A/N: I'm going to warn people right now, this has Raskolnikov/Razumikhin in it and Svidrigailov/Dounia, but both are super slow burn. You have been warned.

The cold metal of the pistol burned against the heat of his sweaty head, just above the ear. His pulse was quickening, and he could feel it against the barrel of the gun. His fingers twitched towards the trigger, nerves forcing them to shake and making him nervous he may actually shoot himself. What a useless fear to have, for wasn't he there to do just that?

Svidrigailov tried his best to clear his mind and take a deep breath. A forced smile was plastered on his face as he watched the poor jewish man in front of him, obviously torn between staying rigid against the gate he was previously leaned on and bolting to stop Svidrigailov. In the end, there was nothing he could do, for Svidrigailov's finger was faster than the man's feet, no doubt. His pupils were widening with the fear of a gunshot sounding at any second, and it almost made Svidrigailov laugh out loud. He was not the one in danger of dying, so why did he seem so frightened?

"Stop, dis is not de place!" He finally managed to say with his heavy accent, however, Svidrigailov was not listening. His mind was starting to wonder, a dreadful thing really, as it was only delaying the inevitable. Despite his choice being made hours ago, he was suddenly thinking of trivial things again, like how cold the wind made his hands and how his rising fever was burning his eyes. He wondered if this feeling would carry on in the afterlife. Could a ghost be cold, or warm for that matter? Where did ghosts reside anyway? He wondered if Marfa was watching somewhere, or perhaps her spirit was leaving him to carry out his dreadful deed in peace.

Now his words to Raskolnikov echoed in his ears, and he remembered his spoken hypotheses on what the afterlife looked like. Was it just a dark box, or blank nothingness for all eternity? Before, these had just been speculations, but now his feverish and frightened person treated them like the answers to life. Technically they were, because how would ending his time in this world alleviate his pain if he just ended up in a miserable cell without a beating heart, confined to some sort of spirit realm for the rest of time? His heart rate was accelerating again, and he was finding it harder and harder to keep the pistol from shaking. I have to stop thinking about these things, really… He tried to steady his hand, but shifting his wrist seemed to only cause him to lose his grip on the weapon even more.

"Sir," the man's voice snapped his attention back to the real world. He was half-holding the gate bars with one hand, the other slack at his side as he inched forwards. "Sir, dis is not de place…" His approaching scared Svidrigailov, and he took a few steps back from the man. He knew that sooner or later someone was going to notice them in the middle of the street like this, himself with a gun to his head, and try to stop him. The authorities might arrive, too. He knew he had to do it now, but his fingers felt like jello and he couldn't find the strength to put pressure on the trigger.

The world was fading into his thoughts again, the man's desperate pleas becoming nothing but background static. He could almost see Dunechka in front of him, the gun he was holding now suddenly in her hands and pointing between his eyes. She was so spiteful and afraid in that moment, however her beauty never diminished. Those dark eyes filled with hatred, to him, were like reflectors of the night sky that had covered the scene. He always saw stars when he looked into those eyes… he suddenly wondered what she saw in his.

Lost in thought, the gun hand had began to separate from his head, suspending itself in the air beside his ear. Unbeknownst to him, the jewish man had relaxed, thinking that maybe he was rethinking the whole thing and wouldn't go through with it after all. His hand finally detached from the gate and he took a step forward to help Svidrigailov with throwing the gun away for good. His movement caught Svidrigailov's eye though, and it scared him into a violent jerk, his fingers twitching again with nervousness-

His pointer finger moved a bit too roughly, and a deafening gunshot resonated in the street as a result. Svidrigailov's body felt numb, the only dull feelings being the sting of his right ear and the eventual pounding impact of his skull on the stone street. It was odd how cold he suddenly felt, as if some icy substance was seeping through his clothes from the ground, but he felt strangely comfortable. His head was warm at least, though he didn't know why. All he knew was that he could still see Dounia staring back at him with some undefined expression, but it made her look stunning nonetheless.

When he next awoke, he was greeted by off white walls and the stench of badly washed cloth mixed with strong ointments. He tried to survey the area, but the slightest shifting of his eyes sent a jolt through his skull, and he did not dare to move his head entirely. All he could see from his field of vision was the tips of nurses' heads as they scurried by, completely unaware of his state of consciousness. With the realization that he was in a hospital came the memory of the events that came before this: the gun, the blast, the cobblestone street colliding roughly with the back of his skull.

He managed to free his hand from the tangled blankets and brought his fingers up to gingerly touch his temple, where he was certain a bullet had shot through him. However, all he found was thickly wrapped bandages, partially covered by his dark grey curls.

"Ah, so you're awake? Good, good." A man's voice that sounded close by made him start for a moment, but he winced and stilled himself when the movement reminded him of his pounding head. "Try not to move too much, I still have to examine your mental state," the voice said, who at this point was obviously one of the doctors here. Svidrigailov felt the doctor's weight on the mattress, shifting his body to the left with the gravity of the folding bed.

"Do you remember your name?"

He swallowed the thick saliva in his mouth to prepare his throat for talking, "Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov."

"Very good. Your age?"

"Fifty."

"And, Mr. Svidrigailov, are you married?"

"I was," for some reason he found himself struggling to elaborate, but the doctor's silence made it clear he wanted more. "Her name was Marfa. She died recently."

"Alright then. The police were able to identify you, and since everything you have provided me with does indeed match your records, I suspect you suffered no severe damage." his weight was lifted from the bedside, and for a second Svidrigailov thought he might have left, however he soon felt the man's fingers around his right eye, forcing it to open. He nearly jumped, but managed to calm himself down. "Tell me, do you remember what led to you coming here?"

"I was in the street… I shot myself in the head."

"Ah, well you tried to anyway. You missed by a hair: any closer and you would have bled yourself to death. Luckily something made you move, and instead you have a nasty scar and a slight concussion after falling in the street." He shifted to examine his other eye, allowing him to process the information. If he was being honest with himself, he couldn't feel any distinct emotions about this new twist of fate. His failure left him embarrassed, empty, and much broker than before, considering he had left a large sum of money with Sonia and her siblings when he thought he would no longer need it.

On the other hand, the gun had held two bullets, and he had only used one. There was still another chance to finish the decision he made last night, but with the doctor hovering over him and the thickly wrapped bandages around his head, it was difficult to picture himself trying again.

"I believe you'll be quite alright, sir. Try not to cause such a commotion again, especially out in the middle of the road. There were women present, you know!" It was absolutely ridiculous, but hearing this caught Svidrigailov's attention. He really ought to stop thinking about her all the time. After all, look where that got him!

"When I decided that place would suffice, there was no one there. Only a guard of some sort, or maybe just a beggar."

"At first, yes, but you forget that you went out to pull the trigger at five in the morning. The sun was nearly up, and the markets were beginning to open. Then that man you mentioned earlier, he was actually a guard, found the authorities and led them to you, but by then it was high morning." The doctor seemed to produce a board and paper from thin air, and Svidrigailov could hear his pen flying across it in what must have looked like chicken scratch. "But all that need concern you now is not trying again. Besides, your weapon was confiscated at the scene for your own good. Your papers say you are not from here, perhaps you should start by returning to your estate?"

Svidrigailov, his head having calmed down since initially waking, turned slightly to get a better look at the man beside him. "I have nothing there. About the women in the street, how did they react?"

The doctor looked slightly thrown off by the mad look in Svidrigailov's eyes as he waited for the response with such attentive patience, as if his life depended on it. "As anyone would react seeing a respectable looking man lying outside in his own blood: horrified. One woman though was quite level headed, a rare thing in such a young girl. She offered her assistance and was quite inquisitive upon where you would be staying. I suspect she felt obligated to intervene, but why I am unsure."

"That woman," Svidrigailov scrambled to sit upright. His pulse beat in his head and his very skull felt like it might give way to the pressure, but he found it in him to prop his back against the pillow and reached out for the doctor's shirt. However, the man had backed away a foot, weary of his excited patient. "What did she look like? How old would you say, or, better yet, did you catch her name?"

"Ha! I was not there myself. I heard the report from one of the officers, as I was here in the hospital. What business does a medic have outside if it is not to fetch medication? There is always work to be done here; fetching the sick is left to the authorities." He went back to scribbling on his papers before casually tucking them away on the side of the bed, "As for you though, we will have you released by the end of the day. You have all your memory and you aren't bleeding anymore, however its best to leave those bandages on at least until the rest of the day, just in case."

With a smile and a nod, he was on to the next patient, who admittedly looked a lot worse off than Svidrigailov. He took no notice though, his mind going straight to a certain dark haired woman. Really, this has got to stop! He tried to tell himself, but as he lay there against the propped up pillows in the shabby hospital, her image would not leave him be. It's useless to think, but, could that have been..? No, no! Of course not…