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Jan. 19th, 2009 02:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taras_olekseiTaras paused in front of Liadov's office.
He was on his way back from the gym, after a good, hard workout. He wore his black tank and a pair of loose pants, and had a towel draped around his neck.
He'd gotten some stares and sidelong glances in the gym, soldiers who eyed his tattoos. Taras supposed that the worst ones were covered, but even just his bare arms and shoulders were enough to hint at his criminal resume, especially the barbed wire around his biceps, and snake and dagger on his forearm. Those said enough.
Taras hadn't been intending show any overt sign that he'd been up north, not in front of civilized people, but after the scene between Lasha and Liadov in the mess hall that morning, he figured the soldiers needed to see that the Ministry employed more than fancy pricks whose idea of fighting was rubbing up against a wall and grabbing each other's arms. And besides, all that whispering had been a little queer.
He felt good. Energized, muscles thrumming with energy to spare. It had been a while since he'd had a proper workout. Not since before he'd arrived. He'd hit the weights and kettlebells, and done some calisthenics. Now he could have a shower and a snack, and call it a night.
Taras eyed Liadov's door.
The fucker was probably gone by now, off to mess, off to bed, whatever he did when he wasn't stalking through the halls and pounding on people's doors. Maybe at the pathologist's lab. But then again, Liadov worked some strange hours.
Taras couldn't hear anything in particular beyond the door. He stood there for a few more moments, wondering if he should just break in again, but there was no point if no one was inside. He was about to turn away when he heard a noise.
It was soft, but had the particular ring of struck glass. Taras frowned. He hesitated for another moment, then knocked on the door, not loud, but polite.
He was on his way back from the gym, after a good, hard workout. He wore his black tank and a pair of loose pants, and had a towel draped around his neck.
He'd gotten some stares and sidelong glances in the gym, soldiers who eyed his tattoos. Taras supposed that the worst ones were covered, but even just his bare arms and shoulders were enough to hint at his criminal resume, especially the barbed wire around his biceps, and snake and dagger on his forearm. Those said enough.
Taras hadn't been intending show any overt sign that he'd been up north, not in front of civilized people, but after the scene between Lasha and Liadov in the mess hall that morning, he figured the soldiers needed to see that the Ministry employed more than fancy pricks whose idea of fighting was rubbing up against a wall and grabbing each other's arms. And besides, all that whispering had been a little queer.
He felt good. Energized, muscles thrumming with energy to spare. It had been a while since he'd had a proper workout. Not since before he'd arrived. He'd hit the weights and kettlebells, and done some calisthenics. Now he could have a shower and a snack, and call it a night.
Taras eyed Liadov's door.
The fucker was probably gone by now, off to mess, off to bed, whatever he did when he wasn't stalking through the halls and pounding on people's doors. Maybe at the pathologist's lab. But then again, Liadov worked some strange hours.
Taras couldn't hear anything in particular beyond the door. He stood there for a few more moments, wondering if he should just break in again, but there was no point if no one was inside. He was about to turn away when he heard a noise.
It was soft, but had the particular ring of struck glass. Taras frowned. He hesitated for another moment, then knocked on the door, not loud, but polite.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 05:45 pm (UTC)"All right. I want you to know who I am."
It was right, he thought. Because of Lasha.
He wondered if anything inked on his skin would surprise Liadov, or give him pause. Lasha had named him a murderer in front of Liadov, upon their first official meeting, and Taras had not denied it. Knowing that did not give Liadov pause now, and for a man like him, there could not be many things that were worse.
Taras supposed he would find out.
He gazed at Liadov for a few moments, watching thoughts flicker behind his low-lidded gaze. Liadov looked relaxed, clearly sated, maybe almost amused. This was Liadov with his guard down, with no resentment or ire.
It reminded Taras of the Zone, and the way that pacts and promises were made.
There was no bloodletting to seal oaths. Instead, men made their deals in the aftermath of orgasm, and consecrated them in the mixing of their seed.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised his hand, and brushed his fingers through the thick forelock that fell across Liadov's face, just enough to uncover a half-hidden eye. The motion felt strange, like the way he would touch Lasha, but he carried it through.
His brow thickened, drawing low.
"Are you going to come to Leningrad?" he asked, quietly, letting his voice carry the weight the question deserved. "Or are you going to fight it?"