People appearing suddenly tends to happen in Milliways. Still, Esfir Shostakovna never really lost her Soviet Union induced paranoia, and having a highly adventurous seven-month-old baby around has only heightened it.
So, Michael has a tiny woman looking at him from her own table; expression mostly neutral, one eyebrow slightly raised, green eyes watchful, dark hair short, and one hand firmly holding onto the back of her son's jumpsuit.
Michael is used to people watching him, but he's also used to them at least pretending to be discreet about it. They also don't usually have children with them.
He looks back silently for a second before adressing her. "What?"
"Yeah," he answers, but it doesn't sound at all convincing.
Especially followed by the way he slumps against the table, rubbing his temples. He has to supress an urge to laugh. Now he's lying to his own subconcious. Hopefully this is his subconcious. He doesn't really want to consider the alternative.
It takes Michael a moment to recognize the voice, and an automatic denial is halfway out of his mouth before he looks up and just... stops. There are a lot of people he'd expect to see right now, whatever's going on here. Molokov is... well, probably on that list, but only under a hell of a lot of other names.
He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Just sits there, trying to calm himself down, and stares (not that he'd put it that way).
Yes, something is very clearly wrong. But good luck getting a coherent explination out at the moment.
Molokov kneels before Michael, carefully checking him over for anything untoward. His concern for the man overrides his sense of caution and he grips his shoulder.
Right. Talking -- he can do that. There's nothing to suggest he can't, anyway. It takes him the space of another breath, but he does speak.
"I don't know," he says quietly, answering the earlier question, but that's as far as he gets before something inside him snaps. Whether it's self-control, self-denial, or just sanity, he can't quite tell. Either way, he finds himself reaching out, gripping Molokov's shirt and pulling him closer.
If he's hallucinating, it doesn't matter what he does, because nobody else will know. And if he's dead.... Then he doesn't want to think about what comes next, but it still doesn't matter what he does, does it?
The kiss is hard, needy and brief, and he doesn't let go when he pulls back, his eyes closed and his hands still shaking a little once he loosens his grip.
Comments 27
So, Michael has a tiny woman looking at him from her own table; expression mostly neutral, one eyebrow slightly raised, green eyes watchful, dark hair short, and one hand firmly holding onto the back of her son's jumpsuit.
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He looks back silently for a second before adressing her. "What?"
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Especially followed by the way he slumps against the table, rubbing his temples. He has to supress an urge to laugh. Now he's lying to his own subconcious. Hopefully this is his subconcious. He doesn't really want to consider the alternative.
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"What is it? What's happened?"
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He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Just sits there, trying to calm himself down, and stares (not that he'd put it that way).
Yes, something is very clearly wrong. But good luck getting a coherent explination out at the moment.
Reply
"Michael, please. Talk to me."
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"I don't know," he says quietly, answering the earlier question, but that's as far as he gets before something inside him snaps. Whether it's self-control, self-denial, or just sanity, he can't quite tell. Either way, he finds himself reaching out, gripping Molokov's shirt and pulling him closer.
If he's hallucinating, it doesn't matter what he does, because nobody else will know. And if he's dead.... Then he doesn't want to think about what comes next, but it still doesn't matter what he does, does it?
The kiss is hard, needy and brief, and he doesn't let go when he pulls back, his eyes closed and his hands still shaking a little once he loosens his grip.
Reply
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