Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – What's Up, Doc?

An icy wind cut through Shane’s thick coat, carrying the scent of rotting trash that clung to everything in the warehouse district. Even that felt pure, fresh, and clean compared to the building he left behind. At least he was done with today’s rounds. Putting the fear of Hades into a few sloppy suppliers? All in a day’s work and fun to boot. Taking out life’s frustrations by grinding his foot into the throats of would-be troublemakers? Even better.

Pity it made such a mess, though. Shane hated the smell of bleach.

Slush caked his boots as he hurried to his truck, more than ready to soak in a shower, warm up and remove the stench of the day. Maybe, if he finished early enough, he could even swing by Sa—

Shane paused, one hand on the door of his truck, the other resting on his sidearm. His gaze flitted around the dark alleyway as every hair on his neck stood on end in warning. Something—someone—was watching…

…waiting.

….

The wind blew a random plastic bag down the alleyway, its rustle reverberating off the asphalt.

….

He delayed a little longer, continually scanning the shadows in search of the source of that warning, but—

A cat's frustrated mewl shattered the silence as a bin tipped over.

Getting spooked by a damn cat, he groused to himself, finally opening the door. Hades had conquered the Republic’s Underworld in a blood-soaked two days, eliminating the boss running the skin markets and putting the fear of hell into the syndicates that remained. Unfortunately, that boss had an heir, and that younger, much dumber shithead wanted to fill the gap.

“Hello, Charon.”

Instinct had him turning before the words even reached his ears, weapon drawn.

“Mr. Antonov sends Hades his regards.”

“Mark—!”

Pain drowned out the sound of gunfire.

Balancing her chair on its back two legs, Doc blew smoke out the window of her breakroom. She knew she should go stand on the back stoop and smoke there, but she’d had a really long, really fucking shitty day, and she had less than zero desire to stand in the snow freezing her ass off. Besides, it’s not like her patients ever came back here.

Frigid air seeped in through the cracked window, snaking along the ancient linoleum, past the dented table and half-century-old plastic chairs. It curled around already frozen toes encased in socks decorated with a cartoon canary and sneakers she should have replaced a year ago. The heater for the old strip mall-turned-illegal clinic struggled in the back half of the building, but it at least kept the infirmary and waiting room warm. To be honest, the central air system was most of the reason she’d built Sanctuary here to begin with, even if the fucker only worked because of percussive maintenance and ritual sacrifices to the Gods of Technology.

…wow, she was in an even shittier mood than she thought.

At least she didn’t have any overnight patients. The onslaught had finally slowed in the past week or two; those too dumb to bend the neck, to lay in wait and plan, had already died.

How can you claim that you do no harm?

Her heart stuttered, stopped, pounded.

Pushing the memory away, she twisted the butt of her cigarette in her ash tray. Letting the front legs of her chair slam into the floor, she shoved the window closed. She did what she could, buried the dead, and moved on to the next poor bastard that clamored for her attention.

You’re not a miracle worker, Doc, and you aren’t a god—thank fuck. You’re doing the best you can with a shit hand, and somehow you still hit the jackpot more often than not.

She pushed that memory away, too.

Coffee. Coffee and cartoons. That’s what she needed. The ritual of making coffee never failed to soothe her, and the cartoons would help her to laugh, to relax. Unfortunately for her, she’d barely started the pot brewing when a chime filled the air. Doc sighed. Running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, she tossed it up into its typical hasty bun, then washed her hands.

No rest for the wicked.

The numbers didn’t add up.

Sterling frowned, flipping between spreadsheets while sipping his scotch, reviewing last month’s numbers. As if he didn’t already have enough on his fucking plate, he also had to be a control freak that regularly doublechecked his accountant. With a frustrated groan, he collapsed into his office chair, letting the leather finally support his back as he ran a hand through his auburn hair.

Who knew holding the Republic’s underworld by the balls required so much damn paperwork? He’d started looking through it just after Shane left to run his ‘errands,’ and it was now… well, shit, three in the fucking morning. Sure, he could just believe his accountant did the books right—both the set for the feds and the real books—but he knew damn well that’s what led to people taking cuts they shouldn’t.

And so, Sterling endured.

Scooping up his glass, he went to take another sip only to find it empty. He sighed. A perfect example of how the whole damn night had gone. Flipping off the monitor, he rose to his feet, swaying a little as the overpriced rug beneath him rolled. He was too damn blitzed to keep cursing numbers just then.

Oh, for the days when the only thing he had to worry about was keeping him and Shane alive while cutting deals and cutting throats. Sterling walked to the sideboard by the giant windows, staring out at the lights of Zuzu City. His office perched atop Elysium Fields, the upscale gentlemen’s club that he’d recently… acquired from the Antonovs, a paradise dedicated to sin in all its permutations. While not remotely a skyscraper, it stood tall enough for him to see on the horizon a part of the city that looked darker than the rest, where those too poor or too fearful of detection scraped by, the place where he and Shane got their start in this wretched city. He wondered what she—

Pouring a shot from the bottle of aged scotch, he knocked it back, poured another, knocked it back, then poured a third, all in the vague hope that maybe he’d fucking sleep for once. Ever since he’d taken the throne of the underworld, his shitty sleep had somehow grown shittier.

You’re too fuckin’ soft!

Wincing, Sterling poured a more substantial splash into his tumbler to nurse before collapsing into bed. Maybe once he finished with the accounts tomorrow, he could visit—

“Eh, what’s up, doc?” drawled the voice of an old cartoon.

Sterling perked, stumbling over to his desk to snatch his phone. He quickly opened the messaging app. Only one person had that ringtone. If she’d texted him, then maybe—

The blood drained from his face as his eyes flitted over the message.

He drained his glass in record time.

Sputtering streetlamps sporadically pushed back the shadows coating the sidewalks, but even they couldn’t hide how poor this area of town remained. In the years since Sterling and Shane moved to the city, the neighborhood hadn’t improved in the slightest. If anything, the buildings had more bullet holes in them; at least the locals incorporated them into their graffiti. They’d only stayed there for a few months before moving on to greener pastures, but time and again, Sterling returned to the same run-down converted strip mall. Advertisements for booze and cigarettes at prices not seen in twenty years covered the windows, hiding the interior from prying eyes.

Sterling didn’t stop there, however, instead winding past it for several blocks before finding the garage he’d purchased for this exact purpose. Throwing his McLaren into park, he killed the engine and crawled out. He paused, readjusting his cufflinks and straightening his tie before leaving the garage, the wintry world dancing a touch too much for comfort.

He probably shouldn’t have had that last bit of scotch on his way out the door.

A quick glance confirmed no one else walked the streets at this hour. He lengthened his stride, not quite jogging, anxiety weaving through his steps like an overeager cat. Reaching the front door, he gave it an impatient tug, frowning at how easily it opened. It killed him that she never locked the damn thing. Any time he brought it up, however, she simply rolled her eyes and reminded him that Sanctuary’s door remained open.

Always.

Blinking, he didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights. Six strides and he’d crossed the entirety of the little foyer lined with chairs, the sound of his polished shoes ricocheting off the bleached linoleum like gunshots. The booze in his system made the posters advocating for good hygiene, testing for STIs, and clean needles blur together. The television remained off, likely because no one lingered tonight, waiting for word on a patient.

No one except him, at least, and Sterling had carte blanche access.

A sharp pull dragged the door along the groove worn into the floor, the frame crooked after years of abuse and neglect. Still, it easily swung close behind him, its flapping providing an odd contrast to his heels as he proceeded down the hallway. Floating from the infirmary came a familiar, raspy alto: “Get your ass back in the bed.”

“Fuck that, Doc. I gotta... gotta get back ta...” The sounds of rustling fabric followed Shane's voice.

Sterling shook his head, increasing his pace even as the icy panic in his stomach finally began to thaw. If Shane could argue, then—

“I did not spend three hours fishing shrapnel out of your carcass just for you to bleed out on the floor. All because you're too damn stubborn to stay in bed!”

“Not gonna bleed out,” insisted Shane. Whatever painkillers Doc had fed him made him slur like he'd polished off a fifth of rotgut whiskey all by his lonesome. “Yer too good at whacha do for that t' happen. I need ta let Sterl know what ‘appened.”

“Tell you what, hotshot. If you can find your pants and put them on without keeling over, then you can walk out of here and die on his doorstep. Otherwise, your ass is staying in that bed until I'm satisfied.”

Finally pushing through the doors, Sterling peered into the hospital barracks to discover Shane wobbling on his bare feet, clad only in his boxers. A cut with a butterfly bandage marred his forehead, almost hidden by his dark hair. More elaborate bandages covered his upper arm and shoulder; nothing that looked fatal. Between them stood Doc, her small body radiating the confidence of someone who knew she could manhandle a man twice her size. Few knew her actual name; she always told newcomers to call her Doc. Rumors abounded that she’d lost her medical license for one reason or another, but she did good work, asked no questions, and charged only what she thought you could afford.

And that rarely meant money.

“Let me join in, sweetheart, and I’ll make sure everyone leaves the bed satisfied,” drawled Sterling as he leaned against the doorframe for support. Fuck, he really had drunk too damn much if he was letting his accent bleed through like that. Doc glanced over her shoulder at him, her high cheekbones turning a brilliant scarlet as her eyes sparked with a mixture of amusement and fond irritation.

Beautiful.

“I know better than to listen to your silver tongue,” she replied without missing a beat. “Tell me you brought one of your fancy racers instead of that deathtrap you call a bike.”

Shane slowly blinked as his hazel eyes finally focused on Sterling. “When…? How…?” he tried to ask, even as he began listing to one side.

Clever hands snagged him before he could fall. “I texted him,” said Doc, the top of her head just below Shane’s stubbled chin. Sterling hurried to his other side, helping her to guide him back onto the bed instead of collapsing to the floor.

“I brought m’ car,” he told her. He’d learned the hard way not to haul an injured Shane home on his motorcycle.

She frowned. “You’re drunk.” It should’ve sounded like an accusation, but instead, it just sounded weary.

“Just enough to relax,” he lied. Maybe if the shots he’d taken just before receiving her text were all he’d had that night, it’d be true. He had needed all the help he could get holding the memories at bay fighting the expense reports, however.

Shaking her head, she turned her gaze to Shane. “Looks like you’re both staying tonight. I’ll—”

“I’m good t’ drive!” insisted Sterling. He’d done more dangerous shit while far more inebriated. Then again, he rather enjoyed spending time—

The sound of jangling keys pulled his gaze down to her hands. She closed her fist around them before he could react. “Bullshit. If you were, you’d have noticed me picking your pocket.”

Shane’s eyes bounced between the pair. Well, they tried to, anyway, but he still remained two beats behind in the conversation. “She gotcha good,” he finally sniggered.

“Not helping,” Sterling snapped at him, but his friend just laughed more. Doc must’ve put him on the really good shit.

“Help me tuck him in, and then I’ll let him tell you the stupid bullshit that led to him getting shot this time,” she sighed. Fixing those piercing eyes on him, she added, “and then you can claim a bed for yourself to pass out in.”

Sterling had his own plans in that regard, but before he could pop off, Shane distracted him with a hissed curse of pain. “How is he?” he asked instead.

“He’ll survive. Probably,” she said curtly, her tone at odds with the gentle way she handled Shane. She added with a fierce glower, “If he’ll stay in this fucking bed and rest.”

“Fuck’s sake…” groaned Shane. “Mm’kay, Doc. I’ll… fuggin’ stay….”

“Damn right you will,” she muttered under her breath, finally straightening back up. Thunderous blue-gray eyes flitted between the two men. “I need to fill out some paperwork; I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And I swear by all that is good and holy in this universe, if you try to slip him out the door, I will flay both of you alive and hang your skins as a warning to all the other assholes who never listen to me.”

“I love when ya talk dirty t’ me, Doc,” Sterling retorted, grin widening as lightning crackled in her gaze. Despite her threats, he knew she wouldn’t actually follow through on them. For all of her bark, she wouldn’t bite. It went against the one code she refused to break: first, do no harm.

His life would be so much easier if she would.

Turning sharply on her heel, Doc stormed away, red-gold bun bouncing with each step. Sterling watched her the entire way, surprised once more how the scrubs (this set had a tuxedo cat with a red nose printed on it) never seemed to detract from her looks.

“She’s gonna make you pay for that,” Shane warned.

“I know,” he smirked, dragging over a cracked, plastic chair to sit on. “That’s half the fun, after all.” At Shane’s snort of amusement, Sterling flashed him a knowing smirk before settling into a more serious mien. “What the fuck happened?”

“Made the rounds,” he said, referring to the reason Sterling had sent him out. “Made sure that… that th’ suppliers ‘membered the terms o’ the deal,” he elaborated anyway. The way the drugs had him strung out would be amusing if he hadn’t followed up with his next words: “Then I swung by th’ meat locker t’ take care of a mouse problem. On m’ way out, that fucknugget, Mark, decided t’ play target practice. Good thing m’ aim’s better.”

Rage flooded Sterling’s system, followed by instant ice in his veins as his mind raced. A couple of months had passed since he’d murdered his way to the top, and no one had made a serious bid to dislodge him—not really, not like he would have in their shoes. He’d taken advantage of the quiet, eliminating any who would try to revive the skin markets. “He reveal who hired him?” he asked, his voice coming out… detached, as he unconsciously pulled on his mask. He had a damn good guess, however.

Shane remained quiet.

“Charon.”

A grimace curdled his butcher’s face, hazel eyes wary. “Mark said Mr. Antonov sent his regards.”

He didn’t even realize he’d moved until Shane started cursing. If the younger Antonov had informed his assassin to wait for Shane outside of the meat locker, that meant two things: one, they needed to move operations and up security, and two, he needed to make an example of him. He’d make as many examples as necessary until these fuckers got the message. No one came after his people without reprisal.

“Just where in the blazes do you think you’re going?”

Blinking, he glanced down at Doc. She stood in his path, her small form somehow blocking the way to the waiting room. “Business calls.”

“Like hell—”

“Sorry, darlin’, but I don’t have time for games tonight,” he said, voice cool, collected, as he tried to slip past her.

Doc immediately blocked him. Again. “Whatever stupid idea you have about wreaking vengeance can wait until you’ve slept and are mostly sober.”

His jaw clenched. “Vengeance?”

“Oh, don’t give me that Hades bullshit. You’re off to stomp on the dick of whoever took out the hit on Shane,” she said brusquely, glaring right back at him. “It can wait until morning.”

The part of him baying for blood vied for further dominance, ready to do anything necessary to get past their little doctor. He remained enough in control of himself, however, to more gently grab her shoulders and move her to the side instead. Of all people, Doc did not deserve his ire. “I told ya I have no time for games,” he said, taking advantage of her shock to push past her into the waiting room.

A shift in the air and the distinct whisper of cloth provided his only warning. On pure instinct, he grabbed her hand as it grasped his collar and flipped her over him, only to watch her land nimbly on her feet in between him and the door. He clapped his hand against the sting in his shoulder, taking note of the satisfied smile on her foxlike face. “What the fuck didja do?” he asked, eyes locked on the syringe she held.  

“Made sure you actually fucking sleep before getting yourself killed,” she replied, watching with dispassionate eyes as he lurched to the side. Everything spun violently as he clung to the wall for stability. Black encroached the edges of his vision as the world around him fell away, growing distant. Her voice seemed to echo down an endless tunnel as she said, “I told you that you were staying the night here, Orcus.”

She still caught him before he hit the floor.

“What the fuck didja do t’ him?” Shane wondered aloud, watching as Doc half-carried, half-dragged Sterling to the bed next to his.

“Funnily enough, that’s the same thing he asked just before passing out.”

“Doc.”

Despite her petite size, she had no issue settling Sterling into the bed. Both her strength and her compassion continued to surprise Shane, despite being on the receiving end of both more times than he cared to count. “Asshat planned to run off half-cocked and drunk to make an example of whomever hired Mark,” she said, her voice cracking on the name. Guilt pricked at him. Not that he’d killed the idiot, necessarily, but because he knew Doc would have to face Natalia and Dmitry.

Oblivious to Shane’s thoughts, she removed Sterling’s jacket and tossed it onto another bed before deftly loosening his tie with an ease born of long practice. “I’m just making sure he’s got backup and is mostly sober before indulging his stupidity,” she continued more briskly. “Keeping him alive is your job tomorrow.”

Shane started cackling, the drugs in his system making the whole situation unbearably funny. Oh, he had little doubt that Sterling would pitch a royal hissy fit in the morning. He did not like having his rampages so adroitly delayed. “Oh, hush,” she grumbled as she finished making Sterling comfortable, setting his phone and cufflinks on the side table between their beds.

“If I didn’t know better, Doc, I’d think ya loved us,” he needled her.

That got a dirty look. “The same way a vulture loves a corpse, maybe.”

“Can’t feast on our entrails just yet,” he said, eyes growing heavy. Fuck, but he felt so damn tired. “Yer too good at keepin’ us alive.”

His eyes briefly opened at the feel of nails lightly scraping his scalp, grateful that Doc had dimmed the lights. The gray had faded a little in her exhausted eyes, letting the hints of blue become stronger, a break in the clouds. “Sleep, big guy. You’re safe in Sanctuary.”

Shane knew better than to believe her. He fell asleep anyway.