you give me so much faith in the police force, and by that i mean no faith at all. anyway he'll drive me by mcdonald's, do you want me to bring you something?
Rat from behind iced cream machine. [ see? he's learning to make non-morbid jokes! ]
[ he'd really rather not eat from a place that treats the workers so egregiously, but it doesn't seem that there are any options for pre-prepared food in america at all that don't do similar things, and after a 14-hour shift he doesn't feel like getting to his feet and cooking. so he follows up with a more serious reply: ]
Only if it is not too much trouble. I would like hamburger with cheese and medium French fries. Thank you Flora
[ because really, someone being nice enough to go out of their way to bring him food is remarkable, and he doesn't exactly have many friends here. ]
Duly noted! Also Officer Milk-Eye sends his kind regards.
βͺ she'll go for a milkshake for sure, so no doubt she will bring him one. they're also good to dip fries in, so it's like an all-american-double-whammy.
that said, it's not long until she arrives in what can only be described as the worst-most part of town. she rings the downstairs doorbell to let him know she's heading up, and then knows -β three times, like a pattern, to let him know immediately who it is standing in the hallway with three whole bags of mcgoodness.
... hoping he opens before the scent attracts his neighbours.β«
Privyet!
βͺ alright, her duolingo-russian doesn't take her much further yet, but she's making an effort.β«
Milkeye sounds like another of your Bond villains.
[ vasiliy keeps an eye on the news as he listens for the doorbell and subsequent sound of footsteps in the stairwell. he's expecting a guest, he recognizes the pattern, he recognizes the voice β and yet, when flora announces her presence (very obviously, which doesn't go unnoticed), he still could swear he feels his blood pressure rise. vasiliy slides open the single drawer of the end table beside him and retrieves the gun hidden beneath a few pieces of unwanted mail, tucking it into his waistband and masking it with his shirt as he gets up from the couch. he and his colleagues had emulated rituals far more elaborate than patterns of knocking or voices, and the hour does nothing to smooth down his nerves. he peers through the peephole to confirm it's only her, then undoes several locks and opens the door.
[ he greets her with a broad smile and outstretches his arms in an invitation for an embrace as he steps to the side. ] Flora! Your pronunciation is very good.
If he was, he would wear a suit in a cow-pattern and have the most Wisconsin of accents.
βͺ once arrived, she listens for the tell-tale clicking of his numerous locks and chains. the first time she'd visited, he'd pulled a gun on her. by now, she knows the gun is still present, but she doesn't mind. he's seen some shit. he's been through hell and back. as long as it can ease his mind, that's all she really wants.
once he greets her β with a compliment, at that, which makes her blush redder than her hair ββ sets the mcdondalds baggies down as carefully as she can, and then practically flies into his arms, burying her face against his chest and making a happy little fox-chirp in the back of her throat. it's involuntary, that, but it means comfort and excitement at seeing him.
her voice is a bit muffled for it, but he'll hear her just fine. β«
I've been thinking of evening the playing field a bit. It's not fair to make you learn my language, not if I'm not even making an effort to learn yours. I got a practice book while thrifting, too!
[ it's such a nice thing to do - what with the delay in his own formal education he can certainly appreciate that russian is a difficult language, and it's not as though there's much personal benefit to be had from learning russian in america. flora's very caring for someone from a capitalist country, with a lot more focus on the greater good, on the wellbeing of others, than her peers. some of it undoubtedly has to do with having been homeless β such things tend to require a dependence on the collective most americans do not experience, from what he's observed over the past year. ]
[ as he steps back and motions for her to sit on the understuffed curbside futon: ] I would help but am told that I "speak like old man." [ vasiliy says it with humor, but it's true. probably because he's from the same generation as some of russia's oldest elderly. or at least in that range, seeing as he'd be 119 this year, not 33, had he survived. ]
I can however teach you profanity. Some things, they do not change. Russians hate bad driver.
βͺ there is no feeling in the world flora knows as well as she does loneliness, and... she rather thinks they have had that one in abundance β and in common. there must be a different type of loneliness to his life, of course, having found himself as displaced as this. whatever she can do to alleviate that feeling, she will. β«
Eh, I'll mostly be talking to you anyway. Might as well talk like a Russian granny.
βͺ she nudges him. β«
But I'll take the profanity lessons. I bet there's some creative English ones you haven't heard yet, either.
βͺ she picks up the mcdonalds bags and joins him on the futon β much like she does, he's made a life out of the things that can be found abandoned. his first thrift shop experience was hella fun to witness. she tears up one of the bags to use it as an improvised table-cloth to protect the side-table from some of the grease, and begins to unpack the food. β«
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no subject
you give me so much faith in the police force, and by that i mean no faith at all. anyway he'll drive me by mcdonald's, do you want me to bring you something?
no subject
[ he'd really rather not eat from a place that treats the workers so egregiously, but it doesn't seem that there are any options for pre-prepared food in america at all that don't do similar things, and after a 14-hour shift he doesn't feel like getting to his feet and cooking. so he follows up with a more serious reply: ]
Only if it is not too much trouble. I would like hamburger with cheese and medium French fries. Thank you Flora
[ because really, someone being nice enough to go out of their way to bring him food is remarkable, and he doesn't exactly have many friends here. ]
no subject
it's totally fine! we can hang out and eat together. :D if you'd like. would you like anything to drink? also, what kind of sauces?
βͺ flora is typing... β«
never mind, i'm getting all of then. and nuggets, so we can sample them all!
no subject
[ he still feels wrong drinking it, openly consumed in petrogradβst. petersburgβas it may now be. ]
no subject
βͺ she'll go for a milkshake for sure, so no doubt she will bring him one. they're also good to dip fries in, so it's like an all-american-double-whammy.
that said, it's not long until she arrives in what can only be described as the worst-most part of town. she rings the downstairs doorbell to let him know she's heading up, and then knows -β three times, like a pattern, to let him know immediately who it is standing in the hallway with three whole bags of mcgoodness.
... hoping he opens before the scent attracts his neighbours.β«
Privyet!
βͺ alright, her duolingo-russian doesn't take her much further yet, but she's making an effort.β«
no subject
[ vasiliy keeps an eye on the news as he listens for the doorbell and subsequent sound of footsteps in the stairwell. he's expecting a guest, he recognizes the pattern, he recognizes the voice β and yet, when flora announces her presence (very obviously, which doesn't go unnoticed), he still could swear he feels his blood pressure rise. vasiliy slides open the single drawer of the end table beside him and retrieves the gun hidden beneath a few pieces of unwanted mail, tucking it into his waistband and masking it with his shirt as he gets up from the couch. he and his colleagues had emulated rituals far more elaborate than patterns of knocking or voices, and the hour does nothing to smooth down his nerves. he peers through the peephole to confirm it's only her, then undoes several locks and opens the door.
[ he greets her with a broad smile and outstretches his arms in an invitation for an embrace as he steps to the side. ] Flora! Your pronunciation is very good.
no subject
βͺ once arrived, she listens for the tell-tale clicking of his numerous locks and chains. the first time she'd visited, he'd pulled a gun on her. by now, she knows the gun is still present, but she doesn't mind. he's seen some shit. he's been through hell and back. as long as it can ease his mind, that's all she really wants.
once he greets her β with a compliment, at that, which makes her blush redder than her hair ββ sets the mcdondalds baggies down as carefully as she can, and then practically flies into his arms, burying her face against his chest and making a happy little fox-chirp in the back of her throat. it's involuntary, that, but it means comfort and excitement at seeing him.
her voice is a bit muffled for it, but he'll hear her just fine. β«
I've been thinking of evening the playing field a bit. It's not fair to make you learn my language, not if I'm not even making an effort to learn yours. I got a practice book while thrifting, too!
no subject
[ as he steps back and motions for her to sit on the understuffed curbside futon: ] I would help but am told that I "speak like old man." [ vasiliy says it with humor, but it's true. probably because he's from the same generation as some of russia's oldest elderly. or at least in that range, seeing as he'd be 119 this year, not 33, had he survived. ]
I can however teach you profanity. Some things, they do not change. Russians hate bad driver.
no subject
Eh, I'll mostly be talking to you anyway. Might as well talk like a Russian granny.
βͺ she nudges him. β«
But I'll take the profanity lessons. I bet there's some creative English ones you haven't heard yet, either.
βͺ she picks up the mcdonalds bags and joins him on the futon β much like she does, he's made a life out of the things that can be found abandoned. his first thrift shop experience was hella fun to witness. she tears up one of the bags to use it as an improvised table-cloth to protect the side-table from some of the grease, and begins to unpack the food. β«