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taras_olekseiThey walked in icy silence back to the north wing.
Overhead, the clouds were dark.
A wind had picked up, cold and biting, tugging at their caps, ruffling the papers in Taras' arms. Isaev led the way with effortless long strides, cutting through the wind like a shark through water, gaze hard and grey, focused on what was ahead. He did not look in Taras' direction, not once.
After a few moments, Taras narrowed his eyes and looked away.
Emotions stirred deep in his gut, like wild things battering themselves uselessly against bars, hungry to be unleashed.
He replayed the encounter with Liadov in his mind as they walked.
Lasha had known that Liadov would be there, Taras was certain. There was no other explanation for Ilarion's cool demeanor and cooler words, not when the mere mention of Liadov's name usually sent Lasha into pained, frostbitten silence, like he was now.
Ilarion pushed open the door with a dismissive motion, like he was flinging away something distasteful.
They had been assigned a workspace earlier that morning. It was a far cry from the offices they enjoyed in Leningrad, the solid hardwood desks and leather chairs, tasteful paintings on the walls, long windows with the views out over the canals and historic cathedrals.
Here, the walls were plain white and brick, and the office space simply that - a open room with high windows that faced another concrete building opposite. There were two small desks that were more like tables, formica tops and steel legs, and one actual table with a few slender chairs on either side.
Anya looked up as they came in. She was sitting at the long table.
Taras saw that in their absence, she had done what she could to make the space more functional. Blotters and pen sets had been placed on the desks, along with a few other office supplies. Somehow, she must have found a small potted plant, and arranged it carefully, like a centerpiece.
She stood up, smiling. "Hello, Major, Captain. I..."
Anya hesitated, looking at their faces.
Taras dropped Rakitin's paperwork down on the table carelessly, with a loud thump.
"The office is ready for your use," she said, briskly professional now. "Shall I get some tea?"
Overhead, the clouds were dark.
A wind had picked up, cold and biting, tugging at their caps, ruffling the papers in Taras' arms. Isaev led the way with effortless long strides, cutting through the wind like a shark through water, gaze hard and grey, focused on what was ahead. He did not look in Taras' direction, not once.
After a few moments, Taras narrowed his eyes and looked away.
Emotions stirred deep in his gut, like wild things battering themselves uselessly against bars, hungry to be unleashed.
He replayed the encounter with Liadov in his mind as they walked.
Lasha had known that Liadov would be there, Taras was certain. There was no other explanation for Ilarion's cool demeanor and cooler words, not when the mere mention of Liadov's name usually sent Lasha into pained, frostbitten silence, like he was now.
Ilarion pushed open the door with a dismissive motion, like he was flinging away something distasteful.
They had been assigned a workspace earlier that morning. It was a far cry from the offices they enjoyed in Leningrad, the solid hardwood desks and leather chairs, tasteful paintings on the walls, long windows with the views out over the canals and historic cathedrals.
Here, the walls were plain white and brick, and the office space simply that - a open room with high windows that faced another concrete building opposite. There were two small desks that were more like tables, formica tops and steel legs, and one actual table with a few slender chairs on either side.
Anya looked up as they came in. She was sitting at the long table.
Taras saw that in their absence, she had done what she could to make the space more functional. Blotters and pen sets had been placed on the desks, along with a few other office supplies. Somehow, she must have found a small potted plant, and arranged it carefully, like a centerpiece.
She stood up, smiling. "Hello, Major, Captain. I..."
Anya hesitated, looking at their faces.
Taras dropped Rakitin's paperwork down on the table carelessly, with a loud thump.
"The office is ready for your use," she said, briskly professional now. "Shall I get some tea?"
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-15 10:25 pm (UTC)"Yeah, I guess that's enough. Ironic."
He watched Isaev for a few more moments, finally deciding nothing really was wrong. Taras wandered back to where he'd scattered the reports and picked up a few, at random.
Ilarion had eliminated the decision making about choosing which desk to use, so Taras took the other one.
"Sedition, huh. Yeah, those political types usually don't last too long. Especially if that was, what, fifteen, sixteen years ago? The way you hear the old timers tell it, Magadan was a dacha by the time I got there. Not like how it was before."
He shrugged, and opened the first report, though he didn't really look at it.
Taras sat back in his chair. The hard metal frame was unyielding, a world away from plush leather. It would be an adjustment.
It was funny, he thought, how you got used to having nice things.
After a moment, he looked back at Isaev.
The corner of Ilarion's mouth curved upward, as if he were still blackly amused by the whole arrangement.
Taras chuckled, finally just standing up so he could flip the chair and straddle it.
"Guess he must not know, or else he'd probably hold it against Andrusha."