@crimesplit
“Lord Dostoevsky!” He’s returned (whatever peace Dostoevsky might have without his hangers-on is, apparently, short lived). Ivan bounds over to stand some paces before Dostoevsky before giving him a deep bow. Theatrics are the best part of his job, the combination of excitability and having a purpose bubbling over into grandiose gestures, the sickly adoration that’s never hidden in his gaze when he looks at Dostoevsky.
(God is hunched shoulders and bitten lips, the all-encompassing salvation in the shroud of death around Dostoevsky’s form -- it’s beautiful, beautiful, of course he’ll bow! A chamberlain, a devotee, apostle! -- He digresses.)
A wide smile (as always) when he tilts his head just enough to keep Dostoevsky in his sight. “Alexander Alexandrovich was as recalcitrant as ever! But I gave him a little bit of a push, and he agreed to send the requested aid by next week. Juuust as you said he would, as always!” He straightens up, also with a flourish, though does not leave the room. “So, I finished that, and I can serve you dinner tonight, yes? I wanna make fish.”
The request of praise me! is almost audible, though Ivan will be delighted with any result. Of course. (Helpful, when the usual answer is simply a wave of acknowledgement and dismissal in one.)
