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Jan. 8th, 2018 10:48 pmTo say that the past week has been a long one would be doing justice to none of what's happened. It would have felt long even if he were completely uninjured, before taking into account a trip to see a doctor and then return trips to redo stitches he inadvertently pulled open. That just seems incidental, which is, perhaps, part of the problem. On both occasions, he was told that he ought to have a little more concern for his own well-being, that he should be putting that before anything else. Instead, he can't bring himself to worry about anything but Anya. Over the past days, Gleb hasn't been at all able to get what happened on New Year's out of his head — not the moment when she'd smiled up at him and he'd foolishly thought that maybe, just maybe, something might have been about to happen, and certainly not the moment when, in all of an instant, that gave way, with the sound of cracking bones and her crying out in pain, a wolf suddenly in front of him where Anya had been, its nails digging into his chest.
Logic tells him that it must be her, but also that it couldn't possibly. Regardless, he needs to find her, to make sure she's alright. Contrary to the medical advice he's received, that seems far more important than any ripped stitches or getting any rest. The wounds are far more than a few light scratches, his suit from Paris ruined (a loss that he can't claim bothers him), but that hasn't stopped him from going out and looking or stopping by Anya's apartment a few times on the off chance that he might come across her there, as if nothing ever happened. Once, half-desperate, he even phoned the hospital to see if she had been admitted, equal parts relieved and further worried when that particular search yields nothing.
He's in his own apartment, having not yet ventured out anywhere, when there's a knock on his door, which he goes to answer without much thought. Though he's still moving a bit more slowly than usual, that's all the more reason why he doesn't bother to stop and put more of a shirt on over his undershirt, assuming that it will be a neighbor and probably not more than a minute or two. There aren't exactly a lot of people here who would be stopping by to visit him or anything of the sort.
Perhaps that makes it even more surprising when, instead, he opens the door and sees Anya standing there, in one piece and, as far as he can tell, unhurt. "You're alright," he says without preamble, otherwise at a loss, relief evident in the look on his face and the way he exhales. "Anya..."
Logic tells him that it must be her, but also that it couldn't possibly. Regardless, he needs to find her, to make sure she's alright. Contrary to the medical advice he's received, that seems far more important than any ripped stitches or getting any rest. The wounds are far more than a few light scratches, his suit from Paris ruined (a loss that he can't claim bothers him), but that hasn't stopped him from going out and looking or stopping by Anya's apartment a few times on the off chance that he might come across her there, as if nothing ever happened. Once, half-desperate, he even phoned the hospital to see if she had been admitted, equal parts relieved and further worried when that particular search yields nothing.
He's in his own apartment, having not yet ventured out anywhere, when there's a knock on his door, which he goes to answer without much thought. Though he's still moving a bit more slowly than usual, that's all the more reason why he doesn't bother to stop and put more of a shirt on over his undershirt, assuming that it will be a neighbor and probably not more than a minute or two. There aren't exactly a lot of people here who would be stopping by to visit him or anything of the sort.
Perhaps that makes it even more surprising when, instead, he opens the door and sees Anya standing there, in one piece and, as far as he can tell, unhurt. "You're alright," he says without preamble, otherwise at a loss, relief evident in the look on his face and the way he exhales. "Anya..."
