’re a Dankovsky, after all.”

Daniil snorts good-naturedly. His tiredness hasn’t gone away by any means, but it has been upstaged just a bit by love and nurturing. “If only,” he chuckles, gazing lovingly up at his Haruspex’s warm green eyes and tender, compassionate expression. “But they’re a Burakh, through and through. I can tell.”

“Oh, can you?” Artemy leans down a bit, nuzzling the tip of his nose against Dankovsky’s. Dankovsky smiles, laughs just a little, nuzzles him back.

“I can, actually,” he says. “See- they specialize in annoying the shit out of me in particular.”

Artemy laughs, which makes Daniil laugh, and for a few short moments they’re sharing breath and sharing joy and everything else seems to simply fall away from them. But then the child shifts again- Artemy can feel it against his palm- and Daniil buries a yelp in Artemy’s chest. He stays there for a minute or so, and Artemy wraps his arms around his shoulders, holds him close, sways them both gently from side to side.

“This is interminable,” the Bachelor moans, his voice muffled by the fabric of Artemy’s sweater.

Knowing better than to try and reassure him that his pregnancy is not, in fact, interminable, Artemy instead smiles, rests his chin atop Dankovsky’s thick black hair, and says, “You’re interminable.”

Dankovsky moans again, though not from discomfort. He brings his hands up and grips at Artemy’s sweater sleeves; an approximation of an embrace. His baby bump makes it difficult for them to be close to each other in the same way they had been only a few months prior.

“No you are interminable,” he says gruffly, listening to the thump-thump-thump of Artemy’s heart. “Which is both a blessing and a curse, if you are anyone in this town who is not named Murky and/or Sticky.”

Artemy huffs out another laugh, but Daniil does not join in this time. He keeps his face- his expression- hidden from view, and once Artemy releases him from his grasp, he does not fight to keep him there. There’s an awful tug-of-war going on inside the Haruspex’s own mind; continue probing, or give Daniil his space? Neither one is ideal, evident in the fact that the moment Artemy dare to utter out an, “are you sure you’re alright?”, Dankovsky gives him a sidelong glare which is somehow both devastatingly scathing and heartbreakingly tired. Artemy grimaces, gives his darling an apologetic look, then motions toward the kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, “if you want to join in.”

Daniil looks past Artemy towards the warmly-illuminated doorway. There are three voices drifting through the threshold, the overlapping sounds of a table being set, laughter, merriment…and the Bachelor closes his eyes for a little more than a second, sighs very deeply through his nose, and says, “Let me get settled first. I’ll be down in a few.” Then he heads for the stairs, lugging his tacky carpet bag along with him.

So Artemy decides it might be for the best to just step back and allow his dear Bachelor some breathing room. He’s got three kids to corral and entertain, after all. There’s plenty for him to get up to while Dankovsky does his best to feel less pissed and less pregnant.

Clara has been staying over more often than not recently. She pretends it’s no big deal, that she’s only doing so because she’s got a key and because it’s been so cold lately, and a million other excuses. Anything to keep from saying she’s hanging around because she wants to, really. She’s got her own room here- she’s right across the hall from Murky and Sticky, and often Artemy comes home from the clinic to find them spreading pillow forts from one side of the walkway to the other. Clara is sneaky, cheeky, crafty. She’s older than Artemy’s other children, but is, herself, only half-grown. This means the holds authority but also gets herself into typical childhood trouble sometimes. It’s exasperating and it’s endearing. Artemy privately hopes that their little Changeling will stick around, come spring. It would be a huge help to his own peace of mind if she stayed.

Daniil does not come downstairs for dinner. His absence is noticed not just by Artemy, but by the children as well, none of whom have the same reaction. Murky looks visibly upset by her other parent’s absence; she picks at her food and kicks her feet beneath the table, dark eyebrows knit low in disappointment. Sticky is more vocal about his concern, asking all sorts of probing, borderline-academic questions about whether or not Dankovsky is alright, and how Artemy knows the answer is yes, and should they all go upstairs and check on him. Artemy does his best to assuage his son’s fears, but really he’s just as anxious. Then there’s Clara…

Clara is nonchalant, almost flippant. She cracks a few jokes at Dankovsky’s expense, proclaims that he can miss meals if he wants- it’s not like she gives a rat’s ass one way or the other. (At this particular comment, Murky fixes her mad-dog glare on her elder sister and refuses to move it.) Artemy does his best to play Clara’s unaffectedness off, but by the time their meal is through and the kids are clearing their dishes, he puts his eldest in charge and heads upstairs to investigate what became of his missing fiancé. Clara looks like she might complain for a moment or so, but she very quickly catches on to her foster-father’s unease and just nods along, promising to keep her brother and sister in line for a few minutes. Artemy smiles at her, ruffles the short brown hair beneath her awful, ratty beanie, and leaves the children to do the washing-up.

The Haruspex finds his Bachelor in their bathroom, crumpled to his knees on the floor, resting his head in his hands and his elbows against the toilet seat. Artemy is immediately overcome with a rush of fear and self-criticism. It’s enough to overpower his whole body, to make his limbs move before he can tell them what to do. He goes down on one knee at Daniil’s side, ignoring the horrible way his old combat injury creaks and smarts. He’s got a hand on the Bachelor’s back before he’s said a single word, and Daniil startles a bit at his touch, surprised to find himself no longer alone in this ordeal.

“Danya,” Artemy says sadly, “hey. Talk to me.”

Daniil groans. He lifts his head to glance wearily at his betrothed, then-

“I’m alright, Tema,” he rasps.

“Bullshit,” Artemy says flatly.

“Go back downstairs and-“

“Bull,” Artemy interjects, “-shit. I’m not leaving you like this. So tell me what’s going on.”

Daniil groans again, runs a shaky hand through his hair, and says, very quietly, “It’s just an upset stomach. It’ll pass.”

Artemy rubs his hand up and down the Bachelor’s spine, and it’s clear even without words that just this simple action is appreciated- Daniil warms to it like a cat to a loving scratch. At the very least, it seems to make him feel a little better, which is a relief to Artemy in turn.

“You shouldn’t have been working today,” Artemy comments, more to himself than to his beloved. Daniil musters up enough strength to roll his eyes at this assertion, casting Artemy a withering glance while he fights to get his own body under control.

“Don’t start,” is all he says, and Artemy gets the message. He doesn’t agree, but he gets it. This isn’t worth arguing over, not while Daniil’s so out of sorts.

They wait around for a little while, the Haruspex rubbing the Bachelor’s back, and the Bachelor taking deep, soothing breaths which don’t really appear to be doing any actual soothing. He groans and whines a few times, takes a couple minutes to better assess his discomfort, then falls back against Artemy’s chest and crosses his arms, indignant. Artemy, a touch startled at first, very quickly comes to his senses and does the first thing he can think to do- he brushes Dankovsky’s bangs from his face and checks for a fever.

“It’s normal,” Dankovsky tells him tiredly. “I already checked.”

Artemy has to conclude that his fiancé is right- nothing feels out of the ordinary, which is a relief, in a way. He begins searching back through his memory, trying to recall anything and everything the herb brides had ever taught him about maternity and prenatal care. This isn’t morning sickness, right? Morning sickness happens early in a pregnancy, and Daniil’s nearing thirty-one weeks. So what else could it be? Fatigue, maybe. Stress? God, Artemy hopes not. But it’s Daniil so he can’t rule it out completely. What else? Well, perhaps the position of the baby? The effect a growing fetus might have on its parent’s organs?

Oh. Yikes. That very well might be it. Artemy feels guilty all over again. Pregnancy sounds like hell and it isn’t very fair that he can inflict it on Daniil, but Daniil can’t do a damn thing in response.

The Haruspex hums thoughtfully to himself, trying to delay the inevitable. “I take it you’re not hungry, then?”

Daniil scrunches his eyes closed and groans. He shakes his head. Another stab of guilt through Artemy’s heart. Fuck.

“Have you…have you eaten anything today? At all?”

The poor Bachelor moans once again. He’s sitting sidelong in the Haruspex’s lap, but he turns his upper body just enough to hide his face in the crook of Artemy’s neck and wrap his arms around his shoulders. “Of course I have,” he retorts, voice muffled in Artemy’s collar. “I have no appetite, but I eat because I’m not a fool, and I care about your wretched hellspawn for some indiscernible reason.”

Artemy chuckles a bit. He holds Dankovsky tighter against his chest.

“Keep laughing,” Daniil says. “See what happens.”

“I’m sorry, kheerken,” Artemy says, “I’m just relieved. I thought something might be really wrong for a minute.”

Daniil just grunts in response, still hiding his face.

“Do you need anything else,” the Haruspex ventures. “Bed? Water? Anything?”

The Bachelor heaves a defeated sigh. He finally pulls back from Artemy’s shoulder and replies, very solemnly, “bed, I think.”

 

_____

 

Daniil is queasy for the remainder of the evening. He managed to keep down some water and dry toast, but anything else makes him pale at the mere thought of consuming it. He dozes on and off, Artemy always nearby, fretting, trying to seem more calm and composed than he really is. He knows, logically, that this bout of nausea is likely nothing more than a mixture of hormones and placement- Daniil’s uterus putting pressure on his lungs and stomach- but that doesn’t stop Artemy’s heart from leaping into his throat at the tiniest show of trouble. His imagination is ruthless, as are the memories of a plague not long in their wake.

Be reasonable, Burakh, Artemy tells himself, gazing down at Daniil, asleep in his arms, using his fiancé’s body in place of a pillow. He hasn’t got any of the symptoms. No fever, no chills, he’s not dehydrated, he hasn’t complained of any unexplained muscle aches…

Daniil sighs in his sleep, looking far more peaceful now than he had a few hours earlier. Artemy, smitten with him all over again, shifts a bit through the dark of their bedroom to press a kiss to the Bachelor’s forehead. Dankovsky squirms a bit but doesn’t wake. He’s out like a light, his body pressed against Artemy’s, and Artemy can feel the curve of his belly between them, the spot where their child rests.

Or doesn’t rest, rather. With Daniil so close, Artemy can pick up on the baby squirming, restless, heedless of how much worry they’ve already caused their parents. Artemy slowly and carefully lays Daniil down against his own pillows, shoving a few of them into place to cushion the Bachelor’s stomach, then he shuffles to the side a bit, lies back down on his side, and rests a hand gingerly against his beloved’s belly.

“Hey, little Dankovsky,” he whispers, “what’s all the fuss, hm? Your poor dad needs a break every now and then.”

The baby kicks Artemy’s palm. He smiles to himself without even realizing it.

“C’mon, please? Just calm down a bit and let him rest. He’s been doing an awful lot to make sure you’re safe, you know?”

Evidently his unborn child does not know, as they continue to wriggle. Artemy chuckles to himself. Worth a try, he thinks, just as something threads itself through his hair and sends a brief jolt juddering through his veins. He glances up toward the head of the bed and finds his soon-to-be-husband covering his mouth in a feeble attempt to disguise a giggle. Artemy lets out a breathy laugh, then adopts a more mischievous, accusatory air.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dankovsky laughs, dark eyes soft, lit by gentle moonlight. He ruffles Artemy’s hair again, affectionate. “I didn’t mean to scare you- it was cute. You were cute.”

Artemy flushes. He hopes the lowlight will mask the color in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says earnestly. He wants to say more, but nothing coherent comes to mind so he shuts up and saves a little dignity instead.

The Bachelor shakes his head, raven hair squished in rambunctious swirls against his pillowcase. “You didn’t,” he responds, “And neither did they- it was something else.”

Something else? Artemy gives Daniil an inquisitive look, and this time it’s Daniil’s turn to look askance and go red in the face. He doesn’t say anything for an extra-long moment, so eventually Artemy takes pity on the poor bastard and speaks up.

“How’s your stomach,” he asks. Daniil sighs again, but this time it’s content. Grateful. He says, “better,” which is all Artemy can really hope for. He smiles, nuzzles against Daniil’s belly just to hear him laugh about it, then sits up and lets the bedsheets fall from his shoulders. He stretches until he hears something pop, and looks over his shoulder to watch as the Bachelor slowly pushes himself to his elbows.

“Think you can eat some real food?” Daniil flushes again. The pieces fall into place. Dankovsky is craving something.

“I-“ Daniil begins, only for his fiancé to take over.

“What is it, Danya?” Daniil’s always been so embarrassed about craving anything at all. Artemy assumes it has something to do with his control-freak tendencies. Cravings are unpredictable, silly, totally unnecessary. They don’t exactly fit the prim-and-pressed Bachelor persona he’s built for himself. But he also can’t really control them and, well, if there’s no other way to scratch that itch…

Daniil says something. It’s small and soft and nearly inaudible. Artemy leans in close and still cannot hear it. “Huh?” He says, because he’s so relieved that Daniil’s got his appetite back, and because he’s a little afraid of what his Bachelor might ask for.

“…Dirt,” Daniil mumbles, head bowed so his bangs hang in his face. A pulse of unexpected humor takes Artemy’s heart, and he leans in with a lopsided smile.

“Sorry?” He asks, even though he heard Daniil just fine the second time. He just wants to hear it again.

“Dirt,” Daniil says, casting that signature glare in Artemy’s direction. Artemy beams broadly, scooting forward on hands and knees to kiss Dankovsky on the tip of his adorable nose. “I-…I have this utterly ridiculous and very intense desire to eat fistfuls of dirt from our back garden.”

Artemy kisses his cheek next. Then he hugs him. Then he says, “Well. If the baby wants dirt, maybe I should get one of Murky’s mud-pies from beneath the porch.” Daniil gently smacks Artemy’s shoulder with the back of his hand, and Artemy kisses him again. He just can’t get enough.

“But seriously, love, I think you may be iron-deficient.”

“I was thinking the same, actually.”

Chapter 5: Of The Earth

Daniil Dankovsky is only thirty-six weeks pregnant when it happens. And to add insult to injury, Aspity is there to witness it.

Despite Artemy’s chiding, the Bachelor hadn’t yet taken leave of his official duties. Staying in one place has always made him feel fidgety, and doubly so now that he’s practically just waiting around for the little one to be born.

And oh, God, how he hates to think on that! He’s always known, of course, that carrying a pregnancy to term would involve, well, childbirth, but at the time he’d decided to keep this pregnancy, the concept had seemed so far away. Something that future-Dankovsky would have to deal with; a distant nightmare that had nothing to do with running the clinic or trying to figure out what he could eat for breakfast that didn’t make him want to throw up an hour later.

Now, as he strides forward through the Tanners, trying to shake this beloved member of Artemy’s community, he is forced to stop short, braced against a lamppost, carpet bag gripped  so tight in his fist that he swears the lining of his glove is about to give him a blister. He grits his teeth, realizing he’s sucked in a breath and never let it go, so he does so- very slowly, very shakily. And Aspity takes notice because of course she fucking does.

“Feeling alright, dear Bachelor?” She asks, a hint of a smirk on her lips. Dankovsky feels his blood ignite. He should throttle her! Honestly! He draws another long, wavering breath through just his nose, lips pressed tight, and the sudden tenseness from his back and his abdomen eases off, little by little. Soon he is free to right himself, stand tall and keep walking. He hopes in vain that Aspity will take pity on that display and leave him to finish his rounds. She does not.

“Shall I alert your better half?” Her voice grates on his nerves. He hadn’t been enjoying their previous debate on the need for Kin midwives to receive modern training on surgery and procedure, but it was certainly preferable to this- a one-sided game of poke-the-bear. Daniil, a hand against his belly, continues on his way, trying to rationalize that sudden bout of pain.

Now, now, he tells himself, it could have been anything- (it couldn’t have- it had felt like some great serpent had wound itself about his body, like a dozen sharpened talons had gripped his middle, like everything he’d ever feared over these past eight-or-so months had come surging in to snuff him out). He does his best to look, act, walk- exactly as he normally would. But Aspity is relentless.

“Bachelor,” she drawls. Daniil refuses to glance her way, but it’s clear from her tone she must be enjoying this. He takes another breath. He cannot let petty anger get the best of him. Not now.

How far until home? Can I make it that long? God, what do I do? It’s too early! It’s-

“You and I have our differences, Bachelor Dankovsky,” Aspity says. She holds a hand out, knobby and skinny, and Daniil hesitates for just a moment, stops in his path and turns to look at her.

“…And?” He prompts haughtily. Aspity offers her hand again, her gaze knowing.

“Do not grit your teeth,” she says. “Just squeeze.”

Dankovsky opens his mouth to say something needlessly verbose and probably a bit mean, but then that horrible serpent-talons-nightmare sensation comes back with a vengeance, and he bites whatever sound he was about to make off with a yelp. He doesn’t intend to, but his hand finds hers without his knowing and he squeezes like his life depends on it. He’s mortified, honestly, and not just by the increasingly obvious contractions. Aspity is old and frail, and there’s no way he’s handling her so roughly and not hurting her…right?

“Don’t grit your teeth,” she reminds him. “Breathe.”

Oh. Right. The Bachelor, with some difficulty, unclenches his jaw and sucks in a fresh breath. He hears Aspity hum in approval. The pain ebbs away. He sags against her before he can stop himself, shaky and winded. The carpet bag drops from his hand to the pavement. Aspity’s got her arms around him.

It’s a strange sensation. He doesn’t much care for Aspity on a good day, and Aspity has made known time and time again her contempt for the pompous Bachelor, but today? In this moment? Perhaps Daniil just needed someone to lean on, or perhaps Aspity cares more than she’d like him to know. Whatever the case, when she holds him, she does so with a deceptive strength. It reminds him of a mother, perhaps not his own, but a mother nonetheless. All of it; the contraction, the near-collapse, the embrace, it lasts only a minute or so, but to Daniil it feels like lifetimes. The midday sun falls across his shoulders, warms his coat, reflects off his dark hair.

“It’s too early,” he chokes out, hoarse with nerves. “T-those- this isn’t false labor-! I-I can’t have the baby now, it’s not- I’m not-“

“Too many words, Bachelor,” Aspity purrs. “Use your heart, not your head. Your child needs you strong.”

Fuck. Fuck! There are tears in his eyes. When did that happen? Aspity’s hold on him loosens and he takes this as a signal to stand up straight, retrieve his carpet bag, and wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. He tries to draw in a nice, deep breath, and instead he sniffles, his chest hitching.

Aspity rests a hand against the small of his back, and he lets her. It doesn’t occur to him in the moment, but the only reason he does so is because he’s fucking terrified.

The baby moves; not a kick but a wriggle, and Daniil cups a hand against the spot where he first felt it.

“What do I do?” His voice is thin. Helpless. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to hate it at the moment.

“We go to the Brides,” Aspity says. “I will secure us a wagon and send someone to fetch your husband.”

“Fiancé,” Dankovsky corrects, because it’s all he can do to keep himself from screaming.

“He is your husband today,” Aspity counters. “Trust me- you will want him to be.”

Aspity leads the Bachelor by the hand through busy streets. She sends one of the little Steppe children off to track down Artemy and bring him to the spot across the fields. Once, while they are negotiating the price of a rented wagon, Daniil is struck by another contraction. Aspity, who has held tight to the Bachelor’s hand from the beginning, supports him through it once again, only this time…this time something is different.

Because, horrifyingly, he feels something trickle down his leg. He brings both hands up to hold fast to Aspity’s arm.

“A-Aspity,” he whispers, “my water…”

Aspity glances down at the Bachelor’s slacks, then whips her head back up at the stingy old bugger who staunchly refused to cut either of them a deal for his rickety old wagon, and raises her voice.

“You are wasting time,” she shouts with a nod toward Dankovsky, “keeping an expectant parent from his delivery room! Causing undue stress!”

They’re in the Sprawl now. The steppe stretches out before them, wide and flat and all too ancient. Daniil trembles at the sight of it, feels a deep, primal urge to flee, though he has no clue to where.

The idiot with the half-busted wagon is still putting up a fight. Another contraction comes on. Dankovsky grits his teeth even though he knows he shouldn’t. Aspity is still yelling at the man-

And then someone else finds him. They place a palm on Daniil’s back and rub circles between his shoulder blades. It isn’t Artemy- he can tell by the way they move, the sound of their approaching footsteps, the smell of their hair, their clothes…

“Andrey’s handling it,” the person says, voice low and soft as a wisp. Daniil finally glances over to see them, whole body flooded with relief.

“Peter-!” The exclamation is strange. Lopsided. It cuts off in an odd fashion as the contraction eases off. Peter Stamatin, the wily bastard, smiles a tiny, genuine smile at his old friend. He kisses his forehead, rests Dankovsky’s head against his shoulder, hums a short snippet of a longer lullaby.

“You’ll be okay, Danko,” Peter says sweetly. His coat smells of fresh-washed linen and crushed daisy chains. There is no hint of alcohol clinging to his hair or his face. Daniil feels a small surge of pride in his colleague- he pries himself from Aspity’s hold and throws both arms over Peter’s shoulders. Peter holds tight and sways them both gently, side-to-side.

“Andrey’s handling it. You’ll be okay.”

Apparently it had been Clara who’d alerted the Stamatins of Daniil’s predicament. He isn’t sure when she’d seen him, nor when she’d caught on to the situation, but Dankovsky is more grateful than he can properly express at the moment. In less than five minutes, Andrey had bargained, threatened, and fucking punched the greedy asshole in the goddamn face, which isn’t ideal, but Daniil can’t exactly say he feels sorry about it.

Once the issue with the wagon owner is sorted, and Andrey’s begrudgingly paid the man a little more than he deserves, Aspity and Daniil climb aboard and Peter offers to drive the attached bull across the steppe for them- an offer they gladly accept.

“Do you want me to get anyone else?” Andrey shuffles his feet awkwardly. He’s never been very tactful. It’s enough to pry a smile from Dankovsky’s lips, even in the midst of all this turmoil.

“Eva,” Daniil says. And Andrey nods, having expected the answer. He wishes the lot of them luck, waves shortly, then turns and races back into town.

The ride over is slow. It takes at least half an hour for them to reach Shekhen, and once they do, the Bachelor is overtaken by another contraction. He cries out this time- it’s so much worse than the last- and immediately several of the Kin come racing from their tents to tend to the passengers in the wagon.

An Herb Bride climbs into the wagon bed and takes Daniil’s hand. They wait together, tense, for the pain to subside, and once it does, they climb very carefully to the ground where the Steppe community are buzzing and swarming like a bunch of very concerned bees. Children are ushered back into homes. The Herb Bride says, “back! Let him breathe,” and then continues this line on inquiry in the tongue of her people, which Daniil cannot hope to understand in this moment.

The Bride leads him to a particular tent- a tent that’s been prepared for his eventual habitation. Someone lights up some incense. Someone else gives him a soft cotton slip to change into. Aspity has not accompanied him into this room, but Peter has, and he makes his presence known in his actions. He holds tight to Dankovsky, helps him settle into the bedroll the Brides have prepared, kisses his cheek when he yelps at the pain.

“Ten minutes apart,” one of the Brides tells him. She takes up a cloth from a basin of clear water and cools Daniil’s reddened face with it, dabbing across a sweat-slicked forehead and down flushed cheeks.

“Where- the hell,” Dankovsky demands, “is my husband?”

Like a stroke of fate, and before any of his attendants can reply, someone bursts forth through the heavy flaps at the front of the tent. They’re only half-grown, dirty, sweaty, gasping for breath, as though they have run the whole distance between the town and this corner of the steppe. Daniil sits up in shock- and sees her.

Clara. His Clara, looking wild and fazed, like a rabbit on the run from a swooping falcon. The Brides closest to her try to usher her from the room, but Daniil reflexively calls out her name and they relent.

Clara’s gaze finds him. Her shoulders rise and fall with ever huff and puff of her overworked little lungs. Suddenly she seems so small to him, so naive. Daniil pushes himself uncertainly to his feet, takes a few steps forward, and says, softly, worriedly, “Clara?”

The little girl’s got tears in her eyes, and they overflow at the sound of the Bachelor’s voice. Clara surges forward and Daniil catches her in his arms, struggling to hold her as close as he’d like, given the baby-bump between them. He lets her beanie fall to the floor, cards his fingers through her tangled brown hair, and shushes her so very quietly. Through hiccups, Clara relays a message:

“T-there’s been an accident. In the Abattoir- A-at least twenty casualties. They sent me to get Artemy, but-…”

A shock runs through the gathered souls in the delivery room. Bachelor Dankovsky, holding his daughter close, quickly scans her up and down, checking for injuries. He finds nothing aside from a skinned knee, which he is quick to point out.

“You weren’t there, were you? When it happened?”

“No,” Clara shakes her head, “no. I- that happened on my way here. I fell.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dankovsky hugs the girl again, then motions for one of the Brides to bring him his carpet bag. She obliges, he pulls a notebook with a horrifically torn binding from the very bottom, then a pen, then drops everything else to the floor. He signals Clara to turn so her back is facing him, and she does. He props the notebook against her, using her shoulders blades as a desk.

Rubin can’t do it alone, he tells himself urgently. And I can’t possibly make the trip. It has to be this way.

Once he’s finished, he tears the page from the book, throws his writing implements to the dirt, and heads to the front of the tent to call for a messenger. Clara steps in, trying to ferry the note from Shekhen to- wherever the hell Artemy is- on her own, but Daniil refuses.

“You’ve done enough for today, pumpkin,” he tells her, kissing the crown of her head. “Someone else will handle it. Just rest.”

Clara’s still crying, though the tears are slowing now, drying in salty trails on her cheeks. Daniil rubs them away with the pads of his thumbs.

“Sit,” he tells her. “I want to have a look at that knee.”

 

____

 

Eva arrives soon after Clara, as does Andrey, though he turns pale the moment he enters the tent and almost immediately excuses himself. Nothing has even happened yet, though Daniil must admit he’s fine with this arrangement- Andrey won’t be much help in here anyway.

Peter remains at his side, as does Eva. Each of them take one of Dankovsky’s hands in their own, and each of them urge him onward whenever he feels he might give in to the strain. The Herb Brides check him again and again- his pulse, his breathing, his temperature. They dab the sweat from his temples with cold rags and, when the time comes, they tell him when to push.

“Now, love,” one of the Brides says. She sounds lovely, but Daniil hates the whole world at this moment. The pain is white-hot. Unbearable. Choking on a sob, he tucks his chin to his chest, bears down, and screams.

 

_____

 

Artemy hadn’t even known his darling Dankovsky was in labor until the note reached him. He’d heard of the industrial mishap at the Abattoir first, had been racing across town with Rubin in tow, then been stopped in his tracks by a child of the Kin, bearing a message written in Dankovsky’s own hand.

‘I am with the Herb Brides,’ it had said. ‘I am safe. Help Rubin with the wounded. I shall never forgive you, should you ignore this plea and come to Shekhen anyway. Be safe.’

Artemy’s heart had plummeted. He’d asked the child for a sliver of context, and the boy had told him that Bachelor Dankovsky was having his baby. Right then. As they spoke. Stakh had overheard this news and come to rest a hand against Burakh’s shoulder, lest he swoon from the shock. As luck would have it, he did not, but only because doing so would help precisely no one.

“Go to him,” Rubin urged, eyes scanning the note in his friend’s hand. “I can hold steady until it’s over.”

Artemy hesitated. Hesitated. Hesitated. Then shook his head, his mind made up. Daniil may have been exaggerating when he proclaimed he’d never forgive Artemy in the wake of a refusal to tend to the casualties, but he knew he’d be far from happy. Daniil had made a decision on behalf of others- others whom he’d decided needed a doctor’s attention more than he needed a partner’s. That in itself was an act of bravery which should be honored…right?

No. No time for second-guessing. Artemy turned back on his path toward the Abattoir and motioned for Stakh to keep pace, praying to whatever holy being might listen to keep Daniil and their baby safe from harm.

I’m sorry, he thought, wishing he could project those thoughts out into the world, wishing Daniil could hear the remorse in his voice. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there soon.

 

_____

 

It’s dark by the time Artemy reaches Shekhen. He’s changed out of his blood-streaked smock, washed his hands all the way up to his elbows at least three times, practiced his apology in his head again and again-

His people are congratulating him in his way through the camp. Their faces are warm. Happy. He takes this as a good sign, though it does little to still his racing heart. The chill of nighttime settles all around him, chased away at long last when he steps into the delivery room and is bathed in the amber glow of candlelight.

Daniil is asleep, clean and cozy, fur blanket tucked up around his shoulders. It warms Artemy’s heart to see it- the Kin caring so thoroughly for his Bachelor, his kheerkhen, his heart of hearts. He takes stock of the tent, of the people in it (now only Eva and Peter), and realizes that Miss Yan is cradling a small bundle, swaddled in a woven Kin blanket, no doubt given as a gift to the Burakh heir by one of Daniil’s Steppe-mother-friends. Eva smiles so bright upon seeing him, then rises, bouncing the little one ever-so-gently in her arms, and deposits them into the anxious embrace of their other parent.

“A boy,” she whispers gleefully, brushing the knuckles of her index finger down the infant’s cheek. The baby snuffles and squirms a bit, but doesn’t wake. He scrunches his tiny nose and sneezes, though, which melts Artemy’s heart instantly. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

Artemy’s undone. He’s forgotten how to be. The child is perfect. There’s a tiny tuft of black hair atop his head, and when he eventually does stir from his sleep, he opens these big, beautiful brown eyes, and Artemy can’t help but marvel.

“He looks like Dankovsky,” he says. Eva hums happily.

“He’s stubborn like him too,” she says. “Tried to come out feet-first. Gave us all a scare.” Eva leans forward and taps the tip of the baby’s nose. She gets a confused coo in response. Artemy feels guilt grip his heart once more.

“He was breech?” Oh, Daniil…he’ll never be able to apologize enough to make up for this.

The baby frees one of his tiny feet from its blanket prison, and Eva kisses his toes. She hums again. “He tried to be. Zoya got him turned around. Didn’t she? Didn’t she, Little Danya?” Eva continues to fuss over the baby until Peter guides her away, allowing Artemy and his beloved some privacy to reunite.

He doesn’t really want to wake Daniil, but his newborn son makes that decision for him by letting out a small, squeaky infant cry. It isn’t even particularly loud, but it rouses Daniil all the same.

The Bachelor is groggy and bleary-eyed at first. He pushes himself up on his elbows, rolls over, and shimmies into a sitting position, rubbing tiredly at his face with the back of one hand.

“Aspity, just hand him h-“ his gaze finds Artemy. He stops.

Artemy. Beautiful Artemy. Artemy, holding their child in his arms like he was always meant to meet them someday. It’s all Daniil can do to keep from choking up.

Then, because he’s Daniil Dankovsky, he asks, “the Abattoir-“

“Taken care of,” Artemy assures him, stepping closer. “No fatalities, though one poor sap lost a finger.”

Daniil winces. Holds his hands out for the crying child. Artemy hands him over.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Artemy tells him softly, easing himself down to sit by Daniil’s bedroll while their son eats. Daniil scoffs out a laugh, gaze focused on the baby at his breast.

“Sorry? For doing as I said? Wish the town had shared that sentiment about a year ago.”

Artemy kisses Daniil’s temple. “You know what I mean,” he says. Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “you smell- nice.”

“I had a bath,” Dankovsky supplies. “Thank you for noticing. And, just because I know you will never let this go, you are forgiven. Understand? You, Artemy Burakh, father of my child, are forgiven for following an order and saving lives. Your capacity for guilt is truly unmatched.”

Artemy smiles. Kisses Daniil again. “I try.”

Daniil chuckles, then draws his slip closed once the child is finished drinking. Fluidly, exactly as though it is second-nature, he props the baby up over his shoulder and pats him firmly on the back. It all seems to come so naturally to him…Artemy can’t help but feel clumsy by comparison.

“What did you name him?” He asks as Daniil passes the child back to him. Daniil gives him a funny look, then rests his head against his fiancé’s shoulder.

“Me? He’s your son too- don’t you get a say?”

“You’re the one who knows all the fancy meanings!”

“I appreciate the compliment dear, but you must admit that naming our child without you present would be a- and I use this term scientifically- dick move.”

Artemy laughs. The baby sighs. Daniil reaches forward and allows his newborn son to grasp tight to his index finger. They sit together for a few moments, quiet. Contemplative. Then Daniil breaks the silence with a suggestion.

“Yuri,” he says.

“Yuri?” Artemy repeats, taken aback. Daniil nods wearily, still resting most of his weight against his soon-to-be husband.

“You don’t like it?”

“No I- I love it, it’s just so…down-to-earth. I expected the name of a poet or a Greek god.”

Dankovsky laughs.

“Well,” he says cheekily, “he already looks like me- there must be a little Burakh in there too.”

Artemy laughs as well. He brushes the softness of his son’s hair with his fingertips and murmurs out the name, bestowing it upon the boy like a title. “Yuri…welcome home.”