WOULD THAT I

And he was a right made asshole, but unfortunately the kind of asshole that Riptide had come to love and adore. Funny, and sharp, and quick witted, and unfortunately very good looking. The ideal partner for a man like Thibault, someone who had spent so long being ignored and borderline bullied by his hometown, someone who was soft and friendly and sometimes, a little too nice to be a proper soldier.

But he was also Thibault, he was French and a man that loved his country, so whatever kind of reassurance his love had been perhaps fishing for with his comment about a failed start to his plan, it's forgotten. Set off to the side as Riptide steps forward on quiet, bare feet and quickly envelops the older man into his embrace. Pulling the Polishman into his sweaty chest with little warning, and wrapping damp arms around him a grip that's tight enough to not be casually broken.

It wasn’t as though Roland had any right to complain about smell. It wasn’t as though Slavs were somehow renowned for their pleasant aroma; he was also a military man. For a moment, he thinks he’s ruined the exchange. Thibault seeming to hesitate in the silence of the joke. Swagger almost thinks he should rescind it, insist that the stench isn’t so bad. But that would be a lie. It was bad. Truthfully speaking, he could smell him from across the room. He didn’t mind it though.

Likewise in Riptide, Roland had found a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the idea of being an outcast. Someone who understood just how difficult & painful growing up resented could be. Though their reasoning for such diverted harshly, they’d both played victim to the struggle of being an outsider in a country that resented them. Roland thinks, kept always to himself, that Thibault’s was worse, though. An outsider in your own country was far worse than being an outsider in a country where you truly are foreign.

This isn't their normal, but Nikolai's worried. John Price was just a man, no matter how much close-to worship he pressed upon him in his own mind, he was just a mortal man - and he doesn't think he can live with out him.

"Give it a rest, for a little bit, yes?" It's not their usual because, as affectionate as Nikolai could be, this was not what they did. "You built a good team, let them handle the next step."

John fights against it; it’s all for naught. Nikolai has his size, and Price’s own weakness working in tandem against him. Eyes half lid for a moment, and he drops to sitting in his chair. He’d move to the chaise lounge - an item really reserved for decoration - but he doesn’t want to stand back up in all honesty. He’s exhausted. 

He can’t really get a read on where NIkolai is coming from. A place of concern or worry? Sure. But this was no different than any other time they’d dealt with Makarov in his mind. Just another risk. Just another uphill battle. “Nik,” he murmurs, watching him closely. “Are you alright?” Deflection was his specialty.In his mind, this was resting.

" ігор ! " " хапай мене за руку ! "

We all get worn down by life and often we turn to RP for rejuvenation. But more than once I've seen people on here that find themselves burnt out on the RP community itself. With nearly 20 years of role playing under my belt, I thought I'd share some of my favourite self-care tricks.

Block people. You don't have to explain yourself and 'weird vibes' is a legitimate reason. You deserve to feel safe and unbothered in your hobby space, and RP is based on consent. Just like with any recreational activity, you can withdraw your consent at any time and no is a complete sentence.

Turn off anon. This prevents anonymous harassment and gives you great insight into who to block or report if you get non-anonymous harassment.

Drop threads. I know RP etiquette suggests you need to tell your RP partner when and why, and sure, if they ask politely you can give it a go - just know that a pre-written variant of 'not feeling it' is good enough. In my humble opinion, I think dropping boring or vexing threads is everyone's prerogative and doesn't require explanation. Again, no is a complete sentence.

Talk it out. If you like the thread but things took a turn you didn't like, it's time to bring the RP into the workshop. Something like 'Hey I really like our RP so far but I'm losing my spark, can we talk about course correcting where the plot is going?'

Make clear rules and revise them frequently. I'd also advise against spending said rules excusing or explaining why you don't like or want a certain thing - I cannot stress enough how your preferences are not up for debate.

Get comfy chasing. A lot of RP is about inviting others to play over and over and over. Rejection is a part of it. See if you can't find some element of self-care in it - taking rejection well is a great skill to practice in such a low stake environment.

Notice and celebrate the good stuff, instead of digging holes about the bad. Tell your co-players how great they are. Marvel at all the hard work you put into your muses and graphics. Admire your own blog.

Stop. Take a break. Check in with yourself. Do you actually need to face something in IRL? Do you need to rest? A snickers? A walk? Don't bother with posts á la 'offline for the day' - leave your options open to reduce guilt or shame if you want to poke your head back in.

Everything he was, everything he had, it was due to her parenting, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it either.

His mother hadn't lived long enough to see all that good work of hers come to fruition. Her death had been sudden, untimely, and truthfully, was still a wound that hadn't quite healed right to him. It wasn't something ugly and open and festering, but it was still something there. An ache, a pain, a sharp dig of discomfort that no amount of movement would ease - that is -

Until that day, for some reason. Despite the date, the lack of tradition, the absence the rituals of mourning he did every year, the pain had been more mild than it had been in the past. Something sharp turned gentle, barely there, like a sore muscle. Something that existed only when he flexed it - when he wrote down the date while doing paperwork, when he'd smelled hot tea from a teammates mug, when he'd got a whiff of perfume that was much like hers while on his run - but otherwise went unnoticed.

A sign of healing. One that he'll undoubtedly think too hard on later, when he's warm and full and sated, listening to Roland grumble next to him about something-or-another and trying not to laugh at his expense -

For now, Thibault basks in his partner's presence, in his obvious care. In his thick French, and smooth words. In the admittance that he did not know what he was doing for once, and the rare and brief show of insecurity, the rarer still ask for assistance.

Mon Dieu, he loves this man, this stupidly complicated and stubborn man. Loves him enough that all that worry and religious fear he might have had over being in love with a man has long since faded to nothing. Knowing by now, or hoping at least, that his mother could forgive him just this once for indulging in something of a sin.

Roland didn’t know the true depth of Thibault’s relationship with his mother, but he knew enough to envy the other man. His own mother was not nearly as supportive. She wasn’t resentful, exceedingly proud of his feats in the military with making it to GROM. However, she was less than pleased with other choices in his life. Who he chose to love. Things of that nature. Social aspects were ones he’d experienced heavy criticisms for; he didn’t allow it to damage his time spent with them, though. He’d take any chance to go home and have a home cooked meal from his mama.

Swagger also could not relate to the hole in Riptide’s life. He still had both of his parents. He’d never experienced the true depth of loss on a personal level. Military friends had come and gone from his life, and people from school had done the same. Despite his confidence and imposing himself on other people’s lives, he didn’t have a huge number of friends to show for it. Now, he was content to take in the company of whoever would tolerate his bullshit. Thibault had passed that test.

He knows Lefebre will read his request as not knowing, but the truth was that he just knew he was bad at it. It wasn’t a lack of knowledge. It was knowing too well he’d fuck it up massively he allowed it to continue with no assistance. He wanted Thibault’s tradition to be enjoyable, not a disgusting mess of sludge burned to a crisp, yet molten throughout. If Swagger continued alone, they’d be dealing with the makings of a Pacific island.

And for all of his massive steps forward, there’s a voice in the back of his head that says This is wrong. Slavic ancestors repulsed by the man he’s fallen in love with. He didn’t let it upset him, though. He was happy, content, and safe with Thibault. His family would have to learn to live with his choices. A man. A man of color. A Frenchman of color. It was a many-layered conundrum that directly opposed the traditionalist Polish values he’d picked up from home. Doubly so having been raised in France by Polish parents. The discouragement was rampant from all sides, and yet, he didn’t care. If his parents decided never to speak to him again, he’d just have to accept that.

"Oh..." A pause. "You... You don't have to wear it in here, you know. It's -" Not not-safe. She can't claim that, not for them and not for herself. In the distance, the rapid popping of gunfire starts up again. Krueger press his foot back into Bogdan's chair, hands wrapping around the rail as he leans backwards over it, dark eyes peering into the distance. "Well, I doubt I'm much of a threat to you."

The Austrian snorts suddenly, smoke pouring from his nostrils and she grins at him, unoffended.

"I could give him food poisoning." She counters to whatever he's thinking, pleased as peach as he rolls his eyes and looks away. Grumbling in German enough words that she knows he's mocking her. "I wouldn't though. There's not enough toilet paper in the city for that, I think."

The vulgarity of her is surprising suddenly, at least to Krueger, and for a moment Birdie finds delight in it - in the way the older man snorts out smoke and rolls his eyes, the way his lips twitch like he's trying not to smirk - but the moment is short lived. Attention zipzapping back to Bogdan as if in sudden realization of her forwardness, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

He doesn’t realize the extent to which he’s shared with her. He sees the armor as, just that, armor. Though, if he really thought about it, this was his identity. His appearance was directly reflective of the masked sense of self he usually experienced. A hole where a face should be.

And though she cannot see it, his brow raises at her suggestion. It’s safe here, she seems to say. Wisely, she cuts herself off, and Nikto doesn’t have to scold her. Though, for a separate offense - assuming she’s safe to be around, is another matter. He considers raising concern. Often the ones who insist they aren’t a threat are your greatest threats. “We know you aren’t,” he says, voice not faltering in its usual tone. But he’s nearly cut off completely by the cloud of smoke that consumes Krueger in his laughter.

At her wise-crack, he can’t help but laugh. The implication of him shitting his guts out incredibly hilarious to him. “Well… we would hope you wouldn’t give us food poisoning.” It’s all he can think to say, really. What is he meant to say? Though, he can tell despite the mutterings that Sebastian thinks it’s funny too. He wants to kick the other man’s chair for not at least humoring her with a laugh.

“No. It was funny. No apologies,” he says, waving her off. “We were in the military. Nothing is surprising.” And at that, he eyes Krueger. Surprised, at the very least, that he was surprised. Usually, the scenario was swapped. Bogdan nods in response to her concerns. He’s acknowledging. “We.. will try to sleep without it.” It’s an admission that is difficult. He still experienced issues with being without his safety net in Krueger’s presence. It had been years.

It would never be accurate to say that Thibault Lefebre was a talkative guy. He talked, sure, he went to yak town like the rest of the people in his unit, but he wasn't a talker. He had a tendency to be shy by nature, to spout off things that meant nothing in the long run, and then step aside to let someone else take the limelight. That childhood shyness - born of always being the outsider in and out of society - that he never grew out of always rearing it's ugly head when it came to social situations, especially one-on-one conversations.

So, no, he hadn't expected Roland to remember anything he'd told him during his almost-nervous natured babbles. Too used to being acknowledged, but then forgotten in favor of someone more - more interesting. Someone with more stories to tell, more things to talk about than just surfing and his personal code of ethics (one Roland did so obviously not always agree to), a hometown that he was homesick for, and a mother long turned to dust in a grave.

He had certainly not expected the other man to remember the anniversary of his beloved mother's death - or how he spent it, baking her favorite dessert and trying to make the best of it. Celebrating, privately, the best of the woman who had loved and raised him no matter his childhood awkwardness, and all that it had entailed.

He hadn't expected to trudge into the kitchen to get some water after returning from a run, only to catch Roland in the midst of some kind of crisis. Ingredients crammed together on the small counterspace, tablet open to some glaringly bright recipe page - Gâteau Basque typed in some gaudy, handwritten font across the top.

Thibault hadn't expected anything like this - especially not the look on the Polish man's face. Frozen, like he knew he was caught and trying to play it off. Pinched like he couldn't believe that Thibault would think he hadn't memorized a detail so important as the deathday of a parent, or what his traditions were for it. Pale eyebrows coming together with some kind of incredulous look as the diver murmurs something about how he remembered, remembered a detail he himself didn't even remember disclosing.

❛  of course, i remember! i remember everything you told me.  ❜

It's not at all funny how that makes him feel - the sudden knowledge that he matters, that someone listens, that someone fucking remembers everything he's ever said - that that person was Roland. A man that was brash, and coarse, and cocky and seemed to not care at all sometimes. About the world, about what they did - about Thibault and his very French heritage, the pride he held over being from Biarritz and raised practically in the sea.

A man who didn't seem like he should care at all about Thibault, about his history and traditions - and yet -

Swagger had been an outcast from birth. Never quite at home in any place he’d been. In France, he’d been treated as an outsider due to his Slavic roots. In Poland, he hardly understood his place in things due to being raised in the French countryside. In all things, he made a place for himself. He’d become perfectly content to slot into a perfectly Roland-shaped void in people’s lives. They simply didn’t know what they were missing without his presence there.

That acknowledged, though, he could be a lot. Judging people’s tolerance for his massive ego was a delicate process, but Riptide had passed the tests. Not just due to his silent nature making up for the overabundance that Roland offered. They melded nicely, and not in a way that most would think. It had taken a lot to get here, and as such, Roland savored every second of it. Taking note and hanging on every single word Thibault offered.

Birthdays. Death days. Anniversaries. Special, nuanced celebrations unique to Lefebre’s life. All these things, and more, got stored away in the vaults of Swagger’s mind. Now, one such date was very relevant. The anniversary of his mother’s death. He was a momma’s boy, so this one in particular was a big one. He’d sifted through the recesses of his mind and remembered that Riptide celebrated in a very specific way, and this year he wouldn’t be alone in that celebration.

Or at least, that was the goal. Roland wasn’t much of a baker, though.

He sees as the realization dawns on Thibault. He can’t quite tell whether it’s a happy realization. You’re stuck with me, is the resounding sentiment in Roland’s mind, though. And for all of the hell he’d give other people for their nuances, and how silly he thought they were, Thibault was different. There was an earned sense of mutual respect, and he had no doubts that the other man would listen to endless bullshit about Slavic traditions and the symbolism for those. 

Price's whim has always been Nikolai's own, and would continue to be so until one of them died from it.

“Oh I know, Nik,” he teases. He knows Nikolai was more than happy to get the Captain anything he needed and more. However, this particular case seemed to scream Soap MacTavish to him if he was being honest. It’s not something he resents. More something he finds comical at this point.

"I've wrapped up compound fractures on hiking trails," It's the most gruesome kind of wound she thinks she's ever taken care of personally, something that the injured party did live from, and wasn't an animal hit by a car. "It's not a bullet, or a severe burn, but it is a traumatic injury... I think I will be fine. Anything I don't understand, I'm -" She ducks her head for a moment, then looks back up (and up) at him. "I'm a quick learner, Boga. I promise."

If he hasn't picked up on her need to be - needed already, there's little doubt that he wouldn't have picked it up in the moment. If not because of her insistence on medical help, then by the way her expression brightens at the mention of cooking - a skill she knows she's perfected. All the time spent at home finally coming to some kind of use outside of providing for merely herself.

"I'm sorry, I can't say I do - but I have an excellent memory, and anything you show me, I will be able to mimic in no time." As long as it didn't have anything to do with baking. The chemistry of baking was still something that eluded her most days, and unless it was cookies or a simple kind of bread or cake... Well, she tended to make a mess of things. Things being herself, the oven, and sometimes the entire kitchen she was in. A fact she makes no effort to mention - already afraid of being dismissed because of her lack of gruesome medical experience.

And where he goes, Birdie almost follows. Taking two steps forward on the small balcony before sinking to the cold concrete near the both of them. Arms wrapping around her legs, keeping her skirt in place, as she leans forward to rest her chin on her knees. And for a moment, that's it. There's peace, there's quiet.

There's a little Bird, and two murderers on a balcony in the middle of a warzone, quietly watching each other. Krueger shifting his weight to kick a foot onto the arm Bogdan's chair like he owned it. Birdie watching the Russian like he was going to give her an order - with an attentiveness that's only dropped, when Krueger crushes one cigarette (smoked to the filter), and produces and lights another one. Bright eyes watching as he takes two, absurdly long drags of the cigarette, before holding it out to Nikto, even waving his hand a little big mockingly, an action that has her mouth quirking into something amused.

"Can I ask you another question?" There's a gentleness this time to her voice, as she watches them. That faintly amused look of hers turning into something genuine and gentle. Curious - although probably not for the reason he might think - "The armor - the body armor - is it heavy?" She can remember how lightweight her mother's police vest had been, but it had been Kevlar woven only to take small rounds, what he wears... She racks her brain for the proper terminology, but cannot find it in amongst all her knowledge of flowers and books, rifles and wound dressing.

Nikto isn’t about isn’t about scare tactics. Truly, he doesn’t care if Birdie witnesses the true horrors of war by her own choice. She had the option to leave. She could hitch a ride out of this shitty city any time she wanted, and Bogdan would welcome it, truly. Though, that’s not entirely the truth any longer. He wants her to stay, but this is selfishness. He doesn’t want this life for anyone, but he wants her around. It’s the definition of a catch-22.

“We trust that,” he says flatly. Though, he can tell there’s something else going on there. He spares asking her, though. Not worth the headache of walking someone else through their emotions.

He settles into the seat, finally. No inner need to be pacing or on his feet any longer. For all the frustration and stress they’d experienced in Verdansk, it was nice to finally be able to have a spot to just.. sit. To just be calm and collected. It was almost an oxymoron to be calm in Krueger’s presence, but he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge the danger he was taking on by living with the Austrian.

Nikto scoffs at the mocking way Sebastian strikes up his cigarette. He’s not going to remove the masks in her presence. Not yet, anyway. Krueger knows it. Krueger knows damn well that that literal mask isn’t going anywhere. He inhales deep through his nose, enjoying the scent of the smoke and the way it fills his throat. He’s happy to sit here in silence, staring the other man down with a look that could possibly murder him. But Birdie is speaking again.

(He doesn't think on that, not more than he has to acknowledge that he would wait. Their... 'Relationship' complicated, made more-so by the fact that they didn't seem to acknowledge it. They simply were Nikto and Krueger, and if there was a strange sort of comfort to be found in that, then that was their business, and no one else's. Krueger would carve someone up if they tried to involve themselves in it.)

And the reward is delicious, as it always is with him. A visible chip in the armor that was Nikto's collective, covered by dry sarcasm, touched with a tone that could easily be mistaken for anger but was in fact something else entirely. His presence coming nearer, dragging a chair along rough tile before he sits down again. Closer to Krueger than he normally was in the little Sparrow's presence. Looming like a man over someone's sickbed and, well, he couldn't fucking have that.

"Good job, I think I lived." He grouses, even as he pushes himself upright. Hands pressing into a mattress that had more fucked up springs than it did proper ones. Pushing himself into the world's most uncomfortable hunch of a seated position. Breath hissing from between clenched teeth as his side twinges and skin stretches something awful, fighting against tidly done stitches.

"Oooh, I'm terribly sorry about the tile, Danya." Krueger doesn't seem very sorry. In fact, he's already moved on by the time the words leave his lips, by the time he croons the diminutive. Peeling at medical tape and gauze to check on their work, seemingly only barely listening to Nikto - even though the man (like always) has at least sixty percent of his attention. Enough of his attention for him to notice that the Russian is slipping, concentration floundering. So - he gives him something to focus on. Dirty fingers picking at the stitched up wound, frown forming on his lips at the tidiness of it.

"Yeah, I hear you. Told you we should have set up traps." And just like that, he's serious again. Fingers still picking at his skin, but eyes glancing to the other operator. "Your bird will have to learn to step light." His bird is moving forward again, handing Nikto the glass of water she'd been having him drink from, before sweeping from the room in a show of grace and swish of floral skirts. He thinks he catches something about her going to pack - which has him snorting to himself - and no sooner is she gone from the room, than is he leaning back against a beaten up headboard. "You need a minute."

It was complex, when he truly gave thought to it. Just how deeply Krueger had managed to embed himself under Nikto’s skin. The collective in his mind had adopted a space for the Austrian and it was odd. They liked having him around. It was very new coming off the heels of so many years spent resenting any person they had come into contact with. Though just as easily, Bogdan thinks he could grow to hate Sebastian.

Sharp edges were a useful armor, but in intimacy they led to perforations. Nikto is just as guilty, he supposes, so there’s good reason for never bringing it up. Though, like shattered pottery, he supposes their edges match up for the most part. Slotting in to make some new monstrosity that is doubly as horrible as the individual parts. Cutthroat and equally as bitter. 

“We don’t need your approval,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “But she might. Thank her for the stitches.” It’s a command, not a request. He says it in a hushed tone to bar Birdie from thinking she’s some kind of bargaining chip in getting under Krueger’s skin. She very much was in this moment, but she didn’t need to know that. 

"You should be sorry you rat,” the tone says it all. Biting at each word. Though that could just be the damage in his vocal chords. “It’s an ugly mess.” He leans forward to pull Krueger’s hand away from the wound. “Leave it. You’ll fuck up her nice stitches.”

Once Birdie has left them, glass of water in hand his hand, Bogdan lets out a heaved sigh. He hoped to exhale the weight of his stress with the air from his lungs, but he had no such relief. “Traps are fine until you have to piss in the middle of the night and end up getting killed by your own handiwork,” his eyes are closed now, but it’s clear he’s still paying attention. “You need more water?” 

Yegor was soft compared to a lot of the people they’d worked with. Chalk it up to being sick and tired of violence, but he just didn’t always have it in him anymore. That said, he could contend with the hard hitters for devious methods - barring the involvement of children. That was a hard limit to him. 

They remind her of Frank and Hunter... A bittersweet thought that's nipped in the bud before it gets to fully form. They were nothing and yet everything like them.

And yet, like she would have with Frank, the mix of compliments and impolite talk - the implication that she could only stay in their good graces as long as she was useful to them - has her flushing pink. Praise over her not being the worst American they've ever met taken not as a backhanded compliment, but a genuine one. Easily swallowed - even as her gaze drifts at the sound of a lighter flicking, at the glimpse of a fire and the cherry red of a cigarette being lit. The bitter smell of cigarette smoke both awful and calming in a way. Tension easing as she glances back to Bogdan with a gentle look, firmly ignoring the way Sebastian leers and lurks and continues to look bored of the situation.

"I'm certified in Wilderness Medical Emergency care." Birdie says the words casually, like she was giving a fact about the weather and not telling the man of her experience - a literal verbal resume in order to remain useful and wanted. "But, I've - patched up other kinds of injures before." Wounds born of violence. The words are unspoken, but her meaning is clear. Hands gripping the rail too tight before relaxing some as she huffs a breath and a smile. "There's not much that grosses me out - my father was a vet - an animal doctor." A pause. "I can cook too, from scratch, if you're in need of that." Food was energy, energy they needed for - for -

She quickly decides she doesn't want to know. Murder and mayhem were not new to her, but war was, and what Birdie didn't know, wouldn't haunt her shadows at night.

Her brow wrinkles, nose scrunching. Gaze, once more, drifting to the man behind Boga as he lifts himself up to rest on the rail in a manner that's - Birdie doesn't want to label it as a death wish, but... "Is there... something I should call you instead of Sebastian?"

A huff, a puff of smoke purposefully blown her way. Partially blocked by the mountain of a man between them, although he doesn't seem to give a shit either way. "Krueger."

She hates it. It reminds her of Nightmare on Elm Street. "Mister Krueger then."

He gives a nod. Nothing more to say on the subject of names. It was a strange subject. He typically felt so far away from himself and yet too much in his own skin at once. He was everything & nothing, and it was hard to give a name for someone to call you when every time you opened your mouth it felt like 50 other people wanted to also give their inputs. 

Nikto couldn’t focus on either of them fully. Being in the presence of other people frequently had him on edge. Though, watching Sebastian ignite the flame of his cigarette had Bogdan itching for one. He wasn’t close enough with Birdie to peel back his masks - both metaphorical and physical - just yet. There would be a time and a place, preferably once he was certain she wasn’t going to reel back in disgust and gasp at him. It was going to kill him to refuse having a smoke though. 

“These wounds are going to be…a lot,” he cautions. He doesn’t get into the disgusting details of it, but the number of times he’d amputated parts of his soldiers or had to dig bullets or other shrapnel out of another human being was endless. It was revolting, and it was difficult to stomach if you weren’t prepared for it. “Bullet wounds, explosive burns… things like that. We can’t imagine you have much experience with that, да?” He’s not doubtful of her because of any societal reason. Not gender, not nationality. No, this is born of how soft she seems. Her soul is purer than most anyone he’d met in his life. He could feel it.

“Cooking, huh? You know any good Russian recipes?” He has full intent to teach her if not. They’re usually pretty easy anyhow. German food wasn’t terrible either, but Krueger wouldn’t be so forthcoming with help and Bogdan didn’t know any. The offer was off the table. 

if there's one thing he's come to trust while being here it's : communication. no one is leaving anyone out in the cold and no one is getting left behind. he has one person to mostly thank for that : merrick. he makes sure they're secured and makes sure they don't lose each other in the field. he's helped them stay in touch through several shit storms and generally they came out unscathed. however, people trusting him is another story. they're wary and he doesn't blame them. he came from the task force without warning and several think he might be a spy. he doesn't let it get to him.

Merrick has no reason to distrust Johnny. He wasn’t in Las Almas during the blue-on-blue commotion that had happened, and he has to figure if Soap had joined the Shadows there was no bad blood. At the very least, what good would spying do? Shadow Company wasn’t actively working against Task Force 141. Maybe he was naive for thinking that, but he’d rather be kind with causation than an asshole without reason.

By the time Yegor finds him, he's fifteen seconds from tearing out all, or at least most of his hair. Teeth grinding together as he leans back on his second-hand (read: found on the property when he purchased it) desk and stares moodily. In front of him? An old fashioned wheelable bulletin board on its last legs, currently covered in all kinds of printed papers. Sheets and sheets of not just inventory, but orders that had yet to be fulfilled - and even some job offers that had yet to be decided upon.

Ordinarily, Nikolai deals great under stress, under this kind of workload, but today he's struggling. Tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth so hard it was beginning to hurt and exhaustion beginning to draw deeper lines on his face.

Yegor was between major operations, mostly just enjoying his rest on base. He was getting antsy, though. Needed something to apply himself to, but knew Nik was beyond busy coordinating the finer details of a future operation. The Ukrainian knew better than to bother him - he was a very busy man.

However, upon passing his office, he notes how irate the Russian looks. Looks like he’s a moment’s passing away from tearing down everything in his office. As he draws closer, he’s noticed and beckoned in. Sparing a glance to the board, and the contents there-on. He almost laughs at the near plea for him. It’s bordering on hilarious coming from Nikolai, but he keeps that to himself. He clearly doesn’t need anymore stress.