Chapter Text
Wendell Jones didn’t like his new neighbor. He sipped his coffee and watched the movers unpack a ratty-looking couch, a worn coffee table, and a decent-sized television - all the makings of a bachelor pad were carried into the one-bedroom house that had been empty for nearly a year. He couldn’t pick out the owner as he blended right in with the movers, only identifying him when the moving truck was long gone and one person remained to carry groceries into the house.
His son, Isaiah, ignored him completely, staring at TikToks over breakfast as Wendell said for the thirteenth time in four days: “I don’t like ‘im. He looks sketchy.”
“Dad, you haven’t even gone to say ‘hi’ yet,” Isaiah replied, sounding uninterested. Annoyed, even. “Thought you always told me not to judge.”
Wendell grumbled, staring at his son. Fourteen years old and a spitting image of himself when he was younger, except not quite as wide and his hair in short twists versus the fades Wendell wore for most of his life. He had his mother’s eyes, but as complicated as his feelings were towards his ex-wife, Wendell had always loved her eyes, so he didn’t mind. “I know what I told you. This is different.”
“Sure, dad.” Isaiah finished off his cereal and took his bowl to the sink. “We gotta go, we’re gonna be late.” As they drove past the new house, Wendell stared at the shuttered windows. When he got home from football practice that night, he resigned himself to at least go introduce himself. He couldn’t very well be the only person not to greet their new neighbor, or he’d be the talk of all the church gossip for the next year.
The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered on the front porch of his new neighbor’s house as Wendell knocked on the door. He could hear something shuffling towards the door, and then silence for a long moment before it clicked open. His new neighbor peered through a head-sized crack, eyeing him warily but saying nothing. “Hi. Wendell Jones - I live across the way.” Wendell gestured to his house, which sat diagonally across from the newcomer. “Figured I’d stop by, say hello.”
The newcomer opened his door a little wider. By all accounts, he was an average white guy: short, dark hair, grey eyes that seemed overly suspicious, and dressed in a henley that seemed way too thick for a Savannah fall. He looked like he stepped right out of a New York crime procedural, and that certainly didn’t make Wendell like him any more, even as he reached out for a handshake. “Yeah, you and everyone else on the street. I’m Nicholas - Nick. I didn’t think Southern hospitality was a real thing - always figured it was played up for the movies.”
Wendell huffed, accepting the handshake. “You get used to it quick. So, you ain’t from around here, are you? What brings you to Savannah?”
Any politeness in Nick’s face disappeared in an instant. “Wanted a fresh start,” he said curtly. “Anyway, thanks for the welcome. And thanks for not bringing anything, I’m gonna drown in grits at this rate.”
Wendell forced a chuckle. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of his head at how quickly his demeanor changed - and the fact he didn’t seem too grateful for the welcome gifts. “Well, better eat it all up before the next cookout, ‘cause we got more where that came from. Anyway, it’s just me and my boy Isaiah over there, so holla if you need anything, a’ight?”
“Sure thing.” Wendell turned to head down the steps, but he didn’t hear the door close until he hit the bottom.
Over coffee that Saturday, his neighbor Maribel said confidently, “Mob.”
Her wife, Prudence, scoffed and swatted Maribel’s arm. “He ain’t mob! Why the hell would the mob be in Savannah?”
“Weapon trafficking, honey,” Maribel argued. “They’re branchin’ out! Send him out here to scout the area and lock it down so more of ‘em can move in.”
Wendell sighed, crushing his cigarette out on his ashtray. “This ain’t The Godfather, Maribel. But damn, somethin’ about him just ain’t right. Today’s the first day he’s left his house.”
“Oh yeah,” Prudence said with a nod. “Real early in the mornin’.”
“Maybe he’s drivin’ back home to tell his people that our neighborhood is ripe for the picking! Lord, they’re gonna come down here in their black cars and askin’ for ‘protection money’ -”
“He ain’t even been here a week, Maribel! Maybe he’s just shy.”
Wendell headed home with no more answers than when he’d left. It wasn’t just him that had noticed Nick's anti-social behavior. Granted, there hadn’t been any strange or disruptive noises and Maribel had an overactive imagination. But Nick hadn’t left his house at all since he’d moved in except to pick up pizza deliveries. Once Nick hit his second week of living in Savannah, something shifted, and now it seemed he was never home. His car would be gone when Wendell and Isaiah left at seven AM, and when Wendell returned from practice as late as seven PM, Nick would either still be gone or just pulling into his carport.
He was dressing a bit more formally, too. Clean, freshly-tailored button-up shirts and slacks. But his clothes didn’t change his coldness; he never offered more than a nod or a wave towards any neighbors, never came to the community cookouts, and never held a conversation for more than a few minutes. “Maybe he just doesn’t like people, Dad,” Isaiah said over math homework. “Why you gotta be actin’ weird about this?”
Wendell wanted to say “We don’t want that kinda trouble here”, but he also knew Isaiah would push back on that, too. What kind of trouble? The only trouble was that Nick didn’t seem interested in joining the community, but that was exactly the type of person Wendell couldn’t trust.
At least, until he slipped on a patch of wet grass at football practice and bent his knee wrong.
One of the students suggested going to a private clinic that had opened up on the outskirts of the city, a short drive from downtown. Wendell was too proud to ask for a ride or take an ambulance, so he drove himself once all the kids had been picked up. The clinic was small but looked clean and pretty new. The girl at the front desk couldn’t have been older than 20, but she smiled at him sympathetically. “Dr. Vasilyev should be free in a few minutes,” she said once he handed over the intake forms.
So Wendell sat himself down in the waiting room, and sighed, staring at the opposite wall. It had been a dumb mistake throwing out his knee nearly thirty years ago, but to do it again was almost pitiful. “Mr. Jones?” A voice called, and Wendell looked up to see none other than Nick looking at him. He had a lopsided smirk on his face as he said, “Hey, neighbor.”
Wendell’s shoulders rose along with the rest of him as he stood. “Huh. You’re here.”
“Yep. Come on back.” Nick led him down a tiny hallway; the clinic had only four examination rooms, one of which he gestured Wendell to head into. “Didn’t expect me to be a doctor, huh?”
“Sure didn’t,” Wendell said honestly.
“So what’d’ya do?”
“You this casual with all your patients?”
Nick turned to face him, gesturing to the exam table. “Nah. Just the ones I know. So - chart says you threw our your knee.”
“I slipped,” Wendell corrected, his pride stinging a little as Nick took a seat. “Threw it out ‘bout thirty years ago.”
Nick took a seat in a rolling chair and rolled his way over to Wendell, setting his hands on his knee to start feeling around. “Scale of one to ten, how’s it hurt?”
“Three.”
“Mind rolling up your pants?”
Wendell obeyed, unable to ignore the cognitive dissonance happening in his mind. Nicholas Vasilyev, his shifty neighbor that he didn’t trust in the world, was also a doctor. And his whole life, he’d thought that you had to trust doctors. 'Vasilyev' was… “Russian?” Nick made a ‘hm?’ sound as he felt around Wendell’s exposed knee, which did indeed look bigger than usual. “Vasilyev. That Russian?”
“Yep.” They fell into a deafening silence, marked only by the strangest realization that Nick’s hands were warm. Wendell’s knee throbbed in pain, but the heat almost forced him to relax, even as Nick pulled away. "Damn. With all that swelling, I would’ve guessed you’d be at a five. Well, good news: it’s just a sprain. Since it’s aggravating a pre-existing injury, you’re gonna wanna keep an eye on it, but with rest and compression, you should be right as rain in a few weeks." Nick glanced up. “Gonna guess you know how to use compression bandages.”
Wendell grunted in the affirmative. Shit, he could apply compression bandages with his eyes closed at this point. “Thanks.”
Nick tilted his head. “…Although if you’re going back on the field for anything, crutches might not be a bad idea.”
Wendell waved his hand, pride burning in his chest. “Nah, I got a brace.”
Nick huffed a laugh and stood, crossing his arms. “Alright. Just aspirin if you need it. Otherwise, you’re all set.” With that, Wendell returned to his car, staring at the steering wheel for a long minute. Of all the things he expected from his new neighbor, this hadn’t been anywhere on the list.
The next morning, Maribel gawked at him over her coffee cup. “A doctor?”
“Private practice,” Wendell confirmed.
“…Well, he could’ve still been in the mob,” she said, waving her hand. “Mob doctor. You seen his license? They hire folks without licenses, easier to pay them off that way.”
“He would’ve still had to go through schooling, wouldn't he?” Prudence asked exhaustedly, stirring her tea.
“I saw a show where a guy pretended to be a doctor but he was actually just a janitor who’d worked in a medical school for a really long time,” Maribel argued, turning to peer at her wife over her glasses indignantly. “Folks have ways of cheating! Plus, you can find everything on the internet these days.”
“He seemed like he knew what he was doin’,” Wendell said begrudgingly. “’Least he’s got a job, anyway.”
He left their home, mind still reeling. Maribel had always been a suspicious sort, but he couldn’t lie. Everything about Nick seemed off, making him uneasy, and Wendell could always trust his gut.
Nick was dangerous.