10-26-2018, 05:17 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-26-2018, 05:25 PM by Ivan Sarkozy.)
The meds worked pretty well. Not like he still didn't hurt, but it wasn't bad. Well, maybe not as bad. He coulda taken a few more tabs but...he wanted to be lucid. And pain worked as well as any stim for that. Three of his ribs were fractured so clearly he would't be running around anytime soon; jaw nearly broken; Nu-skin covering slashes and bites itching something fierce; concussion that still made him see double at times; lip split in a number of places; a couple of broken knuckles; a broken toe; and everywhere else deep black and blue bruises covering him.
It had been a good fight.
At least he hadn't broken his nose or lost any teeth. And thankfully, his eye was not swollen anymore- although maybe it was a shade darker that it should be. Not that he'd put on make up to cover it.
Thank God for modern medicine. He coulda done without the lecture from the doc. Her frowns made him smirk, though of course he regretted it, what with the lips and jaw and all. Her look said it served him right. And it probably did.
The Cap'n was worse. Ivan just told him it had been a fight club thing. The man tore him a new one before putting him on the DL for the time being. It was stupid of him, he knew. He had a job to do. And he would do it. But still. he didn't regret it. It had been good for him.
And truthfully, Ivan looked forward to hanging out with Ryker again. No more fighting like that. No. But it was fun all the same. Something had changed. What it was, Ivan wasn't sure. Well, nothing really had changed. Ascendancy was still the same pompous ass who allowed and even used corruption as a tool in his empire; Yun Kao was still out there holding his family over his head; Zoya was still gone; and Danya and Zara....
Ivan stood at the door of her apartment, his stomach fluttering. He took a deep breath, appreciating the sharp pain that came from his complaining ribs. It was funny. He'd had no fear getting into the ring with that man. He'd had no fear when the woman held him with the power, used it to dig into his wounds. But now....at the prospect of seeing Zara, fear paralyzed him.
His arm weighed two hundred pounds it seemed, as he tried to raise it to knock. He clenched his jaw and stab of agony lanced through him. Not broken, but definitely had been put out of joint. The resetting had been bad.
"Coward," he whispered to himself. He knocked and the door opened. The sweet smell hit him in the face and he inhaled sharply. Suddenly he was 19 again. And Danya had surprised him with dinner. Some sort of Persian stew her mother used to make. Despite himself, his heart opened for a moment, allowing himself to remember, to feel what he had felt, what had been walled off for all these years. God he missed her.
And there she stood, blonde streaked hair pulled back in a pony tail, white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Nothing had changed. She looked at him curiously, her smile fading as she took in his injuries. "Hi Danya," was all he said before she hugged him- and then he breathed sharply through clenched teeth as his entire body protested.
She pulled back, concern painting her face. "Oh! I'm sorry." She looked at him, studying, then stepped aside so he could enter. Pain colored her words. "Oh Ivan, what did you do?" It was more chiding than anything else.
And he didn't feel like talking about it. Not with her. He felt stupid enough as it was. He tilted his head briefly and tried to give a halfhearted smile. "I just fell down. That's all." She looked at him for a moment, raising an eyebrow and one side of her lips in a smile. Then she shrugged, not pressing the issue. She knew him.
He looked around. It was as he remembered. The brown leather couch covered in different colored pillows; the plush blue chair opposite it, zebra print pillow on it; thick patterned carpet on the floor; lamp in the corner with a red and gold gauze cloth draped over it; mix of prints on the wall, some from her homeland, Iran, and others of people or script that he remembered was Farsi; a low table in between the the couch and chair. He looked over at the kitchen. An easel was near the wall, a half finished black and white painting on the canvas. There was green tea pot, as well as another on the stove giving off the aroma he remembered so well, meat and onions and cinnamon and the sweet of carrots.
But there were differences too. Childish drawings covered the refrigerator. And amid the music or art or travel books on the table were children's books. He recognized one of them, The Illustrated Book of Russian Fairy Tales. Another of Persian stories. And he saw toys in a couple of places.
He looked back at Danya. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was a mother. She had become a mother.
And I am a father.
He looked at her, smiled weakly, the butterflies returning. "Thank you for...well, just...thank you." Her smile warmed him- and cut him. Maybe we can...- he stopped that line of thought. He was not here for her. He couldn't open those doors again. Boundaries. He need to keep it light. Going down that road again...no. He just couldn't.
She nodded, but kept her distance. She knew what he was thinking. She always did. She didn't want to give him false hope. Her kindness cut his heart. "I want her to know her father. You're a good man Ivan." Her smile fell as she looked at his bandaged knuckles, saw how he moved, took in the cuts on his lip and the slight bruising under his eye, replaced it with a small frown, deep brown eyes filling with concern. Softly, "You deserve some happiness. Clearly."
She took a breath as if to clear the mood. Walls again. Damn her and her walls. "Anyway, I made your favorite stew. It's Zara's too." She paused, looking at him with a hopeful encouraging smile. "Ready?"
He took a deep breath, ignored the pain, and smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I'm ready."
It had been a good fight.
At least he hadn't broken his nose or lost any teeth. And thankfully, his eye was not swollen anymore- although maybe it was a shade darker that it should be. Not that he'd put on make up to cover it.
Thank God for modern medicine. He coulda done without the lecture from the doc. Her frowns made him smirk, though of course he regretted it, what with the lips and jaw and all. Her look said it served him right. And it probably did.
The Cap'n was worse. Ivan just told him it had been a fight club thing. The man tore him a new one before putting him on the DL for the time being. It was stupid of him, he knew. He had a job to do. And he would do it. But still. he didn't regret it. It had been good for him.
And truthfully, Ivan looked forward to hanging out with Ryker again. No more fighting like that. No. But it was fun all the same. Something had changed. What it was, Ivan wasn't sure. Well, nothing really had changed. Ascendancy was still the same pompous ass who allowed and even used corruption as a tool in his empire; Yun Kao was still out there holding his family over his head; Zoya was still gone; and Danya and Zara....
Ivan stood at the door of her apartment, his stomach fluttering. He took a deep breath, appreciating the sharp pain that came from his complaining ribs. It was funny. He'd had no fear getting into the ring with that man. He'd had no fear when the woman held him with the power, used it to dig into his wounds. But now....at the prospect of seeing Zara, fear paralyzed him.
His arm weighed two hundred pounds it seemed, as he tried to raise it to knock. He clenched his jaw and stab of agony lanced through him. Not broken, but definitely had been put out of joint. The resetting had been bad.
"Coward," he whispered to himself. He knocked and the door opened. The sweet smell hit him in the face and he inhaled sharply. Suddenly he was 19 again. And Danya had surprised him with dinner. Some sort of Persian stew her mother used to make. Despite himself, his heart opened for a moment, allowing himself to remember, to feel what he had felt, what had been walled off for all these years. God he missed her.
And there she stood, blonde streaked hair pulled back in a pony tail, white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Nothing had changed. She looked at him curiously, her smile fading as she took in his injuries. "Hi Danya," was all he said before she hugged him- and then he breathed sharply through clenched teeth as his entire body protested.
She pulled back, concern painting her face. "Oh! I'm sorry." She looked at him, studying, then stepped aside so he could enter. Pain colored her words. "Oh Ivan, what did you do?" It was more chiding than anything else.
And he didn't feel like talking about it. Not with her. He felt stupid enough as it was. He tilted his head briefly and tried to give a halfhearted smile. "I just fell down. That's all." She looked at him for a moment, raising an eyebrow and one side of her lips in a smile. Then she shrugged, not pressing the issue. She knew him.
He looked around. It was as he remembered. The brown leather couch covered in different colored pillows; the plush blue chair opposite it, zebra print pillow on it; thick patterned carpet on the floor; lamp in the corner with a red and gold gauze cloth draped over it; mix of prints on the wall, some from her homeland, Iran, and others of people or script that he remembered was Farsi; a low table in between the the couch and chair. He looked over at the kitchen. An easel was near the wall, a half finished black and white painting on the canvas. There was green tea pot, as well as another on the stove giving off the aroma he remembered so well, meat and onions and cinnamon and the sweet of carrots.
But there were differences too. Childish drawings covered the refrigerator. And amid the music or art or travel books on the table were children's books. He recognized one of them, The Illustrated Book of Russian Fairy Tales. Another of Persian stories. And he saw toys in a couple of places.
He looked back at Danya. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was a mother. She had become a mother.
And I am a father.
He looked at her, smiled weakly, the butterflies returning. "Thank you for...well, just...thank you." Her smile warmed him- and cut him. Maybe we can...- he stopped that line of thought. He was not here for her. He couldn't open those doors again. Boundaries. He need to keep it light. Going down that road again...no. He just couldn't.
She nodded, but kept her distance. She knew what he was thinking. She always did. She didn't want to give him false hope. Her kindness cut his heart. "I want her to know her father. You're a good man Ivan." Her smile fell as she looked at his bandaged knuckles, saw how he moved, took in the cuts on his lip and the slight bruising under his eye, replaced it with a small frown, deep brown eyes filling with concern. Softly, "You deserve some happiness. Clearly."
She took a breath as if to clear the mood. Walls again. Damn her and her walls. "Anyway, I made your favorite stew. It's Zara's too." She paused, looking at him with a hopeful encouraging smile. "Ready?"
He took a deep breath, ignored the pain, and smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I'm ready."