The Silence of the Ram

[pride_of_kiwi]

Who: Braginski, Key
When: September 30th, morning
Where: The Flat, The Charleston
What: 'Why hellooo John Paul-' Ivan thinks John's whodunnit; John thinks he'd rather not have his liver eaten
Rating: V for vendetta violence

Comments

[das_vedanya]

There was a sense of premeditation to Ivan's schedule that morning. He made an extra effort to keep his trembling fingers from rearranging the buttons and holes on his white shirt. His tie seemed too tight around his neck - appropriately a dark red color - and his scarf even tighter. He could not register the burning heat of a paper coffee mug snug against his finger-pads, too distracted by the icy kiss of the metal pipe wielded in his opposite hand. Mistakenly, an on-looker would see him as a man walking with purpose, presumably to his job, but the Muscovite was bound for a occupation far different from helping the psyche of Liberty's psychologically suffering citizens

Hit me again, I dare you~ <3

[pride_of_kiwi]

This was not at all the punch in the face the man had been hoping for. Not enough caffeine and so much iron it made his head spin. Whiplash back, in fact, and John was tripping over himself as he took in the heralding call to wake in an Vesuvius eruption of pain not due in part to his horrifically spiked coffee now splattered on the ground.

He knew the voice but it echoed hollow in his ears, subtlety blending with the ring, ring, ringing of metal until he wondered maybe he was still fagged out and dreaming.

Didn't look like a dream. Bloody well didn't feel like a nightmare no matter how wraith-like and wrathful the demon at his door appeared. "If this is a fuckun' joke, matey-"

John spit a fleck of blood into a fist. "I ain't laughin'."

Gladly~

[das_vedanya]

The Muscovite dropped his pipe-wielding arm lax against his side. The metal sang as he drummed the faucet against the toe of his boot, humming softly in perfect tune to every ping, ping, ping. "Ah, but I am~" he sang sweetly, reaching behind him to finger the door closed: the click sounded much to quiet to hear over the sound of Ivan's pipe. He finished his statement with a dark chuckle.

"I'm not here to deliver a message - or a joke," he amended under a low purr. "I'm here to return a personal favor."

[pride_of_kiwi]

"By pranging up my face? What sort of goddamn 'favor' is that?"

The flat was hushed but for that rapid succession of sounds. Thud, ping, hum, click, curled syllables, silence. Whatever look might have been in the doctor's eyes, John wasn't seeing it. He had stepped back, tilted sideways, peered into the kitchen under the table and saw it blessedly cleared out. He listened for the sound of Penny; hearing nothing, knew her to be retreated to her nest again.

His door was blocked. The only other exit- the window, the fire escape. John lifted his chin in an instinctual display of defiance, told himself mentally then to slow down, hold on, it's just 'a friend'. There was a mistake here. They could fix it. "Oi, now gizza listen, aye? Not sure what's got you in a tizzy, but let's just see if a bit of a chat won't help straighten this out."

Liquid cooled at their feet. John held his breath.