Ilarion reacted belatedly to the check of Oleksei's broad shoulder, turning his head slowly to follow his retreat.
"Make sure it's cold," he said, quietly.
The door slammed behind Taras, and Lasha slowly sank down onto his heels, rubbing his brow briefly.
He sat there for several seconds, cossack-crouched, watching the dancer's body in its silent sprawl, bathed in weak light from the singular bulb overhead.
"There's nothing I can do to you now," he whispered, his tone colorless and deceptive as liquor, harboring a bite in the taste. "Nothing that hasn't been done to you."
It didn't matter what he said. The dancer was unconscious, and likely to remain that way for a while.
He hoped Oleksei hadn't rattled his cage free of its stand.
Fucking Taras, getting carried away. Or was he just that good, that it looked this convincing?
Isaev snorted.
"No one can fake a coma with his fist, can he," he murmured, sighing.
In the next moment, Ilarion's eyes caught the stirring of the dancer's fingertips, and he raised his gaze, alert.
The dancer shifted slightly, wincing, turning his head slowly in his direction.
"Kommissar," he said, faintly.
Lasha's mouth tightened, grim.
"Da," he said, softly, "Da, I'm back now."
His voice was unwittingly dipping into a low, sueded tone, like the one he used to speak to Andrei when he'd fought and dispatched that haughty French prick, like the one he'd used to soothe Liadov after a fucking sugar fit.
The dancer opened his eyes, slowly, as Lasha carefully drove strands of hair away from them, fingers mechanical and intent. Not unsoft, just efficient.
"...You took it well. Tougher men have wept at the end of his arm."
Merkurii was quiet as he sat up, oriented himself, not daring to engage his acquaintance, now that his reason was trickling back.
"You told him..."
Lasha laid a finger to his lips.
"Some things I can get away with. But not you."
Merkurii nodded, listlessly.
"Ya snayu...da, ya snayu."
"We've done our part. It's over."
The dancer caught and held his gaze.
"Spasiba, kommissar," he whispered, reaching up to grasp Ilarion's lapel.
"Don't thank me," said Lasha, eyes narrowing.
His fingers slipped downward, weakly, catching the buckle of Ilarion's belt.
"I don't want your gratitude," said Lasha.
"Take what your comrade didn't."
"Did he disconnect your head?" hissed Ilarion, repulsed. "I find no pleasure in that."
The dancer took his hand and pressed it against his face, almost hiding, like a child.
"Then comfort me."
It was almost a command, and Ilarion blanched, taken aback.
"You're not right," he intoned. "Close your eyes and sleep it off."
The dancer's hazel eyes raised, lucid with what Ilarion could not believe was hunger.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-15 08:48 pm (UTC)"Make sure it's cold," he said, quietly.
The door slammed behind Taras, and Lasha slowly sank down onto his heels, rubbing his brow briefly.
He sat there for several seconds, cossack-crouched, watching the dancer's body in its silent sprawl, bathed in weak light from the singular bulb overhead.
"There's nothing I can do to you now," he whispered, his tone colorless and deceptive as liquor, harboring a bite in the taste. "Nothing that hasn't been done to you."
It didn't matter what he said. The dancer was unconscious, and likely to remain that way for a while.
He hoped Oleksei hadn't rattled his cage free of its stand.
Fucking Taras, getting carried away. Or was he just that good, that it looked this convincing?
Isaev snorted.
"No one can fake a coma with his fist, can he," he murmured, sighing.
In the next moment, Ilarion's eyes caught the stirring of the dancer's fingertips, and he raised his gaze, alert.
The dancer shifted slightly, wincing, turning his head slowly in his direction.
"Kommissar," he said, faintly.
Lasha's mouth tightened, grim.
"Da," he said, softly, "Da, I'm back now."
His voice was unwittingly dipping into a low, sueded tone, like the one he used to speak to Andrei when he'd fought and dispatched that haughty French prick, like the one he'd used to soothe Liadov after a fucking sugar fit.
The dancer opened his eyes, slowly, as Lasha carefully drove strands of hair away from them, fingers mechanical and intent. Not unsoft, just efficient.
"...You took it well. Tougher men have wept at the end of his arm."
Merkurii was quiet as he sat up, oriented himself, not daring to engage his acquaintance, now that his reason was trickling back.
"You told him..."
Lasha laid a finger to his lips.
"Some things I can get away with. But not you."
Merkurii nodded, listlessly.
"Ya snayu...da, ya snayu."
"We've done our part. It's over."
The dancer caught and held his gaze.
"Spasiba, kommissar," he whispered, reaching up to grasp Ilarion's lapel.
"Don't thank me," said Lasha, eyes narrowing.
His fingers slipped downward, weakly, catching the buckle of Ilarion's belt.
"I don't want your gratitude," said Lasha.
"Take what your comrade didn't."
"Did he disconnect your head?" hissed Ilarion, repulsed. "I find no pleasure in that."
The dancer took his hand and pressed it against his face, almost hiding, like a child.
"Then comfort me."
It was almost a command, and Ilarion blanched, taken aback.
"You're not right," he intoned. "Close your eyes and sleep it off."
The dancer's hazel eyes raised, lucid with what Ilarion could not believe was hunger.
"Fucking MENT...You owe me at least that much."