Right behind the bar. [ in a moment of being able to grasp, he'd taken hold of the first thing he could without checking the label. ] And trust me when I say that it doesn't meet my standards.
[ he's a man of refined taste. a well-aged whiskey, a good glass of wine, these things are more to his liking than this space rum.
(the truth of it is that he doesn't care right now, just wants to feel the burn of it down his throat and get drunk enough to dull the fear that is clawing at him each time his fingers go through an object instead of meeting it, but if he admitted as much, where would they be?) ]
You'd like that, wouldn't you? If I ended up spaced. But I'm not planning on letting you get a single that easily. [ is a decent show at giving as good as he gets, at volleying back illya's jab. it's normal, or close enough to it, and that settles something inside solo.
Your standards are shit, but this is bad even for you.
[ again, another easy lie. illya knows enough about napoleon solo, both from his research and his time with the man, to know about solo's impeccable taste. would illya prefer a strong russian vodka to dark liquor any day? yes. does that mean he's going to stop drinking whatever this is supposed to be? absolutely not.
he stares at the cup for a few more moments before sighing, accepting the fate he's now placed upon himself, and knocks back half, if not the whole, pour in one go. he's not going to be sipping whatever this is, and if the point is what he believes it to be, taking it as a shot will do the same work.
it may be the alcohol, or maybe it's something in what solo volleys back to him, but illya coughs - once - before lifting a wrist to wipe at his mouth. coughing once more and then giving a shake of his head. ]
I'm unsure. From the tests we had been privy to back in Russia, a death by being spaced [ he'll use solo's word for that, though it feels odd on his tongue. ] is quick but painful. [ illya shakes his head, as if trying to ignore the sudden cold that washes over him. trying to push beyond the flash of an image, of solo adrift out one of the windows, from his mind. ] No, I don't think I would let space take that from me. If you are to die, Napoleon Solo, it will be at my own hands.
[ except that there is not a single hint of actual malice to his words. if anything, what hovers somewhere between the spaces of the letters is a fondness. a joking tone. he can tell something is off in the other man, and it's an attempt to lighten that weight. so much that illya may even have a small smile on his face if napoleon turns to check.
[ somewhere between illya's cough and his words, solo starts chuckling. it's better, probably, than letting his gaze track a drop of liquor on illya's lips, wiped off, smeared across mouth and wrist.
it's better. it's not good. he's still cuckling when illya tells him that if he is to die, it'll be at illya's hands.
(it's a joke, illya's kidding, he gets that, he does, but it's also--
he's laughing because it's a comfort.) ]
Careful, Peril. [ he chances letting his fingers connect with his glass. solid, for the moment. risks lifting it to his mouth and taking a sip, controlled and slow, not rushing it even though he doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold something this time, when his body will turn insubstantial again, a ghost instead of man. ] It almost sounds like you care.
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no subject
Date: 2021-04-17 08:38 pm (UTC)[ he's a man of refined taste. a well-aged whiskey, a good glass of wine, these things are more to his liking than this space rum.
(the truth of it is that he doesn't care right now, just wants to feel the burn of it down his throat and get drunk enough to dull the fear that is clawing at him each time his fingers go through an object instead of meeting it, but if he admitted as much, where would they be?) ]
You'd like that, wouldn't you? If I ended up spaced. But I'm not planning on letting you get a single that easily. [ is a decent show at giving as good as he gets, at volleying back illya's jab. it's normal, or close enough to it, and that settles something inside solo.
he's not going to examine that too closely. ]
no subject
Date: 2021-07-29 02:20 pm (UTC)[ again, another easy lie. illya knows enough about napoleon solo, both from his research and his time with the man, to know about solo's impeccable taste. would illya prefer a strong russian vodka to dark liquor any day? yes. does that mean he's going to stop drinking whatever this is supposed to be? absolutely not.
he stares at the cup for a few more moments before sighing, accepting the fate he's now placed upon himself, and knocks back half, if not the whole, pour in one go. he's not going to be sipping whatever this is, and if the point is what he believes it to be, taking it as a shot will do the same work.
it may be the alcohol, or maybe it's something in what solo volleys back to him, but illya coughs - once - before lifting a wrist to wipe at his mouth. coughing once more and then giving a shake of his head. ]
I'm unsure. From the tests we had been privy to back in Russia, a death by being spaced [ he'll use solo's word for that, though it feels odd on his tongue. ] is quick but painful. [ illya shakes his head, as if trying to ignore the sudden cold that washes over him. trying to push beyond the flash of an image, of solo adrift out one of the windows, from his mind. ] No, I don't think I would let space take that from me. If you are to die, Napoleon Solo, it will be at my own hands.
[ except that there is not a single hint of actual malice to his words. if anything, what hovers somewhere between the spaces of the letters is a fondness. a joking tone. he can tell something is off in the other man, and it's an attempt to lighten that weight. so much that illya may even have a small smile on his face if napoleon turns to check.
he's kidding cowboy. give him credit. ]
no subject
Date: 2021-10-10 09:20 am (UTC)it's better. it's not good. he's still cuckling when illya tells him that if he is to die, it'll be at illya's hands.
(it's a joke, illya's kidding, he gets that, he does, but it's also--
he's laughing because it's a comfort.) ]
Careful, Peril. [ he chances letting his fingers connect with his glass. solid, for the moment. risks lifting it to his mouth and taking a sip, controlled and slow, not rushing it even though he doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold something this time, when his body will turn insubstantial again, a ghost instead of man. ] It almost sounds like you care.