taras_oleksei | Evening

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Evening

Taras lay in his bed, and thought he could still smell Lasha.

He had woken up alone again that morning.

It had been full dark yet. He'd lain quietly in bed for a moment, groggy and disoriented, listening to the wind hiss between buildings outside, reaching for the cool sheets next to him.

Lasha was sick, he had recalled, almost immediately.

That had given him the impetus to get out of bed. He'd looked at the clock. It was well past three. Taras got dressed, and went looking for Lasha.

He wondered which he was getting more used to: expecting Lasha to be there when he woke, or finding that he was alone instead. He supposed one went with the other.

He'd swung by their office first, then on a strange hunch, Liadov's. Both were empty. The mess hall had been Taras' third or fourth possibility, and it was there that he had found Lasha.

But Lasha had not been alone. He'd been sitting at a table with Liadov.

Isaev and Liadov in their grey uniforms, sitting across from each other, like comrades.

Fancy pricks, both of them, tall and blond haired. Lasha was arctic smooth and sleek while Liadov was more languid and sensual.

The sight of them together had made Taras feel strange inside, and his chest ached with an emotion that was not quite anger, or anything else he had a name for.

Taras had stood in the doorway, watching them for a while, mismatched gaze fixed and ravenous.

Eventually, he had turned away, and left them.

He had seen Lasha, later that day, looking a little pale but carrying himself with unthinking grace, as always. More or less normal. It was the less that worried Taras, but he hadn't seen any sign of Ilarion faltering.

Taras had hit the gym hard that evening, then showered and eaten, like usual.

Now, he lay awake in the darkness, thinking.

Finally he got out of bed, and pulled on his pants, and a clean undershirt, and grabbed a newly-acquired bottle of cognac off the counter.

His door was one down from Lasha's.

Taras knocked on Isaev's door.

"It's me, Lashka."

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Taras shivered.

He was acutely aware of Lasha, the clean, masculine scent of him, the texture of his voice, the possessiveness of Lasha's hand against the back of his head.

"Oh, da. I want it," he breathed, roughly.

Taras let Lasha pull him close, until he was leaning over the chair. His pulse was hot and thrumming.

He brought his lips to Lasha's but did not kiss him. Not yet. Instead, he grazed their mouths together, feeling the caress of Lasha's breath on his lips.

"There's nothing I want more, Lashka."

Taras felt Ilarion's lips part under his.

"Nothing," he repeated, then leaned the rest of the way, and kissed him hungrily.

Ilarion responded to Oleksei's aggressive fervor with equal and opposite restraint. He was passionate but calm. Deliberate. Mindful.

He was not allowing himself to regress to a naked animal state just yet. These things were best delayed. After all, if you began on a crescendo, it left you nowhere to go.

Although it occurred to Ilarion that Taras probably didn't mind an hour of raucous bombast at one dynamic.

He thought he should take Oleksei to hear some Wagner some time.

As he accepted the Captain's bruising mouth against his own, his hand pressed against the thin, ribbed cotton of Oleksei's undershirt, conforming to the shape of the muscle beneath.

Oleksei was strapping, thick shouldered and arms bared, tattoos running a riot across every available inch of flesh. It was actually amazing to have picked up that much ink in six months- though, Lasha allowed, Taras was a criminal and the son of a criminal, and may have had a good base coat already before his little sojourn in Magadan.

Lasha felt his body responding coyly, toying with the idea of becoming hard.

He slid his hand down from Oleksei's chest, finding the silk drawstring of his own pajamas and slowly pulling it loose.

His stiffening cock brushed the cool material, aching and tender with newly stirred need, like embers roused from coal.

"Perfect," he intoned, as Taras released his mouth, briefly, but did not leave his proximity. "You kiss better than a whore, Taras. Better than Anya, for certain."

Lasha's smile was almost imperceptible.

His fingers sought and found Oleksei's bulge, spreading over it possessively, until Ilarion was palming the whole of his prick, which was hardening rather unrepentantly beneath his touch.

He rubbed slowly, absently, with a firm stroke, enjoying Oleksei's response.

"You're my man, are you," he breathed. "So what makes you a man is mine as well."

Taras' eyes fluttered shut briefly. His lips were parted and his brow creased and low.

"Da," he whispered. "It is."

He licked his lips in anticipation.

There was no shame in saying such a thing to one's krysha, Taras thought, because it was true.

Lasha stroked him with expert touch of a master rider, one who kept his steed reined in with a strong, even hand. Taras matched the rhythm, rocking his hips instinctually to grind his crotch against Lahsa's cupped palm in slow, hard passes.

Tiny sparks of heat shot through his groin, sharp and almost painful.

"Khorosho, Krysha. What's mine is yours."

Taras pulled one hand away from the chair, leaving the other to brace himself. He stroked Lasha's smooth body in turn, sliding his fingers against Lasha's stomach, enjoying the feel of taut skin over firm muscle.

He let his hand dip lower, and tangled his fingers in the rough silk that crowned Ilarion's groin.

"I serve you," he breathed.

There was a sudden noise, a sharp rap.

It had no bearing on his current state of blissfully rising lust, and it took him a few moments to register what it was.

Taras lifted his head, mismatched eyes wide, and he froze in alarm, one hand still down Lasha's pajamas.

The noise came again, louder and more insistent.

"Khui," he growled, softly. "Door."

Lasha paused, catching his breath, eyeing the door circumspectly.

After a moment he had recovered, modulating his voice enough to speak.

"Yes? What is it?" he called, his tone cool but sharp, with just enough edge to communicate that he was otherwise engaged, should the matter be less than life and death.

A small flicker of unfamiliar trepidation crossed his mind at the thought that it might be Liadov, but almost as quickly bitterness engulfed it; Liadov had made no effort to seek him out since they'd arrived in Tselinoyarsk, and every effort to avoid him.

Well, except...except that Liadov had come to him, only that day.

But he'd come to him that morning, and that was unprecedented...

Lasha's brow went taut as his eyes angled toward the door.

Oleksei's hand felt illicit and damning, resting where it was.

He felt himself harden a little more.

Kassian paused for a moment, without answering, of half a mind to turn and simply slink away.

He had known this would be a bad idea.

He stood in the hall dressed in his rumpled uniform, looking somewhat the worse for wear, he was certain. He had ditched the facemask and beret earlier, though his unruly hair stood up in the front in spite of his efforts to flatten it.

Irinarhov had intended to spend the night up in his tower, babysitting duties be damned. But any kind of restful sleep was far from him. His mind had turned over and over, until finally he had climbed down to go for a walk. He had found himself heading toward the visitors' wing.

He frowned at the door.

The voice that had issued crisply from within sounded at the very least, vaguely irritated at being called upon at such a late hour.

Perhaps the tone was just this side of anger, though it was hard to tell, with an Isaev.

They tended to play their emotions close.

The bastards.

Kassian grimaced, running his hand through his hair again.

"It's Irinarhov," he started, slowly.

He kept his voice pitched low. Liadov's room was all the way at the other end of the hall, but still, Kassian didn't want his voice to carry.

He cleared his throat.

"I was wondering if we could speak, Major."

Lasha's brows raised in silent movie surprise.

He flicked his eyes to Taras' and held them for a moment.

"It's that khokol again."

His hand caressed the rise of Oleksei's cock a few more times.

Then he released him.

"It must be something about my brother. Let him in."

Taras let out a growl, wordless and frustrated.

He reached down and caught Isaev's prick in his hand. It was already firm and reacted to his touch, stiffening even further, gratifyingly. He pressed the length of it against his palm, running his thumb up and along the graceful curve at the end. Taras held it for a few seconds, like sealing a promise.

"Fucking khokol," he muttered.

He let Lasha go, and slowly pulled back.

Taras straightened his undershirt and tugged at his waistband. His loins were throbbing. His cock was engorged from Lasha's attentions, tented aggressively against his pants.

It was not, he could tell, going away any time soon, or just because of a khokol's inconvenient timing.

Lasha's state looked a little damning as well, robe open, thighs parted, his erection subverting the smooth lay of his silk pajama pants. Fortunately the pants were black, so it was not as obvious as it could have been.

Taras stalked to the door.

He unlocked it and threw it open abruptly, leveling a scowl at the khokol, who stood there in his uniform and carrying his rifle, which Taras didn't like. It looked fucking uncivilized.

Taras leaned forward, squaring his shoulders, looming menacingly.

The khokol did not step back, but he did lean away from Taras.

"What?" Taras asked, gruffly, eyes narrowed.

Lasha had already said to let him in, but the khokol didn't know that.

"I - "

Kassian faltered for a second, finding Oleksei's half-blind stare disconcerting, as always. That the dead, pale blue eye fixed on him with the same intensity as the other seemed wholly unnatural and made Kassian think of a Greek seer driven mad by visions of prophecy.

He shifted his gaze, just past the captain's broad shoulders, into the dimmed room, where he saw a familiar profile and glint of sleek platinum hair.

Kassian looked back at Oleksei.

"I need to speak to the major," he said, again.

Oleksei stared hard at him for another moment, then made a vague noise of assent. He stepped back from the door slightly, just enough to let Kassian slip in.

Kassian stepped around him, careful not to touch him accidentally, which would be grounds for offense, he was sure.

The door closed behind him. Kassian glanced back to see Oleksei following him.

He walked around to approach Ilarion's chair.

"Major Isaev. Sorry for the late hour, but it..."

Kassian hesitated, realizing he'd come here with only a half-formed idea about what he wanted to say.

He was aware of Oleksei's massive presence, not far behind him.

"I was hoping you had some time to talk," he finished.

Lasha had composed himself once more while Oleksei answered the door, drawing his cashmere robe up his arms once more and tying it carelessly. It covered his loins enough to obscure his momentarily inconvenient state.

Now his gaze rested lightly on Kassian Irinarhov, who stood before him with his weapon and in his uniform, as with every other time Ilarion had seen him, but there was a difference.

This time he did not look inspection-ready, or even combat ready. He had a heavy shadow staining his jaw, and indigo swathes of half moon darkness suspended beneath each eye. The olive of his complexion seemed drained of its earthy color, leaving a sallow and pallid face. HIs hair was overgrown and disheveled even beyond its usual haphazard Khokol willfullness.

Lasha's arctic eyes traversed downward, assessing, marking the rumpled uniform, the untucked tel'nyashka.

Then they rose, slowly, to return to the sniper's face.

"You look like a man who could use a drink, Irinarhov."

Kassian let out a soft, startled breath, half in relief, his shoulders rolling forward slightly.

He did not know what he'd expected, exactly - something between Oleksei's outright hostility and Andrei's coolly detached dismissal. Or maybe the contemptuous, leering sneer of Ilarion in his youth.

But there was something about the simple invitation instead that struck him raw. Kassian knew it was not benevolence that motivated Ilarion Isaev, but right then, it didn't matter.

"Da," he said, quietly. His voice sounded a little rough, like he'd been drinking.

He cleared his throat.

"I'd appreciate that, Major."

Belatedly, he glanced down, tugging at his uniform, making the effort to straighten his jacket lapels and his twisted scarf, though it was mostly ineffectual.

He ran his hand through his hair again, pushing it back and off his brow.

Kassian stepped closer to Ilarion's chair. Oleksei did not follow him this time, but instead lurked menacingly like an overgrown Siberian tiger at the perimeter of a remote village.

He glanced at Oleksei, who merely stared back.

It seemed polite to disarm. Kassian looked away and slipped his rifle off his shoulder, leaning it carefully against the credenza.

There were two glasses on the endtable next to a nearly-empty bottle. He guessed he had interrupted Isaev and Oleksei's nightcap.

Ilarion, at least, did not seem particularly perturbed about it. His expression was mild and posture relaxed. He exuded unthinking confidence.

Kassian looked at him, and wondered if he was seeing what Andrei would be like, in eight years or so.

"Thanks for seeing me," he added.

Ilarion made a vague gesture of dismissal.

"Nichevo," he said, smoothly.

Then a significant pause.

"You wouldn't come here unless you had something considerable to impart."

Ilarion let his hand rest on the padded arm of the wing chair, easing along it slowly, back and forth.

"By which I mean, this is not a social call."

It was no excuse not to have a drink over it.

Lasha shrugged negligently.

"Still, even business should be treated like pleasure at every opportunity."

He glanced over Irinarhov's head, at Oleksei, where he loitered menacingly like a living telamon.

"Taras," he called, mildly. "Our rustic friend here, as I recall, does not prefer our manner of sweet, sweet poison. Will you pour him a vodka? Bottle's in the valise. New one."

Taras' lip curled.

"Yeah, good thing. The old one got used up."

He remembered that incident, when Irinarhov had tried to bait him by drinking up all Lasha's vodka.

In his opinion, Irinarhov didn't have the physicality to swagger.

Taras turned away to find Lasha's valise. The leather felt extremely fine under his fingertips, almost impossibly soft and supple.

He grabbed another glass out of the cabinet, then opened the new bottle and poured.

Something Lasha had just said stuck with him. Taras was a cognac man now, he realized. It was what he usually drank with Lasha and kept at home, and he found he actually preferred it, even after a lifetime of drinking vodka and slivo.

Taras thrust the glass at the khokol. A little spilled over the edge and onto his fingers. It felt cold.

"Drink up," he said.

Oleksei was staring him down.

It reminded Kassian of how handlers always said not to make eye contact with an aggressive dog.

"Spasiba."

He took the glass out of Oleksei's grasp, and tossed it back in one swallow. The vodka burned down his throat and made his eyes water.

Kassian held out his glass again.

Oleksei's unsettling gaze narrowed on him. After a second, he grabbed the bottle of the sideboard and poured Kassian another shot.

Kassian nodded to him.

Oleksei folded his thick, tattooed arms and leaned back, watching him.

Holding his glass, Kassian turned back to Isaev. He glanced at the chair he presumed Oleksei had been sitting in, but did not make a move toward it.

He regarded Ilarion for a moment, wondering how he was going to broach the subject.

"Major, I was wondering if we could talk privately. It's...a personal matter."

Kassian glanced between Oleksei and Isaev.

"No disrespect," he added.

"None taken," Ilarion answered coolly on Taras' behalf. "Captain Oleksei is thoroughly disinterested in matters that don't pertain to crime, drinking and whores. He won't mind giving us a few minutes."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his pulse jackknifed sideways in his chest.

"It's not about Major Liadov, is it?" he asked, in a thick, dark voice that only rarely emerged undiluted.

It didn't seem likely, but maybe Nika was moving forward with Andrei as his suspect after all. Maybe he was simply throwing canned reassurances in Ilarion's direction until it was too late to wash. Maybe Liadov had a whole other agenda of revenge.

He felt sick at the thought, and he didn't believe it, but his cynicism insisted he hold it in mind.

Trust no one.

Ilarion schooled his expression to one of studied neutrality.

"Or is it about my brother?"

"Your brother," Kassian said, immediately. "It's about Andrei."

There had been a bit of trepidation in Ilarion's voice when he brought up Liadov, a tiny hint of vulnerability. It was not what Kassian expected from Andrei's cold, controlled brother, but when he thought about it, he supposed that love hit everyone in a raw spot.

He felt his chest constrict.

After a second, Kassian averted his eyes, glancing at Oleksei, who had not yet made a move to leave them.

"It's personal," he repeated, vaguely.

Oleksei narrowed his eyes, pushing away from the wall. He approached Kassian and did not stop until he was in his personal space, then proceeded to frisk him. The captain handled him roughly, but with an expertise that suggested he was well familiar with the procedure.

Well familiar, Kassian realized, if slightly overzealous. The way Oleksei reached between his legs to cup his balls and cock made Kassian grit his teeth.

Oleksei's other hand reached around to feel up the crack of his ass through his jodhpurs.

Unwillingly, he thought about the games that he and Andrei had played, the prisoner-of-war, and his captor.

Oleksei seemed to be in no hurry to finish up. Kassian held still, taking it, trying to ignore the tiny pulse of heat in that stirred in his loins.

Kassian kept his sidearm in a specialized holster at his back, which Oleksei found in due course. He pulled the gun and checked it, suggesting at least a basic familiarity with weapons as well.

The brutish captain finally stepped away from him.

"You can have this back when you're done," Oleksei said shortly, then looked past him toward Ilarion. "He's clean."

"I somehow doubt that," Lasha said.

It looked like Irinarhov had skipped the morning shower a few days in a row.

He glanced at Oleksei, giving a slight and appreciative upward check of his head.

"Spasiba, Captain. That was very...thorough."

Ilarion shifted his gaze back to Irinarhov, deliberately.

"Speaking of personal," he remarked, with a wintry smile, reaching for his cognac.

"Anytime," Taras said.

The khokol made no reply to Lasha other than a faint grimace. He was not looking at Taras, but it did not seem like being felt up had humiliated him, either. There was still a bit of defiance in his taut jaw, and set of his shoulders.

Yet he had complied without complaint, and had not flinched, even when Taras had groped his junk. He'd braced himself, and taken it, like a man who knew his place.

Maybe the khokol wasn't so bad after all, Taras mused.

He glanced at the long rifle, wondering for a moment whether he should take that too, but he finally decided to leave it. It was too impractical to use as a close-range assassination weapon, and Lasha was no slouch.

Taras tucked the khohol's handgun in his waistband.

He looked at Lasha.

"If you need anything, I'll be in my room."

Taras plucked his glass off the endtable, then walked to the door, glancing over his shoulder.

"Be good, Irinarhov," he said, and then left.

Kassian exhaled.

He smoothed down the front of his uniform with an absent hand, raising the glass of vodka to his lips and taking a pull. It hurt a little as it went down. That was good. Cleansing.

He grabbed the bottle of vodka, and sat it down on the endtable next to the cognac.

"May I sit, Major?"

Kassian indicated the other chair.

"I have a few things to tell you, and..."

He paused, his jaw working. For a moment, all he could remember was punching the younger Lasha in the mouth.

Isaev's demeanor was far from that sneering youth's, however. He had matured into a much more refined and calculating man, though now, out of the crisp grey uniform, and in luxurious bedclothes, Ilarion almost seemed benign.

"...and a favor to ask," he finished.

Ilarion's eyebrow raised.

"Cryptic little man, aren't you."

He glanced at the chair and inclined his head slightly.

"Da," he said, softly. "Sit."

He took a sip of cognac and leaned back into his chair, holding it beneath his nose so that he could smell the bouquet. Not a bad vintage; Taras had chosen well. Ilarion felt a moment of absurd and surreal pride, which amused him.

The tiny smile transferred onto his lips unwittingly.

"It has been an extremely pleasant day, Captain Irinarhov. In all likelihood you will find me unseasonably agreeable. Say what you came to say."

Kassian nodded, and sat down.

The chair was plush and welcoming, and much more comfortable than the floor of his tower. His back had tightened up, he realized, feeling his body ease gratefully into the cushions. It was not as easy to lie in wait on rooftops all day and night as it once had been.

He took another pull of vodka before he spoke.

"What I have to tell you, well, I think it'll be good news. If you don't already know it."

That could account for Ilarion's pleasant mood, Kassian thought. For a moment he wondered if Andrei had told Lasha already, and the elder Isaev brother was just humoring him.

Ilarion watched him. He looked almost obscenely relaxed.

Kassian drew in a breath, feeling exhaustion stitch in his brow.

"Andrei told me that he's leaving the military," he said, after a moment. "He wants to go home, to Leningrad."

Ilarion eyed the sniper circumspectly.

"Da," he said, at last. "He finally came to his senses."

Andrei had come upon him that morning in the mess hall, in the midst of a bizarrely civilized interlude with Liadov. His brother had never looked more like an Isaev to Lasha than in that moment, as he set his hands on the table, leaned in and held them both cool and steady in his gaze. "I'm done here," he'd said. "Take me home."

Lasha paused.

"But you didn't come here in the middle of the night merely to tell me that."

His smile was crisp and knowing.

"Your service in maintaining the appearance of procedural propriety is noted, and will be compensated. Having observed the laws in such a fashion will make matters easier when he is exonerated. Which he will be, one way or another. It's only a matter of time. I will be taking him back to Leningrad with me as soon as this issue is resolved."

The sniper's eyes flicked away for a moment, in some unreadable show of reaction. It was not gratitude.

Ilarion paused, frowning deeply, eyes narrowing.

"Unless...there is some obstacle I am unaware of? Has that pathologist got some unplayed card that needs to be crushed?"

Irinarhov's reticence was curious. The real issue remained unspoken, but lingered in his dark eyes and darker expression. Although Ilarion noted that the khokol looked drained; his habitual scowl was much diminished, and his perpetually stormy mien was washed out to a drizzling grey.

"You may as well tell me, Irinarhov, for I'll find out eventually. And if it's anything regarding Major Liadov, you'd best tell me now, or else it will go worse for him in the long run."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass.

Kassian shook his head, swallowing as he searched for words.

"No...no. It's...nothing like that. There's no obstacle. It's nothing to do with Liadov. There's nothing standing in the way of Andrei getting what he wants."

He closed his eyes.

"Nothing," he repeated.

It was going to be sooner, rather than later, then. Andrei wanted to be done with it quickly, to expose the wound to sunlight and fresh air, let it heal to a pretty scar.

Kassian looked up, after a moment. His hand was absolutely steady as he reached for the vodka, and closed his fingers carefully around it.

"I told you it was a personal matter. It is. Between your brother and me."

He stared at the glass before he pulled it toward him.

"I was very serious about what I said you the other night. About what I...feel...about your brother. Of course I don't want him to stay in a place where he's miserable for my sake, but I'm also..."

Kassian had to pause.

"I'm also not willing to let him walk out of my life."

He looked up at Ilarion then.

Reading Isaev expressions was not exactly Kassian's forte - but to his credit, he thought, it was no one's. He could not quite tell what he saw in Ilarion's icelike eyes, but they reminded him of Andrei's, at times.

"That's why I came to ask you for a favor. I want to leave the military too. I want to go to Leningrad. Only there's...a problem."

Gradually Ilarion frowned, leaning back, studying Irinarhov carefully.

He was not shocked by this admission, because there was nothing untoward about it.

It wasn't impossible, for a man to love another man and want to be with him. Certainly a man could have a passionate love for a colleague, want to remain by his side, want to follow him. And Andrei was magnetic in many ways, and gregarious with his affections.

If there was a touch of wistful emotion in Irinarhov's words, it was germane. A man might love a brother, more even than he might love a woman.

"You want to go to Leningrad," Lasha repeated the statement evenly.

After a moment he took a sip of cognac and then leaned back, steepling his fingers, gazing at Irinarhov expectantly.

"You're like Taras," he remarked, after a moment. "A warrior who loves Caesar."

It was the wrong parallel to draw, as his mind was instantly drawn back to ten minutes earlier, handling Oleksei as if he owned him, as Taras standing before him like a prized and exalted legionnary.

Ilarion frowned at his lap.

Kassian frowned, opening his mouth, then he shut it, abruptly.

He had been about to protest Ilarion's characterization of their relationship, and liken it to something more like a Gilgamesh and Enkidu, or Achilles and Patroclus - warrior brothers, and equals - but he realized that a man who had just characterized himself as a Caesar would probably not particularly care for the idea of such equality between an Isaev and...anyone else.

He also realized what Ilarion had just tacitly admitted about Oleksei, which for some reason, Kassian found more disturbing since he'd been thoroughly felt up by the man.

"Yes," he said, carefully, after a moment, "I want to go to Leningrad."

Isaev was frowning, looking pensive.

Kassian supposed it was a lot to take in.

He exhaled, and found that the words came easier now. Somehow, having spoken it to Lasha aloud had committed him to the course, irregardless of his fitness or preparation for it.

It felt like flying on a plane, which Kassian had done a few times. Once it took off, there was nothing you could do. You would arrive at your destination, regardless.

For some reason, he felt better.

"But there's an issue," he continued. "Two issues, really. The first is that I haven't been a civilian since I was seventeen. I have no idea what life is like outside the military, and I need a place to live, and a job that's...meaningful. I don't want to be working in a factory all day or guarding an old warehouse at night. I have a lot of advanced training and I'm self educated and observant. I won't settle for something menial."

He took a long pull from his vodka.

"The second thing is that I don't want Andrei to feel responsible for me. I need to be independent, and not relying on him to explain to me what I should be doing, or how I should live. I'm not a child. I'm his...comrade."

The last thing he had to say felt like he was opening a vein, and signing his name in blood.

Liadov would disapprove, he knew.

Kassian looked at Ilarion steadily.

"I realize it's a big favor to ask. I'm willing to owe you, and pay you back however I can."

He paused, for emphasis.

"In whatever way you find appropriate."

Lasha stared, eyes chilling into glacial lakes.

"I don't think that's what you want, Irinarhov," he said, in a voice of deadly quiet. "Being in spetsnaz you might be generally cavalier about offering indentured servitude. But you'd better think twice, before you come to me."

Ilarion tilted his head, slightly, rubbing his thumb slowly along the side of his cognac glass, almost in the manner he'd touched Oleksei.

"Still," he said, "there is no reason I couldn't find a place for an able-bodied man in Leningrad."

He paused, frowning slightly as he took a drink. He tasted the fine liquor, savored it and swallowed, as his robe gapped slightly, flashing a darkly inked eye at the sniper, unbeknownst to Ilarion.

Gazing down into the glass, he fingered the rim, the set of his lips contemplative.

"What do you see yourself doing, Captain, if not laboring at my pleasure?"

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