Mess, cont

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Rakitin stared at Liadov, his stomach clenched into a ball of ice.

Slowly, as he studied Nika's expression, he realized something.

Someone was striking derision and a wall of cold rejection, someone was where they weren't wanted, and it wasn't Polya.

How strange.

In the wash of relief and something else (acceptance? No, that was absurd), he felt an undercurrent of sympathy for the supply captain.

For the first time, it occured to him that he could play along.

Polya looked met Utrov's eyes and smiled a little, shyly.

The secret was shared, after all.

"You know, I think he does."

Comments

[utrov.livejournal.com]

"You can speak!" Utrov marveled. "I was thinking a witch had sewn your lips shut."

Looked like Rakitin had finally woken up.

"But your friend forgot one possibility."

He turned back to the prim-faced MVD.

"Maybe he's a decoy, and it's you I'm gunning for."

He smiled.

"Could be I spotted you from across the hall and fell in love, and I'd risk getting sent to the Zone just to pull on your pigtails a little."

In the part of him where he was honest, Utrov couldn't have said what compelled him to keep goading the most obviously dangerous man in sight. For some reason he felt like he was glad for that.

"Aren't policemen supposed to consider every angle?"

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

Krauss recoiled like he was expecting the salt shaker to bite off two more of his fingers. The mere mention of the Colonel’s name sent a cold chill racing down his spine and spreading along his extremities.

“V…Volgin?”

There was nothing threatening about Major Lynx’s tone, nothing to suggest what awful things awaited him in the torture room.

He had seen the end result, time and time again. He was the one who made the charred cadavers disappear, effortless as brushing dust from a Ming dynasty vase. He had waited there time and time again, just on the other side of the great steel door, morbidly fixated by pleas for mercy and the hair raising crackle of ten million volts.

The German’s gaze dropped and he stared into his plate. Borscht. Twenty years a Russian citizen, and he still hated borscht. How ironic if it was his last meal?

Thoughtfully, he pursed his lips.

There was a whole desk drawer filled with forged passports safe under lock and key in his office, and if he could catch a flight to Moscow, he could be having tea and Spätzle with Molokova on the Elbe within the week.

“Has…has the Colonel expressed to you just when he would like to have…words with me?”

Krauss smiled and lifted a spoonful of the stew. “Nevermind. It’s nothing. You’re right, comrade. The borscht is quite delicious tonight.”

[raidenovitch.livejournal.com]

Raikov ignored the exchange going on around him, as much as one could when it buzzed in-and-out of his hearing, concentrating intently on his soup.

It wasn't out of his usual disdainful disregard for anything - more than he was silently brooding.

Misery, as it turned out, didn't love company. The Grad's paperwork had never been so efficient, with Raikov holed up in his office actually working.

Ocelot had been a good comrade and had helped drink away some of his mood, but it was beginning to hit Ivan hard that he fucking missed Volgin, instead of missing fucking him.

He was too proud to admit that aloud - hell, he struggled with admitting it to himself - but the half-rumours and whispers and the stranger suddenly propelled to Major class, in the same way he was, hammered down his doubts too much for him to ignore.

He chanced a glance across at Ocelot, trying to catch his eye.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Polya slipped away alone, giving Aryol and Nika privacy to go off together. As much privacy as they were likely to get on a crowded base.

He had the feeling he was going to be spending a lot of time on the firing range for a while.

All for the good. His shooting skill could use the improvement, and it was soothing, in an irrational, very loud way. It might also afford the chance to run into Leshovik again. Polya had taken an immediate liking to the gruffly gregarious soldier. It would be hard not to feel a fondness for someone hunting whoever was trying to hurt the Colonel. Not to mention he'd had the grace not to show disgust at Polya's unwanted advances. That was nice.

The range was also where the Ocelots practiced.

But not this late. Not usually. And, were luck to run sour, it wasn't as though Isaev would notice him.

That's just it, isn't it? something acerbic in him whispered.

That quality. Whatever it was that drew him as much as it terrified him, or maybe because. He had seen it before, in those rare men, those rare moments.

It was good that they had little reason to encounter each other. The base could be oddly isolating that way. Everyone staying in his repsective territory. Good, also, that the situation was what it was, as Nika had casually spilled over dinner. Otherwise, there was no telling what Rakitin might have done.

That was a lie. He knew exactly.

If a man like that could look at him, see him, acknowledge for the least moment in the basest way that Ippolit existed, then, for that moment, Ippolit could believe it.

He had believed that, once.

Look how well that turned out, Polya thought sardonically.

The living evidence of that should be along any minute now.

Better to face it head on, on ground of his choosing, than to wait until he lost the illusion of courage anger provided.

Polya slipped behind one of the huge, rectangular steel crates that seemed to be all over the base. He had no idea what they were for. It was like the place was specifically designed for people to sneak around.

Soon enough, he heard footsteps approaching, and their owner passed by into view.

He really was following him. Absolutely shameless.

From behind, before he could lose the chance, Polya moved quickly out from the shadow and grabbed Utrov by the arm.

Rakitin wasn't the kind given to casual pats on the back, arms around the shoulders, or grabs of any sort. He didn't often touch people at all, really.

Still he thought it unusual how quickly Utrov faced him, and the moment before recognition dimmed his eyes made Ippolit pull his hand back before thought could form.

No way now but forward.

"What in the hell did you think you were doing?" Rakitin demanded.

Utrov stared at him, mind shifting gears visibly in his dark, flat eyes.

“I don't see how that's any of your business.”

Polya gritted his teeth. “You're following me, and you're not going to let it drop. That makes it my business.”

Utrov moved forward. Rakitin stood his ground, though the proximity was quickly uncomfortable.

His voice lowered. “Not going to let what drop?”

Exasperation gripped Polya firmly by the brainstem. “Is that what you want? I'll acknowledge it. Yes, I know you, yes, I've fucked you, and yes, if I'd realized you were going to insist on suicidally provoking my partner over it, I would have known better.”

Utrov crossed his arms and gave him a long, level stare.

He was shorter than Polya. Rakitin hadn't noticed that before.

“The pompous bastard got on my nerves,” he said. “That's all.”

(cont.)