Chapter Text
06:37 am
Monday, May 20, 2013
The collar was too tight around his neck. Ilya’s three booths away and across the diner from the polished group that called themselves storm chasers, and even from that distance he can see how Shane Hollander was pulling at the starched collar of the blindingly white polo he was wearing. Ilya couldn’t tell if it wasn’t laying right against the other man’s skin or if the starch was making Hollander’s freshly showered skin itch.
Not that he was looking. No. He was never looking. llya drags the lukewarm mug of coffee to his lips, sliding his eyes away from the clones to the slowly lightening sky of Oklahoma. It was early, but he was eager to get on the road. Supercells would not chase themselves, and Ilya’d be damned if he let Hollander and his pod of Canadians and PhDs beat him to the first intercept of the day.
Again.
“Bood was sayin’ there’s a sweet system that looks prime for chasin’ just west a here.” The words are flung from the hulking body that flops itself down in the booth across from Ilya, drawing his attention from the window. “Optimal window for cell intercept would be T minus seven hours if the projections hold.”
Ilya hums around another sip of his diner coffee, careful to keep his eyes on Cliff Marlow and not track the broad shoulders of the most boring man in storm chasing. “We sure will spawn? Is actual supercell, not the woo-woo hail storm Bood had us chasing last week?”
“Roz, that was one fuckin’ time, c’mon. You and I both know you can’t fucking guarantee if a cell is gonna drop a twister.” The words lack Bood’s usual bite as he slides into the booth with Cliff, and his last word fractures on a yawn. Any other time of day, the words would have been spit at Ilya with the fire that normally fueled Zane Boodram. But Ilya made it mandatory for everyone on the team to be up by sunrise so they could get their actual show on the road, and Bood was not known for being a morning person.
“Ah, no. I have perfect record, remember?” Ilya didn’t try to stop the smirk from twisting his features, especially as, somewhere in the back of his brain, he notices Hollander turn towards his table, coming closer. Ilya’s not able to resist the need to nettle the other man; never has been, really. “Right, Hollander? Better record than you and, eh, DataDriven, hm?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.”
Just those three words, matter of fact and reflexive, have Ilya grinning wider. Hollander doesn’t stop to say more, just continues to stride past their booth towards the door. Ilya doesn’t call out for his continued attention and definitely doesn’t turn to watch how his ass stretches his khakis.
It’s easier to turn his attention back to the window, where Hollander has to walk by on his way to the squeaky clean DataDriven trucks, and blue eyes meet brown through the diner window. Ilya’s not the first to look away, even when it’s clear Cliff’s trying to get his attention. It’s only when Hollander turns back towards the motel attached to the diner — mostly empty parking lot behind him — that Ilya tunes back into his friend and coconspirator.
“… leaving? We still have to head back works OKC and come up on the storm from the southwest.”
“Is not far to OKC,” Ilya counters, setting his empty coffee mug on the table. They’re an hour outside Oklahoma City, two hours with Monday morning rush hour traffic. With Wyatt’s lead foot? Probably less. Speaking of… “Blyat, did Hazy get back yet? Or still in Tulsa, fucking Lisa?”
“Keep her name out of your mouth, Rozy.” The voice is singsongy, like a child on May Day, and Wyatt Hayes pushes himself into the booth next to Ilya, uncaring about the lack of personal space between himself and the so-called leader of their merry band of misfits. “I don’t wanna have to punch you in the face again.”
All Ilya could do was grin. It was so fucking hard to rile up Hazy, the guy was so chill all the time. But he never appreciated anyone talking shit about his fiancee, even Ilya’s teasing crudeness. Maybe especially Ilya’s teasing crudeness. Doesn’t make him stop, though. “Did you give her special hello from me? If yes, I’m sure she enjoyed much more than she enjoyed you.” Ilya’s arm automatically moves down as soon as the words fly out of his mouth, anticipating the nut shot Hazy tries taking with his own elbow. He still lets out a soft oof at the impact of Hazy’s elbow hitting the muscle of Ilya’s thigh, the most reaction Hazy will get from him.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Hazy says, but there’s a smile on his lips that ruins the effect of the words. The smile and pleasant mood will last for the whole week, since Hazy got to spend an entire seventy-two hours with the self proclaimed love of his life. The phrase always made Ilya’s stomach turn over, immediately nauseous at the love sick mooning thing Hazy turned into when it came to Lisa.
No one needed to know about the pair of brown eyes and tantalizing freckles that danced in front of Ilya’s eyes every time he had to hear Hazy wax poetic about how brilliant and beautiful and perfect his future doctor wife was. No one needed to know what else was twisting in his belly, worse than nausea. His hand unconsciously balls into a fist on the table, and Ilya freezes for a moment before lightly knocking his knuckles against the sticky diner table.
“Seven hours to intercept?” Ilya repeats, even though Cliff was pretty clear about the timeline. Bood’s head is hanging forward, practically against the table, but there’s a clear nod that comes from him, if not any words. Ilya doesn’t expect anything more from him for at least two more hours and a full American breakfast. “Okay, eat. Shower, jerk off, whatever you need to relax before getting on road for chase. We leave at 9:30. Hazy, you good to drive?”
Hazy nods, and Ilya breathes out lightly, nodding his acceptance. “Okay. 9:30, everyone at the van. You late, you stuck.” Cliff very obviously rolls his eyes, but Ilya is no longer paying attention, because his phone is lighting up, incoming text message.
[06:44 am] Jane: I’m waiting…
“Roz, you left a girl in your room? Fuckin’ cold, man.” Cliff’s words send a cold chill down Ilya’s back, and his elbow to Hazy’s side must land too hard to be polite because Hazy flinches away from him, nearly falling to his ass as he rushes to stand from the booth bench.
“The fuck Roz? Just tell me to get up.”
Ilya doesn’t respond, just claps Hazy on the shoulder in apology as he slides off the bench himself, looking over at Cliff with a raised eyebrow. “Better to leave her in cool room then wake her up and kick her out at 5 am, eh?”
He walks out of the diner to a quiet chuckle and what sounds like murmurs of disbelief. Ilya pays it no mind; he has two hours to get a man with brown eyes and lovely freckles under him in the best way and then out of his head; he’s not going to let Hollander distract him from this chase.