Chapter Text
As much as Ilya brags about Russians superior alcohol tolerance, he's the first to pass out from drink after a particularly brutal loss to Montreal.
Cliff isn't too surprised. Ilya has been in a weird mood for weeks now. After the first few drinks, Cliff had finally managed to get Ilya to admit that he had a falling out with the infamous Montreal Jane.
The pair have been on and off for years in a way that makes Cliff want to shake some sense into Ilya. He's obviously head over heels for the girl. With the dopiest smile on his face whenever he gets a text from her.
But Ilya insists that it's nothing more than a casual fling. It would be too complicated to be anything else. And actually he's better off without Jane and her perfect fucking freckles.
Ilya won't tell them what the fight was about. He just drinks his weight in vodka and passes out on Victor's couch. So naturally, they find a marker and draw a dick on his face.
They're fighting over what to write across his forehead when Ilya's phone starts to ring. They go very still when they see the contact on the screen.
Jane.
'Fuck.' Cliff says, staring at the phone.
'What do we do?' Victor asks, as if Cliff has any idea.
'He'll literally kill us.' Cliff warns.
'You're not even a little bit curious about this girl?' Ryan asks, he reaches for the phone but Cliff slaps his hand away.
'Obviously. But I value my fucking life.'
'He doesn't need to know.'
The call ends and they let out a collective sigh of relief that they didn't have to make a decision.
But then it rings again.
'Seems important.' Ryan pushes.
Victor rolls his eyes. 'It's just a booty call.'
'We should at least let her know he's unconscious so she can find someone else to hook up with.' Ryan says.
Brad grins. 'I volunteer as tribute.'
'Cap would definitely kill you.'
'They broke up, right?' Brad shrugs.
'They never actually break up.'
'Its like a Ross and Rachel thing.' Victor explains.
'Who?'
'They're on a break!'
The phone goes quiet. Then rings again. Then goes quiet.
A text comes through.
Jane: SOS
Jane: Pick up asshole!!
It rings again.
Cliff slowly eases the phone out of Ilya's sleeping hand. 'If it's an emergency...' He answers, putting the call on loudspeaker.
'Rozanov. Thank fuck. I know you probably don't want to hear from me. But I was just fucking mugged. I don't know where the fuck I am. And my phone is going to die. Can you-'
'Is that Shane fucking Hollander?!' Brad yells. He’s quickly tackled, Victor covers his mouth with his hands.
There's a long pause before Shane speaks again. 'I'm in fucking hell.'
Cliff grabs the phone, taking it off loudspeaker. 'Hang on Hollander.' He pushes the team away and heads to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
'Hey. It's Cliff Marlow.'
Shane groans. 'Where's Rozanov?' He asks, his speech slurred in a way he’s never imagined someone as polished could be.
'Passed out. Where are you?'
'If I knew that I wouldn't have called.' Shane sounds like he's about to cry.
'Okay. What's around you?'
'Some club. Um, the beehive.'
'Oh, fuck, no wonder you were mugged. That's a shit part of town. We can be there in ten minutes. There's a bus stop at the end of the road. Wait there okay?'
'What... Why?'
'I'm the alternative captain. Since he's unconscious, it's my job to step up. So we're coming to get you.'
'But ...'
'You got any other offers?'
'....No.' Shane sniffs.
'Stay there. We'll see you soon.'
'Okay. You-'
The call disconnects. Assumably Shane's battery dying on him.
Cliff takes a breath before throwing the door open, almost hitting the face of his eavesdropping teammates.
'Okay, Ryan. You're driving. Who has first aid training?'
'I'm rusty and pretty drunk but it's better than nothing?' Connors offers.
'Great. Everyone else stays here. We'll be back soon.' He says, dropping Ilya's phone on the man's chest and leaving without answering any more questions.