[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: forms, forms and more forms
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Sergeievich, Stas
Prompt: 40D "4:29 PM", interpreted as near the end of the work day
Word Count: 589
Notes: after new arrival, before glory's where you find it. Saints Boris and Gleb, brothers and princes, were martyred by their unconverted brother, but they're on the list of soldier-saints, so. =P
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A tapping noise was coming from his office door, gradually getting louder, until it became an irregular muffled pounding.
Ruslan paused in the middle of a word, squinted at the door, then at the clock pinned to a corner of the nearest mirror. If that was the quartermaster, he was a half-hour early to be whining about Ruslan continuing to occupy the office. If it was another captain, he should have called.
"Come in?" he said experimentally, and his newest lievtenant just about fell on his face as the door slid aside. He avoided it, though, took two quick steps forward and immediately dropped the fist he'd had raised to continue pounding on the door.
The door clicked closed.
Ruslan accepted the brief salute--Stanislav was lucky he wasn't a stickler for the official versions--then dropped his eyes, going back to the document before he could forget where he was and had to start over. Looking at his desk, "Did you need something, Stanislav?"
"I uh. I expected to find you asleep on your desk, sir," the lievtenant reached up, tugged his uniform straight.
"I'm obviously not," Ruslan replied calmly, finished the form and flipped to the next one.
Which was a 'killed in the line of duty', for yet another Ivanovich. He sighed, paused to rub at his eyes, and went for his notes.
" . . . Have you been doing paperwork this entire time?" an appalled voice demanded, and he glanced up to find his lievtenant still standing there.
"'All this time'?" he repeated in a questioning tone. Eighteen hours surely only counted as a long time in a fight?
"One of the senior sergeants mentioned you'd holed up in here two shifts ago and nobody'd seen you since. I kind of assumed you wanted to get some decent sleep or something." Stanislav still sounded appalled, which matched the expression on his face as he eyed the neat stacks on the desk, held down by magnetised strips and weights.
"The paperwork needs to get done," Ruslan replied, his tone carefully neutral. He'd run into this with a few of the sergeants before. "I assure you I had food sent in and I'm going to go and sleep right after this stack is finished. Which you're keeping me from, I might point out."
Stanis--'Stas' really was easier, hell with it. Stas made an inarticulate noise of frustration, then stomped over to the other side of Ruslan's desk. "Boris and Gleb, sir, give me some of the paperwork."
Ruslan tilted his head back, gave his lievtenant a dubious stare. "Why?"
"Delegation of annoying tasks?" Stas tried, the grin making a brief appearance. "I write a neat hand sir, I promise."
Ruslan held the stare a little longer, then mentally threw up his hands. "Pull up a chair, lievtenant. Do you want the requisitions for resupply, accounting of ammunition and fuel used, transfers, killed-in-the-lines, or to try to convince the idiots back in the warm that the number of samovar parts we go through is reasonable?"
Stas blinked, took a second to assimilate that he wasn't getting evicted and what had been said, then neatly hooked the folding chair out of the long side of the desk, sat down. "Whatever's handy, boss, but I've handled everything but convincing the idiots before. I think they reserve those for higher command ranks."
"Tell me about it," Ruslan muttered, passing over four pads and a stylus, mostly accounting forms and requisitions from what he could remember. "I dread what's going to happen if I get promoted again."
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Sergeievich, Stas
Prompt: 40D "4:29 PM", interpreted as near the end of the work day
Word Count: 589
Notes: after new arrival, before glory's where you find it. Saints Boris and Gleb, brothers and princes, were martyred by their unconverted brother, but they're on the list of soldier-saints, so. =P
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A tapping noise was coming from his office door, gradually getting louder, until it became an irregular muffled pounding.
Ruslan paused in the middle of a word, squinted at the door, then at the clock pinned to a corner of the nearest mirror. If that was the quartermaster, he was a half-hour early to be whining about Ruslan continuing to occupy the office. If it was another captain, he should have called.
"Come in?" he said experimentally, and his newest lievtenant just about fell on his face as the door slid aside. He avoided it, though, took two quick steps forward and immediately dropped the fist he'd had raised to continue pounding on the door.
The door clicked closed.
Ruslan accepted the brief salute--Stanislav was lucky he wasn't a stickler for the official versions--then dropped his eyes, going back to the document before he could forget where he was and had to start over. Looking at his desk, "Did you need something, Stanislav?"
"I uh. I expected to find you asleep on your desk, sir," the lievtenant reached up, tugged his uniform straight.
"I'm obviously not," Ruslan replied calmly, finished the form and flipped to the next one.
Which was a 'killed in the line of duty', for yet another Ivanovich. He sighed, paused to rub at his eyes, and went for his notes.
" . . . Have you been doing paperwork this entire time?" an appalled voice demanded, and he glanced up to find his lievtenant still standing there.
"'All this time'?" he repeated in a questioning tone. Eighteen hours surely only counted as a long time in a fight?
"One of the senior sergeants mentioned you'd holed up in here two shifts ago and nobody'd seen you since. I kind of assumed you wanted to get some decent sleep or something." Stanislav still sounded appalled, which matched the expression on his face as he eyed the neat stacks on the desk, held down by magnetised strips and weights.
"The paperwork needs to get done," Ruslan replied, his tone carefully neutral. He'd run into this with a few of the sergeants before. "I assure you I had food sent in and I'm going to go and sleep right after this stack is finished. Which you're keeping me from, I might point out."
Stanis--'Stas' really was easier, hell with it. Stas made an inarticulate noise of frustration, then stomped over to the other side of Ruslan's desk. "Boris and Gleb, sir, give me some of the paperwork."
Ruslan tilted his head back, gave his lievtenant a dubious stare. "Why?"
"Delegation of annoying tasks?" Stas tried, the grin making a brief appearance. "I write a neat hand sir, I promise."
Ruslan held the stare a little longer, then mentally threw up his hands. "Pull up a chair, lievtenant. Do you want the requisitions for resupply, accounting of ammunition and fuel used, transfers, killed-in-the-lines, or to try to convince the idiots back in the warm that the number of samovar parts we go through is reasonable?"
Stas blinked, took a second to assimilate that he wasn't getting evicted and what had been said, then neatly hooked the folding chair out of the long side of the desk, sat down. "Whatever's handy, boss, but I've handled everything but convincing the idiots before. I think they reserve those for higher command ranks."
"Tell me about it," Ruslan muttered, passing over four pads and a stylus, mostly accounting forms and requisitions from what he could remember. "I dread what's going to happen if I get promoted again."