[ It's all familiar in a way that imbues his throat with an unexpected tightness: the slump to Harding's shoulders, the increased reflectivity of his eyes, the shaking hands. If he were passing this man in one of the endless cement corridors beneath the Lubyanka, Vasiliy would recognize it as his moment to collect himself after witnessing torture for the first time, or administering it, or otherwise doing something he never would have done aboveground. But Harding's not in the Cheka or the NKVD or the KGB, and he's not a newcomer. He's a local policeman in a town that he, Vasiliy, knows nothing about. That doesn't necessarily eliminate the possibility that Harding just remembered himself after doing something horrendous, butβit could also be that he saw something, that he knows something about the outlook for the missing.
Vasiliy doesn't mention any of those things, not yet. Harding's already in the place that he would have wanted a prisoner in, back then, but he's likely to lash out at the slightest provocation and he's very much in the man's metaphorical striking range. He needs to let this cool off, let him decompress. He'll talk when or if he's in the mood to talk.
He takes a cigarette for himself before returning the box to his breast pocket and produces a Zippo from one of the many pockets on his utility pants. He lights his own first, then holds it out with no comment, the small blue flame still wavering above his motionless hand. ]
No problem. [ a beat. ] You have had long day.
[ It's a plain statement, not the sort of conversation starter a therapist might use (or at least, the type that the ones on American television would)βan observation of truth and a justification of a favor before he lapses back into silence, based in everything that's been going on, not in anything he saw. He doesn't have a right to this man's emotions, doesn't have the right to demand that he present himself for vivisection. ]
it's no problem at all! also love the little details in that tag
Vasiliy doesn't mention any of those things, not yet. Harding's already in the place that he would have wanted a prisoner in, back then, but he's likely to lash out at the slightest provocation and he's very much in the man's metaphorical striking range. He needs to let this cool off, let him decompress. He'll talk when or if he's in the mood to talk.
He takes a cigarette for himself before returning the box to his breast pocket and produces a Zippo from one of the many pockets on his utility pants. He lights his own first, then holds it out with no comment, the small blue flame still wavering above his motionless hand. ]
No problem. [ a beat. ] You have had long day.
[ It's a plain statement, not the sort of conversation starter a therapist might use (or at least, the type that the ones on American television would)βan observation of truth and a justification of a favor before he lapses back into silence, based in everything that's been going on, not in anything he saw. He doesn't have a right to this man's emotions, doesn't have the right to demand that he present himself for vivisection. ]