majorbonerkiller | FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

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FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

Well Ivan certainly didn't remember leaving the door to his apartment wide open, just beckoning squatters to come shit on his carpet--or even worse, eat his food.

Not that they weren't all squatters here anyway. Ivan crouched down near the door frame, pulling out his tranquilizer gun. He peered over the threshold, and took a chance, hoping his dog was still here--and still alive.

"Galina! Here girl!"

When he heard the familiar patter and panting he sighed in relief, ruffling her ears when she was close enough, "Good girl." Curse himself for smiling at a time like this.

Slightly more confident now with his canine comrade, Ivan entered the dark apartment, keeping his footsteps quiet and his tranquilizer at the ready.

And he almost immediately tripped over his own dirty laundry, screaming in the process of mid-falling terror. Luckily his amazing acrobatic skills (catching himself on the dresser) came to the rescue.

Moving forward towards the center of the room Ivan could hear--breathing. He baited his breath, trying to hold back any instincts to just start shooting up the place. He was fueled by a sort of cocktail of terror and anger--how dare somebody come waltzing into his apartment thinking they own the goddamn place?!

He padded closer, towards the sounds of life--they must be on the couch, since he just knocked his knee on the coffee table and had to hiss in silent agony a moment before going on.

Finally steadying himself he located the perpetrator's head after several seconds (a whole minute of squinting) and pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, "Get up!"

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"About--huh?!" Ivan shouted as he unceremoniously hit the floor. Clambering up to a seated position, he shot a pouty, angry look at the Colonel.

Which only grew more so of the former.

"N-no, I--hey!" He shoved at Volgin's hand, face burning red with shame. His erection was quick to disappear.

"Hey--I said I train!"

"Not enough for your stomach," replied Volgin with a curled lip of obvious displeasure, still intent on pinching out the full extent of the damage. "I know how you much eat! I will get you back into shape myself if I have to!

"Clearly, you're not exercising properly."

(... Said the man who obviously had a preference for overbuilding his arms in relation to the rest of his body.)

"It's not that much--I don't eat that much!" He replied defensively, pulling his shirt down over his tummy and scooting away.

"I'm doing the same things I did at Groznyj Grad!" More or less.

"Then I will order you to expand your duties by cleaning this mess for a start!" the older man barked, his tone rising, the bare hand making a wide arc at the toilet paper snow scattered around them. "Maybe that will help with your weight problem!"

Never mind the slight softening of Volgin's own abdomen, the result of a months-long foray into the boring, sedentary lifestyle plague that accompanied the loss of his position in the Red Army (death was an inconvenience). Raikov would have found a touch more skin around the Colonel's gut if he tried for a grope himself; Yevgeny was as hypocritical and double standardizing as they came.

"What--no way, Yevgeny! This is your fault, if you don't remember!" he retaliated, shooing the flurry of white away from his face.

"And I--I don't have a weight problem!" He was utterly shocked and horrified, his mouth curved into a permanent, exaggerated frown. Then he jabbed at Volgin with a finger. "What about you, huh? You're looking rounder!"

He didn't know really, but he figured he'd just say something to try and offend the other man. In fact, he decided to emphasize his made-up point by groping at Volgin's stomach--only to find he was right. "You really are..."

Volgin, for a moment, looked shocked. His jaw hung. His teeth clicked when he snapped his mouth shut and furrowed his brow.

He really did not want to be reminded of-

Raikov's hand was sharply smacked away from his stomach. He did not need to know that!

"You should control your dog and keep her from getting into my things!" Volgin hotly countered. He was reaching for his satchel, to rummage about and see what else that damned husky got her teeth on.

Ivan pulled his hand back, rubbing where it now stung from the slap.

"Maybe you shouldn't steal my things and my dog wouldn't have anything to get into!" He was flustered again now, gritting his teeth.

"You come in here and you take my stuff, you break my table, and then you insult me and leave me hanging!"

Ivan wanted to pull out his hair in frustration and scream. And he did--except without pulling his hair out. So basically, he just screamed.

And tackled Volgin in an attempt to beat the living hell out of him.

It was a noble attempt, because Volgin was going to check through his bag and Raikov was not going to stop him.

Not only could the giant Soviet steel himself against the assault, he very well quickly was willing to end it with a harsh discharge utilizing the circuit made when both hands grabbed his person. It was enough to stun but not enough to really hurt the younger man in the long run.

Or so Volgin was intending.

He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, enough to ebb a little concern out of him despite his cultivated and various experiences involving the application of electrical current to warm, live human bodies.

And Ivan hadn't expected him to retaliate so swiftly. He'd wanted a fight, to bruise something but not necessarily get bruised in return.

But it seemed today wasn't the day to vent his anger as he let out a muffled yell bared behind gritted teeth; he was pushed off of Volgin from the jolt. It didn't really hurt him, more scared him than anything.

Although his limbs were shaking and the thin hair on the back of his hands and arms seemed to have singed off up to a point. He rose to his shaking legs once the most violent of his tremors wore off, and stormed to the bedroom to hide underneath the covers.

That static shocked him when he first tried to touch them. So he cried.

He should have known better, was Volgin's initial thought as Raikov recovered, then ran away. The whole time, he casually, indifferently surveyed the contents of his bag before slinging it around his large shoulder, toying with the thought of leaving.

Maybe.

Those trembling eyes tugged at a heart string that the giant thought he never could ever have. Those tiny whimpers he could catch bothered him, more than the usual curdling of pleasure as he flaked the tangy caking of blood off his knuckles before another go at shattering the poor fucker's worthless face.

He came to a realization:

He was bothered by this.

... He also hated being reminded that he was capable of some sympathy.

It really was hampering his original intent of getting the hell out of here, and out of the Nexus.

It was not long before Raikov could feel that bumbling monster's presence fill the room as he ducked his head upon entry.

Ivan sat on the floor, his back pressed against the bed and his knees drawn to his chest. Arms wrapped around them, face buried away.

His chest heaved as quietly as he could make it, but when Volgin entered the room Ivan sucked it up, wiping his face and climbing to his feet.

He headed for the door to leave.

Which involved the younger man trying to press past the wall in front of the doorway.

"Ivan," Volgin began, his voice soft. The authoritative barbs were lowered. "Where are you going?"

(He briefly checked the floor for any more additions to the toilet paper snowstorm.)

"To the kitchen," he replied with as much malice as he could muster into his voice; which wasn't much. Not with his eyes still wavering with tears.

He tried to push past Volgin before he could answer.

Surprisingly, he was able to shove the seven foot behemoth aside and continue along his way, even if Volgin was yielding.

He turned around, watching the other man's movements, tilting his head. On top of it all, the battered, scarred face was pulled into a noticeable frown.

And Ivan headed into the kitchen, ignoring the fading flurry.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a bowel, stuck it on the counter and started to eat the contents standing.

"It sure would be nice if I had a table," he verbally jabbed.

Volgin narrowed his eyes, bristling but remaining at the doorway.

"You could adapt and eat on the couch."

Ivan fell silent.

Remained silent as he moved over to the couch and sat down.

"Great, now there's nowhere to put a drink," he had to find something wrong. Had to.

"You don't have a drink," Volgin chuffed, maybe skimming an eye out for that offending dog.

"Shut up," he muttered back, concentrating on his food instead.

Oops. There might be a large Soviet joining Raikov on the couch, slowly going about it but his ass was very much pointing towards taking a seat near him.

Ivan shot him a look out of the corner of his eye and scooted to the far end of the couch. Away from Volgin.

This macaroni was delicious.

Alright, but that couch could not be too long, right?

Volgin watched Raikov eat for a few moments.

Then: A scoot.

Ivan tensed for a moment.

Then continued, eating faster this time.

A headtilt.

Scoot.

Another tense.

Ivan can't eat any faster.

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