After that they fell into something of a routine. He went out at night. Vladimir healed and bitched about nothing. He caught four or five hours of sleep, made them breakfast and headed out to work. Vladimir healed and still bitched about nothing. He pinched magazines from the businesses downstairs as Vladimir improved and started staying awake for hours at a time. Leaving them in strategic positions around the couch in the hopes of staving off boredom. Instead, all that got him was a whole bunch of snooping, a rearranged living room and a scathing report of how boring his flat was.
Less than a day after Claire pronounced him an 'asshole on the mend,' Vladimir quickly found and polished off his entire beer supply. Even downing the last few fingers of the expensive vodka he saved for special occasions as he was out trying to track down Owlsley.
They had a good yell about that. Right up until Vladimir questioned why he kept a bottle of his favourite vodka - so hard to find that even he had to order it himself from back home – in the back of his liquor cabinet. He decided to put himself in a mandatory time out after that, trying not to freak out as he attempted to separate where Vladimir's taste buds ended and his began.
Unfortunately, that only lasted about a half hour because, as it turned out, Vladimir cared less about identity-crisis panic attacks and more about just flat out drinking. Because it wasn't long until he was barging into his bedroom. Demanding a new bottle for 'scientific purposes.' And by demanding he meant yelling. Loudly and repeatedly.
He ended up getting so frustrated he found himself yelling right back, pointing out that if the man wanted to get drunk, he could go out buy it himself. Considering that unlike him, he didn't have dirty stacks of millions stashed away to waste on stupidly expensive vodka that the man was just going to binge-drink anyway.
The silence that followed was so close to a pout he could practically taste it.
After a while, the bickering and stilted silences blurred and started to become normal. A new normal unique to the two of them as they tried to navigate where they stood with each other on an almost day to day basis. Coming home in the evening was like opening your tent flaps in the middle of the African safari and playing Russian roulette with the local wildlife.
The man put him on edge. He'd admit that much. Feeling like he was constantly struggling to keep the upper hand as the man practically oozed aggression through his pores like sweat. It got bad enough that he found himself ordering a copy of text-to-voice "Russian: for Beginners" so he could level the playing field. Testing it out whenever Vladimir was being particularly annoying just so he could listen to the indignant spluttering and waves of absolute outrage as he, apparently, namerennoubivali yego yazyk!
He'd started taking his recordings to work with him for the slow days. Finding it far easier to study without the Russian breathing down his neck or throwing stuff at him. A new hobby the smartass seemed to have picked up once moving his arms didn't physically cripple him for the rest of the day. In the beginning it had been a simple test of reflexes. With Vladimir mostly trying to catch him in a lie. Then amused by his host's abilities – testing them to see if he could catch him off guard – probably searching for weaknesses he could someday exploit. But eventually, it turned into something close to…oh god- fond?
The downside of bringing his off the clock studying to the office, however was somewhat predictable.
"I need to learn how to speak asshole," he explained distractedly, fingers skimming the same passage over and over again as Foggy read the cover of the tape out loud, voice wrinkled with uncaffinated confusion. Too deep in contexts and contractions to pay his best friend and his seven or eight immediate, but still mercifully unspoken questions, much attention.
"I don't even want to know," Foggy moaned, long hair whisking back and forth across his collar as his friend shook his head. Heading towards the supply closet for the promise of burnt coffee and the hope that after a few sips the world might make a bit more sense.
And really, wasn't that just the truth?
He wasn't sure how he got from the docks back home. After Nobu and Fisk it took all his strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was deafened, senses muted down to the sluggish beat of his own heart as he rolled onto the roof of his apartment building and dragged himself towards the access hatch.
After that, it all got hazy – unclear. He remembered starting down the stairs. Forgetting about the creaky floor board as he stumbled against the railing, wheezing. Sensing Vladimir stirring on the couch, adrenaline spiking the same moment as Foggy's familiar heartbeat - drunk and grief-stricken – thudded its way up the final flight of stairs and made a bee-line for his door.
After that, everything went black.
He got the rest in bits and pieces from Claire a couple hours later while Vladimir glowered in the backdrop. He learned second hand how Vladimir had caught him when his legs had given out halfway down the stairs. How Foggy had been knocking at the door for close to half an hour, talking about the case and Elena – talking about making the bastards pay.
How Vladimir had grabbed the burner and cussed out Claire in whispers until she gave some excuse at work and raced across the city. How he'd snuck up to the roof and tossed a brick down onto a parked car on the street, setting off the alarm, distracting Foggy long enough for the Russian to lock the roof access and make an educated guess through the starred contacts on his phone. Sending the drunk man on a wild goose chase to a hospital on the other side of the city with some excuse about him getting grazed by a car walking home.
The entire time Claire was patching him up, Vladimir said nothing. He existed in the background like a burning ball of barely controlled rage. Body issuing heat that flared and spat every time the man cracked his knuckles. He was a living point of tension, half-feral and worrisomely silent. Yet, the man said nothing when Claire turned on him next, spotting a trickle of red through his shirt from where he'd pulled stitches lunging across the room - catching him before he fell. Muttering darkly about it until she caught sight his expression.
She repaired the stitches and bowed out soon after that. Telling him to call when he woke in up the morning, eying Vladimir wearily. Not once turning her back on him as she collected her things. Telling the Russian to keep him hydrated before he closed the door in her face and locked with a deafening click.
"You are very dumb, moy odin," Vladimir told him after Claire left, rounding on him. Fists clenched despite the fact that he was barely conscious. Scenting fury and the bitter tart of an awkward, grudging fear as the man looked down, bare feet disturbing an uneven layer of bloody bandages and the cut off remnants of his shirt as the taste of his own red curdled in his mouth.
"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya malen'kiy d'yavol," Vladimir hissed, crouching down beside him. Crooked fingers carding firmly through his hair as his lashes fluttered into the hollows. Threatening to stay there as his injuries took their toll. Feeling the trickle of dried blood filtering down like paper rain, powdering across their skin as the taxi Claire called before she left pulled up on the side of the street - honking it's horn to get her attention.
There were words. Words he could have said. Words meant to sooth – deflect. But his head was spinning and Vladimir was still talking. Filling the air above their heads with all the words they weren't saying, just as much as the ones they were.
"Next time I kill you myself, with bare hands," Vladimir growled, speaking into his hair as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss across his temple. Nosing into him lightly as he blinked sightlessly, breathing in the scent of him as the vibrations of each word echoed tinnily in his ears.
He slept tucked close to the man's chest. Vladimir made it rather clear he had little choice in the matter as he shoved him up and wormed his way onto the couch beside him. Humming tunelessly as the steady thrum of his one's heart - soothing and oh so right in its cadence -calmed him down into something close to normal. Reminding him with every beat, every breath that synced up and they shared as one, that he was there, vibrant and alive. Watchful and protective as the man kept his eyes firm on the door. Not going anywhere.
For the first time in a long time, he slept through the night.
"Ach! What is it with you Americans and obsession with bond mark, hmm?"
He must have asked about it again, because he woke up sometime later, still on the couch. Head cradled in Vladimir's lap and halfway through some sort of explanation. Feeling disjointed and mildly lightheaded as he looked up at the red-scored outline of the man's face, content to soak in the roughness of the words as Vladimir talked more to himself than anything.
"Me and my brother heard many jokes about American education system. But in this case, I think true. You don't need to see to know, 'dis you know more than most I think, hmm?" the man mused, using the pause to shove a juice box and straw into his face and force him to swallow it down. Crooning quietly as the man speared the straw at his lips determinedly - a clear order to finish it when he tried to shove it away.
"In Russia, child with mark taught something else. More than book learning. Rodstvennuyu dushu is not just perfect match, but missing half. Other half of heart – soul. So, I listen here," Vladimir replied, pulse hitching the slightest of bits before the man's hand came down unexpectedly. Pressing his palm against his chest, squarely on top of his heart.
The world shuddered around the edges.
He swallowed hard, feeling the warm weight of the man's hand on his bare chest.
Unable to shake the feeling that his entire reality was an inch away from settling.
"In tunnel, I knew," the man shared, voice dry, threatening to crack at the edges like he'd been up all night speaking or was remembering something that pained him. "What is word? Instinct? Da. Instinct. When grow up on streets, you learn. You listen to heart and head or you die. Like prey animal in world of predator – survival of the fittest. Same thing, yes? You listen or you miss cues nature gives."
Neither of them commented on it when the man's hand remained where it was. The weight of it wasn't gentle. But then again, neither of them were men that had much use for gentleness and softer things. They were men who liked being the sharp end of the instrument. Who lived for it. Speaking a language of blunt force and vicious uppercuts while the world told them that love was wrong. Sadistic. Cruel. That the ends never justified the means and that somehow, that moral high ground still meant something while Hell's Kitchen quietly choked on its own decay.
"In Moscow there are dogs, strays that ride subway from country to city to scrounge," Vladimir commented after a while, wide palm flexing across his skin, scarred and calloused as he memorized every inch, every ripple, scar, imperfection, and badly healed break.
"People ask how they know stop. How they learn. How they ride subway back to same den at night. Instinct. Animals listen to what we don't want hear, yes? They not deny what has already been set in stone. Instead, work with what they have. Sometimes smarter than us, I think."
He blinked, listening to the slow breaks in the man's breathing as the Russian eventually started dozing. Filling the room with a soft, rasping snore that seemed at odds with his inherent roughness.
And perhaps for the first time since he'd known him, he allowed himself to consider how brutally honest Vladimir was. Not just to himself, but in terms of the world around him. While he saw Hell's Kitchen for what it could be - what it had potential to be, Vladimir saw it for it was. Taking it at face value and expecting the same. Making his actions and convictions true to himself in a way that was, well, different, but at the end of the day, not completely unfamiliar.
He supposed that should worry him.
Finding common ground with someone like Vladimir Ranskahov.
But strangely enough, it didn't.
_________________
Reference:
"namerenno ubivali yego yazyk" – "purposely butchered his language."
"moy odin" – "my one."
"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya, malen'kiy d'yavol." - "you stupid piece of shit, if you weren't mine I would have thrown you off the roof weeks ago. My mother lied through her teeth when she said everything was supposed to make sense when you found your other half. You make no sense to me, little devil."
Re: {Fill} The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal) - 3/5
After that they fell into something of a routine. He went out at night. Vladimir healed and bitched about nothing. He caught four or five hours of sleep, made them breakfast and headed out to work. Vladimir healed and still bitched about nothing. He pinched magazines from the businesses downstairs as Vladimir improved and started staying awake for hours at a time. Leaving them in strategic positions around the couch in the hopes of staving off boredom. Instead, all that got him was a whole bunch of snooping, a rearranged living room and a scathing report of how boring his flat was.
Less than a day after Claire pronounced him an 'asshole on the mend,' Vladimir quickly found and polished off his entire beer supply. Even downing the last few fingers of the expensive vodka he saved for special occasions as he was out trying to track down Owlsley.
They had a good yell about that. Right up until Vladimir questioned why he kept a bottle of his favourite vodka - so hard to find that even he had to order it himself from back home – in the back of his liquor cabinet. He decided to put himself in a mandatory time out after that, trying not to freak out as he attempted to separate where Vladimir's taste buds ended and his began.
Unfortunately, that only lasted about a half hour because, as it turned out, Vladimir cared less about identity-crisis panic attacks and more about just flat out drinking. Because it wasn't long until he was barging into his bedroom. Demanding a new bottle for 'scientific purposes.' And by demanding he meant yelling. Loudly and repeatedly.
He ended up getting so frustrated he found himself yelling right back, pointing out that if the man wanted to get drunk, he could go out buy it himself. Considering that unlike him, he didn't have dirty stacks of millions stashed away to waste on stupidly expensive vodka that the man was just going to binge-drink anyway.
The silence that followed was so close to a pout he could practically taste it.
After a while, the bickering and stilted silences blurred and started to become normal. A new normal unique to the two of them as they tried to navigate where they stood with each other on an almost day to day basis. Coming home in the evening was like opening your tent flaps in the middle of the African safari and playing Russian roulette with the local wildlife.
The man put him on edge. He'd admit that much. Feeling like he was constantly struggling to keep the upper hand as the man practically oozed aggression through his pores like sweat. It got bad enough that he found himself ordering a copy of text-to-voice "Russian: for Beginners" so he could level the playing field. Testing it out whenever Vladimir was being particularly annoying just so he could listen to the indignant spluttering and waves of absolute outrage as he, apparently, namerennoubivali yego yazyk!
He'd started taking his recordings to work with him for the slow days. Finding it far easier to study without the Russian breathing down his neck or throwing stuff at him. A new hobby the smartass seemed to have picked up once moving his arms didn't physically cripple him for the rest of the day. In the beginning it had been a simple test of reflexes. With Vladimir mostly trying to catch him in a lie. Then amused by his host's abilities – testing them to see if he could catch him off guard – probably searching for weaknesses he could someday exploit. But eventually, it turned into something close to…oh god- fond?
The downside of bringing his off the clock studying to the office, however was somewhat predictable.
"I need to learn how to speak asshole," he explained distractedly, fingers skimming the same passage over and over again as Foggy read the cover of the tape out loud, voice wrinkled with uncaffinated confusion. Too deep in contexts and contractions to pay his best friend and his seven or eight immediate, but still mercifully unspoken questions, much attention.
"I don't even want to know," Foggy moaned, long hair whisking back and forth across his collar as his friend shook his head. Heading towards the supply closet for the promise of burnt coffee and the hope that after a few sips the world might make a bit more sense.
And really, wasn't that just the truth?
He wasn't sure how he got from the docks back home. After Nobu and Fisk it took all his strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was deafened, senses muted down to the sluggish beat of his own heart as he rolled onto the roof of his apartment building and dragged himself towards the access hatch.
After that, it all got hazy – unclear. He remembered starting down the stairs. Forgetting about the creaky floor board as he stumbled against the railing, wheezing. Sensing Vladimir stirring on the couch, adrenaline spiking the same moment as Foggy's familiar heartbeat - drunk and grief-stricken – thudded its way up the final flight of stairs and made a bee-line for his door.
After that, everything went black.
He got the rest in bits and pieces from Claire a couple hours later while Vladimir glowered in the backdrop. He learned second hand how Vladimir had caught him when his legs had given out halfway down the stairs. How Foggy had been knocking at the door for close to half an hour, talking about the case and Elena – talking about making the bastards pay.
How Vladimir had grabbed the burner and cussed out Claire in whispers until she gave some excuse at work and raced across the city. How he'd snuck up to the roof and tossed a brick down onto a parked car on the street, setting off the alarm, distracting Foggy long enough for the Russian to lock the roof access and make an educated guess through the starred contacts on his phone. Sending the drunk man on a wild goose chase to a hospital on the other side of the city with some excuse about him getting grazed by a car walking home.
The entire time Claire was patching him up, Vladimir said nothing. He existed in the background like a burning ball of barely controlled rage. Body issuing heat that flared and spat every time the man cracked his knuckles. He was a living point of tension, half-feral and worrisomely silent. Yet, the man said nothing when Claire turned on him next, spotting a trickle of red through his shirt from where he'd pulled stitches lunging across the room - catching him before he fell. Muttering darkly about it until she caught sight his expression.
She repaired the stitches and bowed out soon after that. Telling him to call when he woke in up the morning, eying Vladimir wearily. Not once turning her back on him as she collected her things. Telling the Russian to keep him hydrated before he closed the door in her face and locked with a deafening click.
"You are very dumb, moy odin," Vladimir told him after Claire left, rounding on him. Fists clenched despite the fact that he was barely conscious. Scenting fury and the bitter tart of an awkward, grudging fear as the man looked down, bare feet disturbing an uneven layer of bloody bandages and the cut off remnants of his shirt as the taste of his own red curdled in his mouth.
"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya malen'kiy d'yavol," Vladimir hissed, crouching down beside him. Crooked fingers carding firmly through his hair as his lashes fluttered into the hollows. Threatening to stay there as his injuries took their toll. Feeling the trickle of dried blood filtering down like paper rain, powdering across their skin as the taxi Claire called before she left pulled up on the side of the street - honking it's horn to get her attention.
There were words. Words he could have said. Words meant to sooth – deflect. But his head was spinning and Vladimir was still talking. Filling the air above their heads with all the words they weren't saying, just as much as the ones they were.
"Next time I kill you myself, with bare hands," Vladimir growled, speaking into his hair as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss across his temple. Nosing into him lightly as he blinked sightlessly, breathing in the scent of him as the vibrations of each word echoed tinnily in his ears.
He slept tucked close to the man's chest. Vladimir made it rather clear he had little choice in the matter as he shoved him up and wormed his way onto the couch beside him. Humming tunelessly as the steady thrum of his one's heart - soothing and oh so right in its cadence -calmed him down into something close to normal. Reminding him with every beat, every breath that synced up and they shared as one, that he was there, vibrant and alive. Watchful and protective as the man kept his eyes firm on the door. Not going anywhere.
For the first time in a long time, he slept through the night.
"Ach! What is it with you Americans and obsession with bond mark, hmm?"
He must have asked about it again, because he woke up sometime later, still on the couch. Head cradled in Vladimir's lap and halfway through some sort of explanation. Feeling disjointed and mildly lightheaded as he looked up at the red-scored outline of the man's face, content to soak in the roughness of the words as Vladimir talked more to himself than anything.
"Me and my brother heard many jokes about American education system. But in this case, I think true. You don't need to see to know, 'dis you know more than most I think, hmm?" the man mused, using the pause to shove a juice box and straw into his face and force him to swallow it down. Crooning quietly as the man speared the straw at his lips determinedly - a clear order to finish it when he tried to shove it away.
"In Russia, child with mark taught something else. More than book learning. Rodstvennuyu dushu is not just perfect match, but missing half. Other half of heart – soul. So, I listen here," Vladimir replied, pulse hitching the slightest of bits before the man's hand came down unexpectedly. Pressing his palm against his chest, squarely on top of his heart.
The world shuddered around the edges.
He swallowed hard, feeling the warm weight of the man's hand on his bare chest.
Unable to shake the feeling that his entire reality was an inch away from settling.
"In tunnel, I knew," the man shared, voice dry, threatening to crack at the edges like he'd been up all night speaking or was remembering something that pained him. "What is word? Instinct? Da. Instinct. When grow up on streets, you learn. You listen to heart and head or you die. Like prey animal in world of predator – survival of the fittest. Same thing, yes? You listen or you miss cues nature gives."
Neither of them commented on it when the man's hand remained where it was. The weight of it wasn't gentle. But then again, neither of them were men that had much use for gentleness and softer things. They were men who liked being the sharp end of the instrument. Who lived for it. Speaking a language of blunt force and vicious uppercuts while the world told them that love was wrong. Sadistic. Cruel. That the ends never justified the means and that somehow, that moral high ground still meant something while Hell's Kitchen quietly choked on its own decay.
"In Moscow there are dogs, strays that ride subway from country to city to scrounge," Vladimir commented after a while, wide palm flexing across his skin, scarred and calloused as he memorized every inch, every ripple, scar, imperfection, and badly healed break.
"People ask how they know stop. How they learn. How they ride subway back to same den at night. Instinct. Animals listen to what we don't want hear, yes? They not deny what has already been set in stone. Instead, work with what they have. Sometimes smarter than us, I think."
He blinked, listening to the slow breaks in the man's breathing as the Russian eventually started dozing. Filling the room with a soft, rasping snore that seemed at odds with his inherent roughness.
And perhaps for the first time since he'd known him, he allowed himself to consider how brutally honest Vladimir was. Not just to himself, but in terms of the world around him. While he saw Hell's Kitchen for what it could be - what it had potential to be, Vladimir saw it for it was. Taking it at face value and expecting the same. Making his actions and convictions true to himself in a way that was, well, different, but at the end of the day, not completely unfamiliar.
He supposed that should worry him.
Finding common ground with someone like Vladimir Ranskahov.
But strangely enough, it didn't.
_________________
Reference:
"namerenno ubivali yego yazyk" – "purposely butchered his language."
"moy odin" – "my one."
"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya, malen'kiy d'yavol." - "you stupid piece of shit, if you weren't mine I would have thrown you off the roof weeks ago. My mother lied through her teeth when she said everything was supposed to make sense when you found your other half. You make no sense to me, little devil."
"Rodstvennuyu dushu" – "soulmate."