Ilarion's head raised, silently, swiftly, and he got to his feet, turning, frowning.
"What?"
He rubbed his jaw, absently, slow.
"What else does it say?"
The dancer was young, hardly older than he himself. Nika's age, thought Ilarion. He's Nika's age, exactly.
His gaze was drawn to the floor by movement.
Barshov was stirring, shifting, shaking his head as he tried to push himself upright.
Lasha cursed softly, exasperated at his attention being divided, glancing at Oleksei's frown and downcast eyes as he went to prop up the beaten dancer.
He bent down, seizing an arm to drape over his shoulders. Hauling the dazed man to his feet and easing him into the chair once more.
Barshov's eyes opened like a doll's and fell upon him, hazel and vulnerable.
"I'm okei," he said, like sorting glass.
Lasha avoided his gaze, looking to the side of his eyes.
"Comrade Barshov," he said, with textbook sobriety, and a bearing of presence that would have made Aleksandr radiate pride, "we are studying the possibility that there may have been a misapprehension. Captain Oleksei has kindly brought you some water. You should drink it."
The dancer looked at him for a long moment, and Ilarion blinked, bewildered, taken aback by the expression in his muted green eyes. Somehow, though he was largely insensate, he looked far more deeply wounded in that moment than he had looked, even, after bearing the brunt of Oleksei's meaty fists.
"My name," he mumbled, faintly, "is Barshai, kommissar. Merkurii...Adrikovich...Barshai."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 10:14 pm (UTC)"What?"
He rubbed his jaw, absently, slow.
"What else does it say?"
The dancer was young, hardly older than he himself. Nika's age, thought Ilarion. He's Nika's age, exactly.
His gaze was drawn to the floor by movement.
Barshov was stirring, shifting, shaking his head as he tried to push himself upright.
Lasha cursed softly, exasperated at his attention being divided, glancing at Oleksei's frown and downcast eyes as he went to prop up the beaten dancer.
He bent down, seizing an arm to drape over his shoulders. Hauling the dazed man to his feet and easing him into the chair once more.
Barshov's eyes opened like a doll's and fell upon him, hazel and vulnerable.
"I'm okei," he said, like sorting glass.
Lasha avoided his gaze, looking to the side of his eyes.
"Comrade Barshov," he said, with textbook sobriety, and a bearing of presence that would have made Aleksandr radiate pride, "we are studying the possibility that there may have been a misapprehension. Captain Oleksei has kindly brought you some water. You should drink it."
The dancer looked at him for a long moment, and Ilarion blinked, bewildered, taken aback by the expression in his muted green eyes. Somehow, though he was largely insensate, he looked far more deeply wounded in that moment than he had looked, even, after bearing the brunt of Oleksei's meaty fists.
"My name," he mumbled, faintly, "is Barshai, kommissar. Merkurii...Adrikovich...Barshai."