Participants:
| Scene Title | In the Confrontation Between the Stream and the Rock |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | … the stream perseveres. |
| Date | November 30, 2009 |
Ryazan, Russia
An hour later, there they are behind the clinic waiting for the Doktor to meet them as he stated would happen. They have a means of transport lined up to provide for reaching the location and for quick egress should they need it, with Ethan having been brought along as potential backup if needed.
Cat turns toward the pink-haired person nearby, then glances at the door. "Should be just another thirty seconds," she muses. "The Doktor shed light on a few things too, or at least started to. I had to wonder if maybe some of the illusionist's associates had radiation poisoning he wanted healed in specific, or if it was just general healing services he was after. It's still possible some of them had it from working with a nuke, and are dead, of course…"
"I figured" As cat states the obvious, or at least obvious to the two of them why they might need the healer and use his girlfriend. "But somehow Cat, I highly doubt that he'd want a healer just for radiation poisoning. You saw how many people they had stateside, and the amount of manpower they could throw at an issue, Maybe they wanted him for something else. Maybe it's how he healed" since Sasha's dropped it a few times that it's not ordinary healing that he can do.
Not that healing is ordinary. you know. A scrap of pink is tucked underneath her hat, a glance around in the hopes of finding the wolf but not seeing him right off the bat. "Hope it's not a trap" Murmured under her breath.
"I thought your ability was to be super smart." Ethan drolls quietly. They brought Ethan for 'back-up'. Hahaha. Hood brought up over the baseball cap tugged low over his eyes the burly man has his shoulder dragging against the wall as he walks towards them. One hand tucked into his coat pocket, holding one of many weapons strapped to his body. Stopping short he glances to Cat, brow low as he looks very unimpressed with Cat's nutshelling skills. Then he glances to Abby. And decides to not even start on that topic.
Baring his teeth for a moment. "I better get killed or kill someone soon." He growls dully, frowning deeply. "I swear if I have to listen to this fuckin' shit for…" His whining dies out into low mumbles under his breath.
Sasha is nothing if not punctual. He emerges from the clinic on time, woolen greatcoat bundled around his lean body, shoulders set forward into a slouching hunch. A scarf protects his nose and mouth from the chill and prevents his breath from forming mist in the air as he turns up his collar and then stuffs hands gloved in leather into his pockets. It doesn't take him very long to locate Cat's posse either, and after a cursory examination of their surroundings, he heads towards the trot at a brisk trot when he's sure they aren't being watched by anyone except their reflections in the clinic's frosted window.
It doesn't appear Cat is very impressed by Ethan's impression of anything, or even aware of his commentary. His remark of wanting to kill or be killed is mentally registered, despite her absence of reacting to it. Were it not for her agreement, she'd be glad to oblige him the getting killed part. Eyes sweep past him to settle on Abby again, then move on to the arriving Doktor. Feet go into motion toward the vehicle, she seeing fit to speak just three words. "Pojdem. Let's go."
"Pojdem?" Blonde brows furrow. She resists the urge to pull her dictionary out of her messenger bag. "Hello" Offered to the doctor before she nudges Ethan and gestures with her chin towards the vehicle they'll be travelling in. TIme to go, save a Frenchman, hopefully.
"Don't ever touch me again." Ethan snarls quietly as Abby nudges by him. "Keep it in your pants." Rolling his attention off the pink-head, he glances over to the new arrival. Sasha gets a blank stare. As he maneuvers towards the van. When Cat murmurs Russian, he can't help but roll his eyes. "You order in Italian when you're at an Olive Garden, don't you?" The Wolf however walks to the van, going to get in without many more complaints or insults.
If Sasha is telling the truth, he's already a dead man; he has no compunctions about opening the rear door or climbing into the van, though he makes a point of disloging as much snow from his boots as he can before he enters the vehicle. Punctual and polite. "If I cannot help your friend, what will you do?" he asks Abigail instead of Cat, blue eyes like chips of ice assessing the former healer's face with quiet interest. Something has changed in the air between them since she and Cat told him their story, and although the atmosphere is no less tense, there's a sort of introspective tenderness in his expression that wasn't there before.
"No," Cat deadpans in a reply to Ethan, "I order in ancient Greek, Indo-European, and Aramaic at the Olive Garden." Then she turns partway to Abby. "Pojdem, Russian for let's go. Maybe it'll help, if everything said in English is said in Russian at the same time so you pick up the association." Then her eyes settle on the Doktor and while it seems she might have a reply about to be spoken, it's held back as the question wasn't directed at her. She simply enters the vehicle and drives off once all are inside.
It's good to have complete maps in one's head.
"Almost a year ago, I was kidnapped, for being able to heal. People stole those they could, with abilities. One guy had an ability to turn people into stone. Turned his wife and child into stone by accident, turned a friends arm to stone while they were rescuing me. He managed to turn them back to normal once he got the hang of his ability I'm told. If Francois can't be returned back to normal" Abigail's gaze meets Sasha's.
"I'll pray to god, very hard, that he can hang on in there till we can find someone, maybe this guy, who can return him to us. I won't give up." It's very rarely that she gives up. "I have faith Dr. Kozlow, if there's one thing I'm known for, it's my faith that God will provide an answer, or at least show up the path to one. maybe you're it, maybe you aren't. we won't know until we try yes?" Abigail glances to Cat, lips pursing at the decision to talk Russian and English. Maybe it would work, maybe it won't.
"So you do eat at Olive Garden." A short bitter laugh is let out, as Ethan tilts his head back triumphantly. "Cheap little shit." After his victory, Ethan smiles dryly for a moment before looking over to Sasha. Grinning. "Peel off your pecker marinate it in teri-yaki sauce and have you prepare it at Beni'ana's." He points briefly to Abby and Cat. Apparently it's for them. And then..
"Allo Doctor. I'm the nice one." He says in a cheery greeting, offering his hand out to the other man in the van, though he probably doesn't give enough time for him to shake before he's already dropping his hand. "Not really. I'll probably bite one o your fingers off before we get there. But at least your ears won't fall off." A thumb is jerked over at Abigail.Or maybe they just might.
Sasha does reach out to clasp his hand around Ethan's— only for his gloved fingers to catch empty air. A faint expression of frustration flickers across his features, but it doesn't stick any more than the granules of snow blowing like grains of desert sand across the van's windows. "I apologize," he says, "your accent is very difficult to understand." But understand it he did, if the slant of his brows and thinned out lips are any indication of what he may or may not be thinking as he takes a seat beside Abigail and fumbles briefly with his seatbelt. "How many of your people are there?"
Ethan and his comments about herself just gets an eye roll. She's come to learn and expect this from him and therefore lets it roll off her shoulders. "It's okay. There's people who I deal with every day who can't understand a word I say and I'm sorry Dr. Kozlow, I can't tell you, because I really think Ethan here wouldn't hesitate to snap my neck if I did and in turn yours. I can tell you though, that I'm just here as the groups medic and so far, I'm really good at stitching people up!" Not that she sounds happy and positive about that. She'd rather not be needed frankly.
"Wouldn't you like to know." Ethan growls, glancing back at Abby, a look that says 'Don't tell him or I'll put honey in your hair' or something like it. He gives an approving nod when Abby talks about him snapping necks. Yes, that's what his look was, come to think of it. Ethan turns to face forward when Cat finally gets the vehicle in motion and glances back at Sasha once or twice, before looking over to Abby. Then he looks back to the road.
"Stitching is preferable to other methods," Sasha agrees, his words intended for Abigail though his eyes — like Ethan's — remain on the road as Cat guides the vehicle down the slush-ridden streets and maneuvers around congested traffic at something just a little faster than a crawl. "I have never met someone who is able to do as I do. Not in Grozny, not in Moscow, not in Ryazan. Neither have I heard of someone losing their gift. Are you sure?"
"Very sure" The look on Abby's face, the glance away and fall of her features. It's not feigned and speaks of loss. "You won't need to worry about loosing yours Dr. Kozlow, your's is not like mine was, like Francois's was. You're safe in that regard" She looks back at him, offering a grim lift of the corners of her mouth. "How does your's work? I don't suppose you need to pray for it"
"She probably left it under the couch or something. I'm sure it will turn up, Doc. Don't worry." That's said to the losing her gift. When Abby turns to slightly lighter-hearted things he practically melts in irritation against his seat, a loud exhale of groaning emitting from his lips. Ethan looks over his shoulder to Sasha, frowning lightly. "«She was injured several times in the head when she was a child.»" It's said in Russian, quickly.
"«Was she?»" Sasha inquires, his tone neutral, and in spite of the scolding Cat received at the clinic, he does not provide a translation for the young woman sitting beside him. "«Have you known her that long?»" There's something skeptic about his tone that may or may not be lost on Ethan depending on how fluent in the language he is and how aware of its subtle nuances his ears are. To Abby he offers, in English, "Your word is perhaps imperfect? I do not know how else to describe. Many of the men I have healed write me in letters. They beg I take it back, but I cannot. Sometimes death is better."
What on earth is Ethan telling him? Abigail looks between the two before there's a glance out the windows, watch for anyone tailing. "Maybe my words are imperfect. I can't profess to be the know all end all when it comes to healing. Just to a certain kind of healing. Could you explain it? Maybe we might be able to ask Francois whether he's willing to accept whatever it is that you would try or to see if we can find another way"
She's listening as she drives, and very understanding of the languages being spoken. "Imperfect," Cat remarks, following up with a question. "There's a side effect of your healing ability, Doktor?" Curiosity and a trace of concern show upon her features. Ethan is also glanced at briefly through the mirror, as she adds by way of clearing things up "And no, she wasn't dropped on her head as a child. This man is simply fond of seeking to enrage people to see if he can get them to lose their tempers."
"I would prefer not to discuss it further," Sasha says, "but if you are going to pray for anything, Miss Beauchamp, pray that your friend does not suffer more when I am finished than he does now. Sometimes death is better, as I told you." He reaches up, brushes fingertips against the window where his breath has begun to fog the glass. "Maybe stone is better also."
Ethan is telling people she was dropped on her head. "I'm sure, if i'd be dropped on my head.." Abigail's not going to rise. Ignore him. "I wasn't dropped on my head Doctor Kozlow. I can promise you that and he wouldn't want to be stone. Whatever it is.." Only Sasha and god knows really and those who have been under his touch before. "We'll help him through it" Not like technically, he should have died 15 years ago in the humid woods of North America. "Cat, we almost there?"
The Doktor isn't pressed for an explanation he's unwilling to give of the side-effect, Cat merely resolves to speak with Francois about it later. If need be they could perhaps find a way to cure that also. Any misgivings she may have about proceeding are trumped by it being more likely to do this than to catch Orlova and make her undo things.
"It's just a block ahead, time to start looking out for signs of trouble awaiting us."
Teodoro's ability would be useful at a time like this, but as the van draws closer, it becomes apparent that the only movement out on the street is the yellow caution tape that surrounds Francois as it flutters like neon ribbons in the wind. Snow clumps around the Frenchman's feet and in the stone hollow of his nose, mouth and ears. A pigeon perches on his head, little pink feet clutched and secure, its silver feathers fluffed like a cotton dandelion in defense against the cold.
The pidgeon's not going to be there for long once Abigail is out. A pack of wet wipes out and prepared to wipe off bird pooop god forbid that pidgeon has done it's business on the other former healer. Abigail ducks beneath the yellow line once they're out, letting the others look for bad guys from perches, so she can brush off snow, at least around his face and neck. "Please god, let this work. Hang in there Francois. Hopefully, we'll have you back with us soon enough" spoken to the statue as she blows on errant snowflakes where they shouldn't be.
With the vehicle stopped near Francoistatue, Cat steps out and keeps a watchful eye on the proceedings. If she had a silenced pistol the pigeon might well be the target of a round in its path. The area is scanned for signs of observation and/or hostile presence, then she trains attention upon the man of stone to observe just what the process is when and if the Doktor is able to heal him.
If Sasha is visibly relieved to leave Ethan in the van, it does not show on his face. His expression has become as stony as Francois, and as he approaches the statue, his eyes flick warily between the two women and search out shadows that might be lingering somewhere in their periphery.
There are none.
He comes to a stop, pulls of his glove from his left hand by plucking at the fingers, and tucks it into his coat pocket for safekeeping before placing his palm on Francois' face. "If you will give me a few minutes of silence, please? I do not wish for this to be any more— imperfect than it must."
Last little bit of snow brushed away, a spot of something wiped off, Abigail looks up to Sasha and nods, stepping back. Ethan in the van is flat out ignored from this point on, REady to throw something at him if he dares speak. She waits instead, in one corner of the cordoned off area, ready to leap forward and catch Francois if he should become un-stoned or Sasha if he needs anything, one hand clamped around the cross at her neck.
Her reply is s simple nod, Cat choosing not to interrupt the asked for silence by speaking it as she observes intently.
For a long time, Sasha remains stock still, legs like the columns of rock that are Francois', but slowly, gradually — like ice melting at the start of a thaw — changes begin to take place. His skin is first, its rough texture replaced by something smoother and more human, pink like the flush of Abigail's cheeks rather than the shock of her hair. His lips and fingernails are next, then his hair, eyelashes and finally clothes as colour seeps back into his figure and the rigidity that had held him in place melts away.
Once in awhile, another car passes but neither the rumble of the engine or the slosh of the tires peeling through slush breaks the doctor's concentration.
Even through the seeping of human life over dead rock, Francois stays rock steady in that pose of preparation to leap away from whatever threat writes that expression on his face. Hand outstretched, fabric crinkled at the shoulders where tension had set in, knees at the slightest of bends where boots are set firm— firmer, now— against the ground. It's a slower crawl than the flash-freezing effect of flesh into stone, but eventually, it gets there.
The first thing he does is breathe.
The second thing he does is release that tension caught in his body like a photograph turned into moving picture, but what would have been a graceful gazelle leap away turns more into a jerk away from Sasha, eyes blinking and knees immediately going as useless as dead things as he threatens to fall back and tear tape down with him. A shuddering cry tears from his throat as senses, all five of them and then some, slam back from their oblivion.
When the unstatued man jerks away from the Doktor, with his knees faltering, Cat is quick to move. She still doesn't speak to avoid disturbing the healer's concentration, but neither has she any intent of letting Francois fall. Eyes then turn toward the Doktor again, asking without words if his work is concluded or if contact needs be reestablished.
Sasha jerks back from Francois with the abruptness of a small child touching its hand to a hot stove coil for the first time. He staggers back, clutching his wrist, and leaves long tracks through the snow in his haste to put as much difference between himself and his "patient" as possible, eventually coming to rest with his back flush against a nearby street lamp, his figure shrouded in its diluted yellow glow.
His shoulders hunched, deep breaths drawn in through flaring nostrils, he watches Cat move swiftly to Francois' side, catch him in her arms and guide him gently down to the icy pavement under their feet. The look on his face is as surprised as anyone else's — it worked.
Cat goes to Francois, thought the pink haired woman would rather be there. But he's coming to, back to himself and Sasha is backing up. So Abigail goes to the Doctor, the Russian Doctor, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder and peer at him. "Are you okay?" She digs into her messenger bag with her free hand, proffering a bottle of water to Sasha before looking to Francois then back to Sasha.
Occasionally, the stilted uncertainty of times that leave people thinking Teo's ability sure would be handy right now are gelled to the revelation that Teo's ability is around and doing its thing. He comes quickly, out of an alleyway that had been one of the various suspect in the entourage's initial scan-through.
Blue coat and black boots show in blotted contrast against dirt-scudded snow but easy camouflage in the recesses of dingier shadows. The sweep of his gaze is jumbled by two things: first, the uneasy transition back to operating the normal, physical organs of perception, and second, the stranger's presence. Neither manage to distract him from the fact Francois is okay, though, and nothing breaks his stride thoroughly enough to stop him from scrambling across the street. "Holy fuck.
"Holy fuck," he adds for good measure, coming forward with a closing hand and a hooked arm to help Cat stay the Frenchman upright.
While achieving neither Ethan's sturdiness or Teo's height, Francois does threaten to simply drag Cat down with him with sheer dead weight, though the sudden interruption of the Sicilian lending aid means feet only slip at snowy pavement, given enough time to find purchase. His clothing, skin, hair, all these things are damp from soaking in the still water and ice that had come to gather on him, despite Abby's best efforts to wipe it away, though the chill of it doesn't overpower the flooding warmth of his body.
And this, in return, doesn't mean Francois isn't shaking like a leaf for reasons that aren't to do with ice and rain water. Hands are remembered, fingers twitch to grip onto both Cat and Teo's wintercoats, head bowed while he continues to breathe like a drowned man.
Ssslowly he gets his bearings, eyes wide and blinking, and his first true conscious effort is to shake his head doggishly to free hair of clinging rain— and, to be honest, the unsettling stiffness of muscles.
"Welcome back," Cat tells the no longer statued one, "you had a rocky future for a while, but that's over now. Even as Francois seeks to gain his bearings and shake off rain, her intention is to get him off the street and into the vehicle which brought them here. A nod of her head and a glance at Teo is used to communicate that goal. Her concerns about side effects are set aside for this moment, she can ask about such things after the man has had a short time to gather himself.
"Do not touch me," Sasha commands Abigail, flinching away from her hand on his shoulder and the water bottle she holds out in offering. "I am fine, but do not touch me." He gathers the lapels of his coat in his fingers and pulls the garment tighter around his frame as a shudder passes through it, rippling from the base of his tailbone all the way up through his spine, muscular shoulders and neck. "See to your friend."
"They're seeing to him" Abigail's hand is pulled back according to his wishes. "I trust them to see to him. But there were two people involved in this, him, and you. You did a miraculous thing and we'll see, I guess, if he doesn't end up wanting it undone. But what can we do for you?" Abigail's making sure she stays close enough, but not too close to Sasha, a flicker of blue eyes over to the trio, back to the van and it's occupant then finally settling on the Doctor. "Something to drink but not water?"
That is more puns in one line than Teo needs to hear in a day. He shoots Cat a Look, before his features break into an incredulous laugh, a guffaw that starts in the belly and resonates in the acoustics of his ribcage, more sincere than any of the mirth he can remember, lately. Shit.
"Bienvenue, monsieur," he greets, compensating for each fractioned shift of Francois' staggered frame with one of his own. He steels his foot, braces his hip. Stares at Kozlow for all of a half-second, before benignly turning his gaze away. "Should get everybody in the van. Assuming you plan on showing him all of our other stunned and bloodied vulnerabilities." There isn't rancor in the Sicilian's voice, exactly, no even quite reproval, too wry or resigned to be deliberately caustic.
Cat, also, has Francois lifting his head to peer at her with narrowed eyes, and his own show of mirth is little more than breath drawing from his lungs, a curl at his mouth. Almost-laughter is way manlier than weeping - maybe he will thank her later for that. "«I'm alright»," he assures them in the slithery consonants of his language, numbly getting his feet back under him, strength or at least the physical manifestation of determination making stiff his knees.
His weight eases off the grips of Cat and Teo, a shiver wracking through his body, now, as if given passage as the tremors are killed off, slowly. Inevitably, he looks towards where Abigail and Sasha stand, unfamiliarity in his gaze as it sweeps up and down the healer, then towards what he can see of the former. Water would be fantastic, but he doesn't go on over.
Darts a look to Teo, then scopes a look around. Disbelief writes into the lines at his face, the angles of his expression. "Bon dieu— how long have I been here?" The van is spotted, and the Frenchman takes a breath, and then a step on over, eyeing the warning tape caging around them flimsily.
"Little more than a day," Cat provides to the question asked as she lets go her grip and steps back, ready to move in again should legs falter. He is watched carefully for lingering effects of being stoned and any sign of what the Doktor warned about. "Do you feel completely yourself? The man over there with Abby is your healer, Doktor Aleksandr Koslow. I was correct," she adds in a quieter voice, "Vanguard did kill Faina."
"Nothing to drink," Sasha insists. "I only wish to be left alone." Then, in a voice a little less haggard, a little less acerbic. "Please." From where he's standing, he either can't hear the words Teo intends for Cat due to the distance between them — or if he can, he simply misses them by the virtue of being distracted. He's fumbling with the glove he'd spirited into his pocket, pulling it back on with short, brisk movements that mask the trembling in his fingers and arm.
It's not in Abby's nature to leave a person alone, but the way he says it and the added please just brings a soft nod from the former healer as she holds the water close. "No Teo. He is only going to help with Francois. The cost wouldn't be worth it apparently, for Felix" It's said in the kindest of tones. "Francois? How are you?" one foot eases forward as if to go to him but he's already got Cat and Teo helping, so she remains near the Doctor, but leaving him be as requested.
A dark brow spikes on Teo's forehead, dilating pupils, making both eyes large in his head as he angles a glance back at the sourly distracted doctor. The cost? He can't begin to imagine what that would be, but he's heard of a lot of different healing abilities, seen them at play, and knows better to look at this gift horse too closely at its teeth. Abigail is offered a straightforward nod of understanding.
"Funny place to leave her memorial," he answers Catherine, keeping his voice down with as much caution. He isn't too long releasing Francois' arm back to its owner, now that Francois seems to be in full possession of his faculties. The Sicilian shoves his hands into his pockets. Waits for the probable tokens of gratitude.
Quick to at least step away from the spot he'd been fixed to, Francois listens, slowly - if one could do such a thing slowly. Abigail's query is better comprehended, though his answer is uncertain. He addresses both Cat and Abby with it. "Oui. I think. We shall see. Though I am very thirsty, if you had no plans for that," and he points to the protectively clasped water, and the look served her way contains some measure of uncertainty. The distance between them, however, is finally collapsed - but mostly in that he goes towards Sasha, hands lifting as if he might try to take the other(?) healer's, but decides not to.
And even gives him a few feet of space. "Monsieur, thank you. I have little to give in return— " Words steeped in an almost unbecoming measure of gratitude threaten to spill out, possibly too many of them for the sake of the group, but Francois manages to rein them back in. "But I owe you much," he finally settles on, with a rueful smile.
With eyes turning toward Teo again, Cat shares "It was where she was found, probably by people who admired her stage work as a dancer." The look in her eyes on speaking of Faina is an odd one, which may for the Sicilian match with expressions she's had in the past when mentioning Dani Hamilton; perhaps she equates Faina with her to some degree.
But she doesn't elaborate further, choosing this moment to resume herding people for the vehicle and departure. The driver's door is opened, and three words are spoken. "Pojdem. Let's go."
Sasha's breaths are more even now, blown out through thin lips pursed around the indecipherable twin lines that comprise his mouth. Snow sticks in his hair and on the fine, reddish-tinted stubble peppered across his jaw and chin. Although he doesn't show Francois his back, he turns so the Frenchman is facing his shoulder and his face is half-obscured by a swath of oily brown hair, the collar of his coat and the woolen scarf he wears around his neck.
He does not make eye contact with the other man when he says, "It was nothing. Do as she says. Pojdem."
The bottle of water is unprotected, unclasped, the cap turned and seal popped so that she can take a few steps forward and hold it up for Francois to take. Abigail's glance towards Sasha lingers as her hand comes to land upon Francois's shoulder. "If you disappear, should we have the authorities look for you, or should we just put your picture beside Faina's?"
The disagreeable suspicion that had had Teo's features up in sharp angles and lines softens considerably when Cat draws that comparison. There's nothing he could possibly argue against that. Not with how he caused Dani's demise, the extent and degrading nature of his involvement. He'd done that to save the world once, too. It's like slipping one's hand into a corpse's skin, gloved to a perfect fit but discomfitting in texture, how familiar that regret is.
He merely nods, stepping back to help strip down the yellow tape off their cones, giving Francois more of the physical freedom to offer further gratitude, and Kozlow more room to continue to deny it. "Dobry vecher," he adds, for the doctor's sake, his bristly head low between squared shoulders.
The familiarity of the circumstance could either be warming or sharp. It's the skittery, desperate gratitude he knows, something Francois has also been exposed to so many times in his long years, that keels it over into the latter. Water is taken with a quiet, merci, taking long but patient sips from it as he steps back from the doctor-healer. Maybe there will be time, later. The bottle is passed back to Abby, a drifting hand to her arm, before Francois pulls his damp coat around him tighter and heads for the van. His foot steps are slow going, and when he gets ton the vehicle, a hand goes out to lever himself in than trusting his coordination.
There's nothing about her which suggests she attaches blame on Teo for that now, nor was there in months past. Cat enters the vehicle, settling behind the wheel, and starts the engine. Her foot remains on the brake, transmission is placed into gear, and she waits for the others to also take up occupancy. Including the Doktor, whom she intends to take back where they brought him from. Or wherever else he may wish to go.
Whatever it is that the Doctor tells Abby, Abigail's not saying anything back, just turning in Francois's wake and heading back towards the van. It's not safe to linger and she lets it be known by the paranoid way that the pink haired woman looks this way then that way, a rub at her left arm where the ache is dull. "Lets get going, lingering isn't good" she seconds and thirds, getting into the vehicle behind the others and closing the door.
Abby's question is answered in a low, thick murmur meant for her ears only before she — along with the others — departs for the van, and despite his terse pojdem, Sasha does not move to join them or so much as budge from his adopted position beneath the street lamp, arms wrapped around his torso with gloved fingers hooked in the sleeves of his coat as if the wind will take it as it continues to tug at his hair and scarf, both of which are now crusted over in a fine layer of silver frost from standing still for so long.
Not nearly as long as Francois had been there, mind, but it isn't until the van is pulling away and leaving treads in the slush that he disappears into the shadow of an alley mouth between two buildings with low roofs and disappears to whatever den he calls home.