Joy ride (part1): Stealing

dreams of chess

"Bakushka, do not touch it."

"What?", the American asks, pulled from his careful consideration of the chessboard. Yakov sighs, picks his ruler from among his paper and stretches across the small table between them to tap his right hand. A hand that has made its way down from his upper arm again. To his elbow; to the bulge under his flannel shirt, where hidden under a fresh dressings flesh changes to plastic and metal. After a confused moment, the American nicknamed Bakushka stills that misbehaving hand: caught in the act; scratching.

With his own sigh he pulls away from that ever-present itch; from his new left arm, cradled against himself in that half-hug that seems most comfortable. He casts half an apologetic grin to the newly minted Captain Yakov, and a quick glance towards the man's fiancee as well.: Lady Angelica. She appears in deep consideration of her tea, eyes demurely down towards her lap, where a fine china cup-and saucer rests; the little veranda table hardly has space for the chessboard and Yakov's papers, so she has put proprietary aside for this daily arrenement. The American has to wonder why she bothers; coming over to drink tea and watch him get his ass handed to him over this apparently important game.

With deliberate effort he puts his real hand on the table and turns back to the board in front of him. His knight is in trouble, that's for sure. But there's a check in there somewhere, he thinks. Another thing to consider is the bishop's lines. He frowns, thinking over the sounds of Yakov's rustle of work papers, and Lady Angelica's polite sounds of delicate China as she sips her tea.

The Lady Angelica is always watching, these days. She comes by Yakov's country house every day since he was invited here to recover from surgery. She makes a trip over an hour and back again, driven right up to the veranda stairs by chauffeured automobile. Bakushka may have some memory problems, but she smells of old money and class. Why such a dame would waste her time watching her future husband teach an amputee with a prototype prosthesis chess is beyond him.

Hell, he doesn't even understand how Yakov has managed to snag such a fine dame. Though her bearing suggesets maturity she cannot be over twenty-five, and she is stunning to look at, with perfect manners and poise. A ballerina indeed; she has the perfect figure for it under her minx coat and fur-trimmed dress. So she took a fall; he has seen her walk from the car to the veranda porch, and he has yet to detect a limp.

At least he is getting better. Better at chess, and better with the claw he has been fitted for a hand. Although, it still itches. And it's hard to concentrate- so hard. Because of all those-the noise. His eyes rove the board for a minute, rubbing the sweat from his lip with his right sleeve. It's early spring; still cold out. Though Yakov promises summer in the open plains of Russia will be hot. Then again, today Bakushka feels clammy and sweaty like he's stuck inside one of those tanks in the full sun. So perhaps summer is in early this year.

Bakushka. Yakov has apparently decided on a name for him, though the American is not sure he likes it. Bakushka means little tank. Still, it's a step up from Нежитью. Probably. The American puffs out another breath, looks out from the porch unto a quiet tundra. He's tired and irritable and he doesn't even know why; he's being given the royal treatment. Granted an experimental procedure to replace his missing arm. One meant for Russian soldiers of merit, not a nameless American found in a Camp Lab so far away from the front no-one knows how he could have gotten there.

Yakov, getting him in and offering up his own home for his recovery. Angelica, supportive of his every attempt and gracing him with her presence. There really is little to complain about. Except. Except.

Something whistles; snaps over the knuckles of his right hand, hard and sharp, and he jumps back in his chair. The sting takes a moment to set in, and he blinks. Then he looks around to Angelica, still as a statue, eyes delicately and lips still behind the rim of her cup. Pretending not to have seen.