Nadya turned out to be a short, cheerful woman whose grasp of the English language was tentative at best. She bustled through the entire apartment, sorting the sheets of music into folders, making an enormous pot of tea and doing the dishes.

Ivan twitched at the sling around his arm irritably.

"I mustn't move it at all, so my last doctor forced me to keep it in a sling. Of course I want it to get better, but it's so irritating."

Being a general practitioner with a specialisation in orthopedics, Alfred was used to complaints like that.

"Must be tough, not being able to do what you like. But you can write with your right hand, so if you get inspired, you can pin it down."

Ivan sighed again, taking a sip from his black tea he had – to Alfred's horror – sweetened with a few spoonfuls of blackcurrant jam.

"If I was able to compose, I could. But inspiration won't come to me."

Alfred refrained from asking what exactly the sheets of music were, then. The minds of artists worked in a way quite different from most people, he knew. It was an odd to be treating someone whose career – and, if he'd read the Russian right, his happiness – depended on his recovery.

It was a huge responsibilty, but Alfred wouldn't have had it any other way.

Suddenly the violinist's pale face was lit by a smile again.

"But maybe I will be a little more inspired with you around. You seem a very interesting person, Doctor Jones."

The odd compliment took Alfred by surprise, but he figured it must have been a cultural difference. He wanted to reply that Ivan could call him by his first name if he liked, as he usually did, but strangely, he didn't mind being called "Doctor Jones" by the Russian. It must have had something to do with most people not taking him seriously because of his optimistic and truthfully rather tactless nature.

"I can say the same for you...can I call you Ivan? I saw you in concert once, and I was really stunned – I'm not so into classical music normally, but you made it sound really alive." he said. That was true, too. The performance had really blown him away.

From this close, Alfred could see that Ivan's eyes were actually of a bright violet shade, something he'd never seen before. They lit up as Ivan took in the compliment.

"Thank you, I'm very glad you liked my performance. I only hope that I will be able to perform again soon. And may you call me whatever you like."

Alfred took a sip of his own tea, and immediately regretted. The beverage was bitter as well as sickly sweet, and he supposed it was at least as potent as coffee. Speaking of coffee, he would have to get some. Tea had never really been a favorite of his.

He would have to talk about Ivan's condition and treatment later, but for now he decide to stick to a more pleasant subject.

"Would you mind telling me what you're working on? Maybe it'll help your inspiration if you tell someone about your ideas."

Alfred wasn't a master of tact, or poise for that matter, but that didn't mean he knew nothing about psychology. Most of the time, he just preferred to be honest instead of considerate. But he knew a fair bit about how people worked.

The Russian's expression grew a bit darker, most likely because he worried that either inspiration or use of his arm wouldn't return. But he was still glad to talk about his newest project with someone interested.

"I'm working on composing a few more modern pieces. They are inspired by some old diary entries of mine, from.." here he hesitated a litttle, his voice cracking the faintest bit,"..when I still lived in Moscow." He selected a sheet from the folder Nadya had put them in. It was covered with sheet music in the same shaky hand Alfred had seen before on the contract.

"This one...it's called Noyabr – November. It's almost finished, but something, something's still missing."

He hummed a few bars of a soft melancholic melody, something that sounded familiar and alien all at once.

"What's Moscow like? I've never been." even as he said the words, Alfred wished he hadn't. There was something painful there, a bad memory, and he should've know better than to ask. He was really too tactless, sometimes.

Ivan stood up abruptly, supporting himself with his good arm. He made his way to the kitchen, brushing past Nadya who returned with a second pot of tea and made a face at his glum expression.

"Chto sluchilosj?"

Ivan indicated Alfred sitting at the coffee table, looking confused and apologetic.

"Slishkom ljuboptny." he said shortly, entering the kitchen and rummaging through the cupboards onehanded, by the sound of it. When he returned, it was with a bottle of expensive-looking vodka.

Alfred frowned.

"Hey," he said, half-heartedly attempting to take the bottle away from his patient,"I'm sorry if I made you mad, but as your doctor I can't allow you to drink that. You're on pain meds."

"I don't c-" Ivan started, but sighed and handed the bottle to Nadya, who had said something in Russian that had a distinctly berating sound to it. Then he took a sip of his fresh tea, and looked Alfred directly in the eyes, his gaze intense and burning.

"I do not care for talking about my time in Moscow. I left my home country for personal reasons, not for political ones, as you will without doubt assume."

Alfred held up his hands, palm-out, and tried for an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry I upset you. I'm too tactless, I suppose."

Ivan's expression softened again. It was an amazing effect – he looked at least five years older when he was upset, and five years younger when he was smiling.

"You are just much too curious – that is what I told Nadya, what I suppose you would have asked next."

Seem to have hit a sensitive topic. I wonder if I should bring up his arm now...he's already upset.

"I take it you have already read my records? Do you have any opinion or approach that is different from my former doctor?" Ivan asked, changing the subject and forestalling Alfred's question.

Alfred shook his head, and decided to get this discussion over with.

"I also think that a lot of rest and anti-inflammatory medication is our best bet."

"And I am glad to be taken care of personally. What are the odds on our best bet, though?"

"I'd say about seventy percent, maybe more, since you're young, don't have a history of past bone diseases and the condition was diagnosed early on."

Ivan seemed relieved at that, possibly because he'd expected worse odds. Then his mouth curved into a coy smile.

"You know, Doctor Jones...vodka is perfectly anti-inflammatory."

Alfred had to suppress a grin at the title, which sounded more like a nickname when the violinist said it.

"It doesn't go well with painkillers, though, unless you fancy a gastric lavage."

Ivan frowned.

"A gastric what? That sounds disgusting."

Alfred really had to grin at the childishly puzzled expression.

"It means getting your stomach pumped out. Most people are unconscious when it happens though, for obvious reasons. You've got no experience with that, then?"

"I happen to be perfectly able to handle vodka. I would have though stereotypes had informed you of that. It is really frustrating, though. I cannot move my arm, I cannot play, I cannot drink, there are a thousand things I cannot do."

Alfred put on his most reassuring face. Being optimistic was one of his major strengths.

"And it's my job to make sure you're able to do all that again soon."

This seemed to brighten Ivan's mood another little bit.

"Then, to your success and mine, let us raise-" here his face took on a dejected expression,"our teacups."

Deciding to show off his extremely limited Russian, Alfred replied;"Vashe zdorovje!"

"Spasiba." Ivan replied, raising his cup.

A/N: Chto sluchilosj?- What's wrong?/Slishkom ljuboptny.-Too curious./Vashe zdorovje!-To your health!/Spasibo.-Thank you.