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Taras stepped into the hall, closing his door behind him.
He had showered and changed, and now had on the casual clothes he wore to work out, complete with a light jacket over his tank, to cover his shoulders and arms. That was better. Easier than having his tattoos on display, even if it was only Isaev's brother and his comrade.
Taras carried the bottle of cognac that he'd brought with him from Leningrad, Isaev's brand.
He felt the strange need to see Ilarion.
Taras crossed to Isaev's door and knocked briskly, then opened it and stepped inside, pausing to assess the situation.
The room was mostly as he'd left it. The Ukrainian sat in the corner, still clutching Lasha's vodka bottle, though it looked considerably less full than before. Taras frowned at that.
Ilarion and Andrusha sat next to each other, leaning close with chairs pushed together, like they had been talking.
Taras wasn't certain how long he'd been gone. A while.
He held up the bottle, as if it had only been a few minutes.
"Brought more cognac," he said.
He had showered and changed, and now had on the casual clothes he wore to work out, complete with a light jacket over his tank, to cover his shoulders and arms. That was better. Easier than having his tattoos on display, even if it was only Isaev's brother and his comrade.
Taras carried the bottle of cognac that he'd brought with him from Leningrad, Isaev's brand.
He felt the strange need to see Ilarion.
Taras crossed to Isaev's door and knocked briskly, then opened it and stepped inside, pausing to assess the situation.
The room was mostly as he'd left it. The Ukrainian sat in the corner, still clutching Lasha's vodka bottle, though it looked considerably less full than before. Taras frowned at that.
Ilarion and Andrusha sat next to each other, leaning close with chairs pushed together, like they had been talking.
Taras wasn't certain how long he'd been gone. A while.
He held up the bottle, as if it had only been a few minutes.
"Brought more cognac," he said.
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Date: 2008-10-09 08:34 pm (UTC)"You're a bad man, too, Oleksei," he said, indulgent with fatigue and liquor. "But you know that."
He laughed softly.
"You know I don't care."
Lasha opened his eyes to half mast.
"Maybe I am just like my father," he said, softly. "I don't care anymore."
He reached out, curving a hand over the disturbing solidity of Oleksei's hulking bicep. It was inked as intricately as a map.
"I shouldn't drink so much," he murmured. "I never used to..."
He trailed off, then pulled closer, pressing against Taras's reassuring brawn. He was ridiculously burly, somehow different than the broad grace of Andrei. He was beast-like, bullish, proletariat in every way.
His dangerous presence was reassuring to Ilarion, Oleksei's body like warm-blooded stone against him.
Uncertain stone, now, to his vague amusement, as he felt Taras's chest and arms go rigid and taut.
"Captain," he drawled. "I order you to stay."