Ilarion Isaev was a light sleeper. It came with what he liked to think of as enhanced inherent vigilance.
Enhanced inherent vigilance being what Nikanor Liadov would have called paranoia.
All words; it didn't matter.
A rose by any other name would still find him struck awake like a hammer blow at the sound of a knock on his door, eyes cloven in the settled darkness.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out his Tokarev. It was something he did without deliberate thought; the fact was that Lasha never opened a door without a sidearm in reach. While one Makarov usually lived in his holster and one lived in his desk drawer, the Tokarev was his usual bedmate.
Ilarion took less than a moment to gather himself, shaking off the vestiges of sleep.
He pushed up from the bed, automatically, seizing his brief red silk shortrobe from where it hung on the bathroom door knob and shouldering into it, not thinking particularly about who might be calling in the blue hours before dawn.
It didn't really matter. Just in case, he clicked back the hammer of the pistol, lovingly, feeling the slide caress his thumb. It made him smile.
Tying the sash with a minimal gesture, he crossed to the door and pulled back the bolt latch, opening the door and lounging indolently in the frame with arms braced, gun concealed like a casual hand, pressed flat against the back of the door.
His eyes lit upon the Ukranian, standing there fully kitted, a very slight grey wash of stubble staining the masculine planes of his jaw and neck. His blackish hair appeared sleep-tousled, locks unruly and pressed into sullen disarray.
Ilarion's lips drew slowly out into a narrow line, demonstrating his neutrality.
"Irinarhov," he said, inflectionless. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His fingers went to release the hammer, at first, but then he paused.
It was, after all, better to be safe than to let your guard down and be stabbed by a dead ironworker's lover in the middle of the night. Or, he thought darkly, a dead prisoner's son.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-02-11 08:41 pm (UTC)Enhanced inherent vigilance being what Nikanor Liadov would have called paranoia.
All words; it didn't matter.
A rose by any other name would still find him struck awake like a hammer blow at the sound of a knock on his door, eyes cloven in the settled darkness.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out his Tokarev. It was something he did without deliberate thought; the fact was that Lasha never opened a door without a sidearm in reach. While one Makarov usually lived in his holster and one lived in his desk drawer, the Tokarev was his usual bedmate.
Ilarion took less than a moment to gather himself, shaking off the vestiges of sleep.
He pushed up from the bed, automatically, seizing his brief red silk shortrobe from where it hung on the bathroom door knob and shouldering into it, not thinking particularly about who might be calling in the blue hours before dawn.
It didn't really matter. Just in case, he clicked back the hammer of the pistol, lovingly, feeling the slide caress his thumb. It made him smile.
Tying the sash with a minimal gesture, he crossed to the door and pulled back the bolt latch, opening the door and lounging indolently in the frame with arms braced, gun concealed like a casual hand, pressed flat against the back of the door.
His eyes lit upon the Ukranian, standing there fully kitted, a very slight grey wash of stubble staining the masculine planes of his jaw and neck. His blackish hair appeared sleep-tousled, locks unruly and pressed into sullen disarray.
Ilarion's lips drew slowly out into a narrow line, demonstrating his neutrality.
"Irinarhov," he said, inflectionless. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His fingers went to release the hammer, at first, but then he paused.
It was, after all, better to be safe than to let your guard down and be stabbed by a dead ironworker's lover in the middle of the night. Or, he thought darkly, a dead prisoner's son.