[ Vasiliy knows in his very core that he would see this man for what he is even without the badge, the gun holstered on the same side of the body as his own. He's met what must be a million iterations of this man, all neatly lined up in his memory like ripples spreading outward from a central point.
Control.
He's not wearing his service jacket to the diner; he doesn't need to. As he lights his cigarette a few seats down, Vasiliy could swear he feels the cool metal of his uniform jacket's buttons under his fingertips for the first time in years: the gentle pull of the coarse fabric as he deliberately moved his gigline off-center, the smell of mildew, the release of pressure at the base of his throat as he undid his collar by two buttons, normally enough to be backhanded by a supervisor. How icy the door handles to the interrogation rooms always were against his fingers.
Look, he said, Harding said, I'm one of you. I'm not a threat.
He knows otherwise. The man's clearly a drunk, but so was everyone he worked with, really. Goes hand-in-hand, and it never made anyone less brutal. Point being: the slumped figure a mere few feet away decides if he lives or dies, and Vasiliy knows it.
He deliberately untenses his shoulders, removes some of the blankness from his faceβthese people see neutrality as aggression, generally speakingβand gets up, canting his head to one side, swallowing back his fear to greet an imagined coworker as an equal: upright, unafraid, every muscle in his body asserting that he's not prey. He reaches for the flask in the pocket of his jacket and holds it out. ]
through the other | diner | cw for nongraphic purge mentions + smoking, manipulative behavior
Control.
He's not wearing his service jacket to the diner; he doesn't need to. As he lights his cigarette a few seats down, Vasiliy could swear he feels the cool metal of his uniform jacket's buttons under his fingertips for the first time in years: the gentle pull of the coarse fabric as he deliberately moved his gigline off-center, the smell of mildew, the release of pressure at the base of his throat as he undid his collar by two buttons, normally enough to be backhanded by a supervisor. How icy the door handles to the interrogation rooms always were against his fingers.
Look, he said, Harding said, I'm one of you. I'm not a threat.
He knows otherwise. The man's clearly a drunk, but so was everyone he worked with, really. Goes hand-in-hand, and it never made anyone less brutal. Point being: the slumped figure a mere few feet away decides if he lives or dies, and Vasiliy knows it.
He deliberately untenses his shoulders, removes some of the blankness from his faceβthese people see neutrality as aggression, generally speakingβand gets up, canting his head to one side, swallowing back his fear to greet an imagined coworker as an equal: upright, unafraid, every muscle in his body asserting that he's not prey. He reaches for the flask in the pocket of his jacket and holds it out. ]
Hair of dog?