"Спасибо." His fingers coil around the neck of the bottle and he slowly eases himself up with an elbow, then a forearm. The bottle, though, finds its way into his mouth before he's even fully up and the sweet liquor pools into his mouth, spilling from the sides and down his chin and he doesn't care.
It burns; it burns like it should until instincts kick in and he's numb again. He swallows back too much liquor; it isn't natural for a man to drink vodka like it's water. But he's a Russian and he'll drink as much vodka as he damn well pleases. He'd drain the bottle dry if it wasn't for the fact that HUNK is sitting right there, probably waiting for another swig.
The Jackal comes up for air, breathes in sharply and grins. But the grin isn't from the mania, isn't from blood lust. No, this is an actual grin. And, it seems, all theories, all rumors are true.
The only way to tame the Jackal is to let him drink from the bottle. He's Nicholai again, despite everything. A man that used to know a thing or two about honor.
It's sad, really. Money, blood and death seem to be his motivators nowadays. And lord knows that he enjoys it; that's what makes this whole thing that much more sick. But it's a bitter enjoyment that most write off as a man who's cracked. However, he hasn't cracked. Not yet.
There is some enjoyment out of being a little off kilter. Keeps people on their toes. Behind closed doors, he's still keeping himself together. Now and again, pieces fall away. Soon, the glass will shatter and he'll be a babbling lunatic just like his good old Colonel was.
But today is not that day. Neither is tomorrow. And, so, Nicholai doesn't give a shit.
"I have record," he's losing the English again and his accent is extremely heavy. "-in the bag. Pull it out." He grunts, extending a finger as he silences himself with another swig.