Room 307

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

It was just starting to mist rain as the cosmonaut reached the side door of the East Wing.

The front door was far too obvious. Volgin lingered there, near the offices, never doing anything more productive than brooding and scowling at the houseplants.

The Fury cursed at the weather as he stepped into the deserted hallway; nature was a spiteful bitch, an entire hour of his day was wasted polishing his helmet, ruined by water spots and streaks.

It was almost enough to ruin his entire day, and even the good mood he found himself in after pointless banter earlier with the Fear.

Raining, again. Miserable.

Maybe the Sorrow finally realized Voyevoda had come home…

In an unexpected gesture of good nature that surprised even himself, The Fury allowed a guard to pass on the other side of the narrow stairway with only a glare. There were more important things to worry about than harassing common soldiers… like the fact that Voyevoda had finally come home, or the troubling lack of orders she left them with.

Voices echoed through the deserted building, and the cosmonaut stopped for a moment, content to listen. Dull murmurs, distorted by the cavernous hallway. Granin and Volgin. Nothing of importance.

Shaking his head, he continued on to the makeshift laboratory he claimed as his own.

Granin. What a fucking lunatic. It was impossible to respect a man who searched for hope in the bottoms of vodka bottles.

In spite of his mood, the Fury smirked as he turned on the light and surveyed the scene -- the damaged hovercraft near the window, parts and tools strewn around haphazardly, papers and books heaping in piles on the floor.

Organization had never been his forte, but the cluttered laboratory was a welcome and familiar sight. No one would bother him here, except for Krasnogorje soldiers coming in for repairs, and those like-minded men were never a bother.

It was the red scarf coiled in a crumpled heap on the heavy metal desk near the far corner of that made him smile as he removed his helmet and slipped the heavy jet pack from his shoulders, easing it to the floor.

The lunatic wasn’t quite sure what to think of its owner, but as he set to work repairing the damaged craft, he almost hoped the Ocelot Senior Lieutenant would be along soon to collect his scarf.

It seemed out of place amidst the scattered papers and blueprints. The scarf was far too cheerful. Too flammable.

The kid was interesting to talk to, at least. He didn’t cower away like the rest of them, and didn’t give in to his temper, even when provoked.

And hell, the cosmonaut mused, pulling scorched wires free of the hover craft’s interior, even Raikov would have made better diversion than agonizing over the possible details of The Joy’s secret mission.

Comments

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev paused, blinking.

He caught sight of the crimson scarf, and reached for it, plucking it from the smothering table and pulling it out like a snake. The relief of holding it again was an absent afterthought, as the Fury's words made him contemplative.

"That's...a very good question, isn't it?"

Andrei paused, then smiled bemusedly.

"I don't rightly know. I shouldn't trust you, by apocryphal accounts, of course..." he glanced up, regarding the cosmonaut carefully. "And yet...I feel you've given me no reason not to. After all, you're not one to gild the lily, comrade. Even when you plan to stomp on it."

He ran the scarf through his hands. Ilya's scarf. It felt good. The wool was soft and carded.

"I suppose I could still fear you, even if I trusted you...but the thing is- it seems contraindicated. I like you, comrade. You aren't a shell."

It was honestly said.

The Fury was not pretending to be anything, and had never been anything but civil to him.

"Why, even your death threats are unfailingly polite," said Andrei with a grin. "And I suppose I came because I was welcome."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Aren't I?"