mosnkov-blog

[mosnkov-blog]

14 FROM GILES

soft touch  ---  a hug from behind.

         ‘ i don’t understand it. ’

dimitri’s recovery time is quick enough to disguise just what a welcome surprise giles’ hug is. he’d thought he was alone, having left his partner in bed to study the collection of art in his living space, so to be warm again after being forced by nightmare into cold air and consciousness does turn his frown around.

         ‘ why me? for a subject. ’ he tilts his head back until it rests against giles’ shoulder. folds his hands over the other’s. ‘ compared to your other studies, i am, well. short. stouter by the day, no doubt. ’ his expression darkens minutely. ‘ unremarkable. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

kinemasent.

     he’s aware that he’s drifted asleep, that much is a fact. the novel dimitri had been reading had been far too cruel for his taste, and rather a lengthy one, too. soon, he had tuned it out, despite his reluctance to fall asleep on his partner. giles has a small dream about sitting in a chair, that soon tilts and –

     he jerks his head up, realizes he’s being watched. “oh, my. i apologize, i just – well, work has really worn me out.” he scrambles to readjust his glasses. “are you still reading?”

         ‘ i did, for a few moments. until your breathing slowed. ’ he felt it more than heard it, for which he has their respective positions to thank, he’s sure  —  they’re tucked into one another as though they were molded to exist like this.

without the risk of rousing giles, he’s now free to set the book on the bedside table and settle in. he considers, for a beat, removing the other man’s glasses for him. a gesture of… something sweet and familiar. but there are reservations, made difficult to dismiss by decades of repression.

         ‘ you need to rest. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

memoryserved.

How flattering. Their foot, tapping a fast rhythm on the floor, peters out into irregularity and then to a halt. Kennedy pulls at their lip and rolls a crack out of their shoulders and fixes an ache in their legs just to not look like they’re thinking too hard, as if they’re doing anything these days but thinking too hard.

   “Good to know. Good to -” Two thumbs up. Just great. It’s not that sad. Better they be the only one stuck here, right? “Yeah. I mean, categories, right, it depends. I’m European! That’s not – unique. Far as I know plenty of people are from Europe, unless you guys wiped it off the map when I wasn’t looking.”

         ‘ mm. ’ a bit more heft and an added vowel and one might call it a titter. ‘ not that i’m aware of. ’

his sadness replaced in equal measure by amusement compliments of their rambling and worry over their isolation, he regards kennedy with a smile, cautious and little and kinder than they’ve likely yet seen. he’s seen the way they’re treated by other scientists, by security, and can’t comprehend the logic: how could they, by any stretch of the imagination, be lesser? how could anyone look down their nose at such a marvel?

         ‘ you’re unique, yes, but you’re not — ’ though it’s always soft, he lowers his voice. it could be taken as a revelation or a placation; it’s just better to be on the safe side. ‘ you’re not alone. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

touch meme . send one to do to my muse .

001.   grab their hand .

002.   kiss their cheek .

003.   give massage .

004.   kiss hand .

005.   high five .

006.   cuddle .

007.   cry on . 

008.   shoulder hug .

009.   bear hug .

010.   kiss them .

011.   pinkie promise .

012.   piggy back ride . 

013.  give them food . 

014.   from behind hug . 

015.   fist bump .

[mosnkov-blog]

memoryserved.

   “Can I ask you a question, Bob?” It’s half-intentional. They’re too tired to think of his name proper, and that’s what Strickland calls him. Sorry they listen to Strickland, they’re thinking, but he makes too much noise not to listen to. Bob. “Is there anybody else here?” Of course there is, there’s desk jockeys and scientists and cleaning staff and Stricklands but that’s not what they’re asking. “Anybody,” you know, like me.

their question strikes dimitri as exceptionally sad. it might even serve as a reflection of his own unbearable loneliness, were he and kennedy alike in their genetic makeup: were he less human and they more so. there’s little comfort he can provide, so he answers them, unintentionally, with a twinge of pity.

         ‘ you are... ’ for all he knows: alone. ‘ unique. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

‘ what’s wrong with you? ’ the amphibian man manages to get across with a look (SINCE HE CANT FUCKIN TALK)

hurt.

after everything, dimitri thinks. is it you who will be my undoing?

nonhuman and nonvocal foreign creatures, after all, are less likely to be in tune with the conflict between the united states and russia, or of what’s at stake for a traitor to both sides hiding in plain sight. more likely to shine a spotlight on dimitri’s wrongness with a simple look.

         ‘ ... what makes you look at me that way? ’ the syringe in his vest pocket feels as though it’s begun to burn through to his heart. he can’t  ---  couldn’t possibly destroy something so breathtaking, so complicated. ‘ please. please don’t. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

amphigod.

              silently,  &  as vigilant as a lonesome gazelle in the dead of night,  the River God watches from the murky waters of the pool.  mere minutes past the hulking door had opened  &  closed — someone was here — egg lady?   no,  the steps sounded heavier,  &  there was a brief voice from above the liquids surface to confirm that this individual was not the kind,  pretty person ;  but someone just as amiable.

      soft ripples form,  aureate eyes cautiously peek above.   a blink.   the asset observing the empathetic scientist wandering about the dimly lit room.

@mosnkov  a starter for you.

it’s not often that dimitri is able to visit the asset without accompaniment  ---  unwelcome with only one exception: miss esposito, a non-threat to and unwitting participant in the creature’s study  ---  so he enters the room in slightly higher spirits than usual. comes bearing no gifts, which he regrets at the very sight of him. ‘tossed offerings into the water: flowers, fruits...’

god or no, dimitri feels small ( is small, by most standards ) and unworthy beneath his gaze.

         ‘ i haven’t come to --- ’ he starts and stops his forward motion with a nearly imperceptible jerk; his hands fall to his sides, all thought of a miming gesture abandoned. the asset certainly needn’t any reminder of his own maltreatment. after a pause, he dips his chin humbly. ‘ i’d just like to observe. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

💏 + 39 from Giles

kisses  —  giles is running out of time.

         ‘ ever the dramatic. ’

dimitri is smiling, that small and soft one reserved for giles, borne of a society that doesn’t take kindly to their public displays of affection. ( he thinks  ---  half sour and half fond  ---  of each time they’ve been shooed from ‘family restaurants,’ and each time he’s had to bite his tongue to halt a correction. we are a family. ) he’ll indulge him as he always does, but not without getting his kicks throughout.

         ‘ старик, ’ he says, close enough now to giles’ mouth to paint himself an insufferable tease. ‘ do you forget? so easily, giles, how often we used to think we were ‘running out of time’? ’

he gives his partner’s beard a tug and thinks of every foolish year he wasted disliking facial hair. he’ll still jeer, because it’s entertaining; because it’s what they do to one another. now, though, is the time for kissing.

         ‘ ... of all the men. ’ well, it had to be you, you old fool. dimitri can still taste him as he smoothes the creases out of his sweater by hand. ‘ can we not just  ---  enjoy the mundane for a while? ’ a smug look to show he’s taunting. ‘ without you launching into crisis? ’

[mosnkov-blog]

hi, i know the book says 36 years old, but i’m bumping dimitri’s age up a bit because michael s. is 49. at times a baby-faced 49, but. u kno. just a little announcement!

[mosnkov-blog]

fifty ways to kiss someone.   send me a 💏 and i will randomise a number in order for my muse to kiss yours…

…good morning.

…goodnight.

…goodbye.

…where it hurts.

…where it doesn’t hurt.

…on a falling tear.

…to shut them up.

…in secrecy.

…in public.

…desperately.

…in joy.

…in grief.

…discreetly.

…casually.

…passionately.

…lazily.

…to distract.

…as encouragement.

…for luck.

…on a scar.

…on a place of insecurity.

…in a rush of adrenaline.

…in relief.

…in danger.

…as a ‘yes’.

…as an apology.

…as a suggestion.

…as a lie.

…as a promise.

…as comfort.

…after a small rejection.

…to wake yours up.

…forcefully.

…to pretend.

…to gain something.

…to give up control.

…without a motive.

…because yours is running out of time.

…because mine is.

…because the world is ending.

…because the world is saved.

…out of pride.

…out of greed.

…out of lust.

…out of anger.

…out of envy or jealousy.

…out of spite.

…out of habit.

…out of necessity.

…out of love.

[mosnkov-blog]

‘ how did you get that black eye? ’

hurt.

         ‘ would you believe that it’s courtesy of two left feet? ’ his cheek is split, too; bleeding where a ringed finger caught him. dimitri won’t waste his time trying to sell this flimsy lie. ‘ or should i attempt to spin something more convincing? ’

[mosnkov-blog]

‘ you need stitches. ’

hurt.

a resigned grunt is about all he can manage through the suffering. the list of conditions stacked against him grows longer by the hour, it seems, so ‘risk of infection/scarring/blood loss’ nearly fails to register as an item that needs addressing.

         ‘ astute, ’ he says, shaking the fold from his pant leg and letting it fall back in place over his wound. ‘ i’m sorry  ---  excuse me, please. ’ the room tilts with his head. unpleasant. ‘ there was no call for me to take that tone. you’re only trying to help. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

‘ i’m sorry. i know it hurts. here, hold my hand. ’ from Giles!

hurt.

he’s in no condition for clear thinking. otherwise, he would surely have stopped himself on his way to taking giles’ hand. the wave of pain rolls in, then out, leaving only a desperately intimate moment in its wake.

         ‘ — you’re very kind. ’ and ah, isn’t it helpful to have some of that old-life boldness on reserve. he sweeps his thumb across the other man’s knuckles in lieu of letting go. ‘ even if you are the one… ’ he’s teasing, though his smile is more a wince than anything. ‘ poking and prodding me into such discomfort. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

* hurt prompts

‘ are you bleeding? ’

‘ take it easy. you hit your head. ’

‘ where does it hurt? ’ 

‘ sit still and let me take a look! ’

‘ how did you get that black eye? ’ 

‘ you should see the other guy. ’ 

‘ did i say you could get out of bed? ’

‘ that’s going to leave a bruise. ’

‘ i’ll get some ice. ’ 

‘ that’s what you get for picking fights. ’

‘ are you trying to give me a heart attack? ’

‘ what’s wrong with you? ’

‘ you can barely stand. ’

‘ did you throw the first punch? ’

‘ that’s a nasty bump. ’

‘ get in the car. you’re going to the hospital. ’

‘ at least bandage it. ’ 

‘ no, you’ll get an infection. ’ 

‘ wet floor signs are there for a reason, you know. ’

‘ you’re lucky. that icicle could’ve killed you. ’

‘ where’s your gratitude? i rescued you! ’

‘ i’m calling the nurse. ’

‘ was that stupid dare worth it? ’

‘ what happened to you? ’

‘ sit down. i’ll make some hot chocolate and fix you right up. ’

‘ are those bandages? ’

‘ you need stitches. ’

‘ look out for that tree branch. ’

‘ i’ve got you. just stay awake. can you do that for me? ’

‘ lean on me. ’

‘ you got two choices: let me carry you, or die out here. take your pick. ’

‘ shit, you’re burning up. ’  

‘ you’re not dying. it’s only a sprained ankle. ’

‘ lie down. ’

‘ i’m sorry. i know it hurts. here, hold my hand. ’

‘ you’re in no condition to be walking around. ’

‘ wake up! wake up! ’

‘ i don’t feel sorry for you. ’

‘ look at your face! ’

[mosnkov-blog]

kinemasent.

     “i never thought i’d ever have to house soviet intelligence.”

     it’s said like it’s somewhat of an indulgence; though he breathes the air of heartbreak, misery loves company. giles can still smell the damp floorboards. he looks up from his sketch – one of a young man holding a rose that wilts at the touch – to the russian lying on his bedspread. 

     “then again, i never thought i’d have to do a lot of things.” at the sight of movement, “oh, don’t sit up too quickly. you’re still wounded, and snowflake’s found rest on your legs. she’s ah– rather cranky when she wakes, you see.”

he’s only just woken from a long but restless sleep, and judging by this strange man’s quick jump to chattiness, has not rejoined the land of the ( mostly - ) living with much stealth. dimitri’s voice is hoarser than usual when he comes around to using it; he assumes he’s done some shouting, some groaning, before arriving here.

here. consciousness. a cluttered, unfamiliar apartment. a kind, familiar man. and a cat, curled up and purring in his lap.

         ‘ snowflake, ’ he repeats, fond and open for a beat. he’d blame it on poor sleep and should-be fatal injuries, if questioned. ‘ you drove the van, that night. ’ every movement is agony, but he manages a small smile, cast downward at the cat. ‘ an introduction for the books. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

you were speaking russian.

the shape of water.

the panic rolls in late, taking a back seat to wonder, amazement. where’s the point in fretting over one’s mortal safety when there is so much to learn from the creature threatening it? how many languages must he understand. how old must he be.

         ‘ i was speaking gibberish, ’ he defends feebly. ‘ not russian. i’m afraid you misheard. ’

[mosnkov-blog]

bonnmot.

‘Chinwag,’ his minty breath will gust Bob’s face as he chuckles, ‘save that for the sewing circle. I’m talking about real camaraderie, the kind where you know if you get into the thick of things, you’ve got someone looking out for you. You don’t look like you can handle a gun.’

don’t i? his mind offers, body following suit by way of an offended shift and set to his jaw. he takes a step back and straightens the lines of his coat ( not-too-subtly dusts whatever trace of dead fingers strickland’s left behind ). his shoulder smacks dully into the heavy metal door behind him.

         ‘ is that a threat, sir, or an offer? ’