Andrei lay on his bunk, staring up at the bottom of Ilya's, where he'd carefully tacked the target with its deliberate grouping of hasty cyrillic.
Even some time later, he was no less impressed. Nor any less moved by the intent that drove Irinarhov to carve out his apology in metal and paper.
He reached up, frowning, tracing the low, ragged edge of a bullet hole with his finger. Following the topography of Irinarhov's skill.
He could trace the muscles of the sniper's trigger arm the same way, Andrei thought. Raw and wrought in bursts of violence, remnants of a barrage of a life.
But not...unpleasant. No. In fact...
Andrei snipped the thread of his thoughts, glancing outside through the window across the room.
It was almost five o clock and the last of the mountain light was fading outside. The four bed barrack was deserted; Senior Lieutenants Kolyin and Semeyonev kept the duty opposite from Imanov and he, and Ilya was indisposed, as Andrei knew all too well. If he chanced to forget, he was reminded by the silence.
He'd tried to stop by the infirmary on his way back to the barrack. Khostov had refused him entry, saying that Ilya needed his rest, and that exposure should be avoided until his fever went down. He'd persisted, even going so far as to lean into Khostov's personal space, which should have given the slender Doctor pause, as an Ocelot could be physically intimidating when he was inclined- but the chilly man perservered.
No visitors. Come back tomorrow, when your friend isn't running a fever of 106 and delusional.
Andrei had failed in finding Matvei, so far, but figured he would hear him if he appeared. The Junior Ocelot Lieutenants were housed in the room next door. Charushkin's bunk abutted the wall on the other side of his and Ilya's.
Parallel to his own, actually.
Sometimes they amused themselves by knocking quietly on the wall in morse. He always tapped out good morning to Makno, without fail, and usually good night, unless he was distracted or unable.
He practiced tapping out an apology, knowing the room was empty. The sound resonated hollowly, softly, and he settled back, hands behind his head, his gaze falling once more on the target sheet, and his thoughts falling back to the Captain's dark and solemn gaze.
Early moonlight scattered across the floor.
Any moment now, he thought, I'll turn on the lamps.
He lacked the ambition at the moment, but that could change.
These occasional odd moments of contemplative silence were still strange to him, after so may years in the constant company of comrades. As he got promoted up the officer scale, his rankmates became fewer, and the lodgings became more rarified- Ilya and he nearly had this room to themselves, as their counterparts kept diametrically opposed hours.
However, even silence with Ilya in the room, reading or sleeping, or lying quietly, like he was now, felt inhabited.
This felt like solitude, nothing more.
Irinarhov, he supposed, had an entire room to himself, as they had no other Ocelot holding the rank of Captain. That was good luck on the sniper's part. Andrei thought Irinarhov would probably prefer it that way.
Andrei wasn't yet sure if it suited him- maybe he really hated the silence, or maybe merely missed his comrades more than usual because of the unpleasantness of the day.
He wondered which side of the officers' barracks Irinarhov had been assigned to.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2006-09-05 04:58 am (UTC)Even some time later, he was no less impressed. Nor any less moved by the intent that drove Irinarhov to carve out his apology in metal and paper.
He reached up, frowning, tracing the low, ragged edge of a bullet hole with his finger. Following the topography of Irinarhov's skill.
He could trace the muscles of the sniper's trigger arm the same way, Andrei thought. Raw and wrought in bursts of violence, remnants of a barrage of a life.
But not...unpleasant. No. In fact...
Andrei snipped the thread of his thoughts, glancing outside through the window across the room.
It was almost five o clock and the last of the mountain light was fading outside. The four bed barrack was deserted; Senior Lieutenants Kolyin and Semeyonev kept the duty opposite from Imanov and he, and Ilya was indisposed, as Andrei knew all too well. If he chanced to forget, he was reminded by the silence.
He'd tried to stop by the infirmary on his way back to the barrack. Khostov had refused him entry, saying that Ilya needed his rest, and that exposure should be avoided until his fever went down. He'd persisted, even going so far as to lean into Khostov's personal space, which should have given the slender Doctor pause, as an Ocelot could be physically intimidating when he was inclined- but the chilly man perservered.
No visitors. Come back tomorrow, when your friend isn't running a fever of 106 and delusional.
Andrei had failed in finding Matvei, so far, but figured he would hear him if he appeared. The Junior Ocelot Lieutenants were housed in the room next door. Charushkin's bunk abutted the wall on the other side of his and Ilya's.
Parallel to his own, actually.
Sometimes they amused themselves by knocking quietly on the wall in morse. He always tapped out good morning to Makno, without fail, and usually good night, unless he was distracted or unable.
He practiced tapping out an apology, knowing the room was empty. The sound resonated hollowly, softly, and he settled back, hands behind his head, his gaze falling once more on the target sheet, and his thoughts falling back to the Captain's dark and solemn gaze.
Early moonlight scattered across the floor.
Any moment now, he thought, I'll turn on the lamps.
He lacked the ambition at the moment, but that could change.
These occasional odd moments of contemplative silence were still strange to him, after so may years in the constant company of comrades. As he got promoted up the officer scale, his rankmates became fewer, and the lodgings became more rarified- Ilya and he nearly had this room to themselves, as their counterparts kept diametrically opposed hours.
However, even silence with Ilya in the room, reading or sleeping, or lying quietly, like he was now, felt inhabited.
This felt like solitude, nothing more.
Irinarhov, he supposed, had an entire room to himself, as they had no other Ocelot holding the rank of Captain. That was good luck on the sniper's part. Andrei thought Irinarhov would probably prefer it that way.
Andrei wasn't yet sure if it suited him- maybe he really hated the silence, or maybe merely missed his comrades more than usual because of the unpleasantness of the day.
He wondered which side of the officers' barracks Irinarhov had been assigned to.