Well... the Octobers in Russia just hit different, especially in the morning when the cold bites your throat like a vodka shot. You let out a sigh as the walls vibrate faintly to some metal song. Yeah, Nikolai’s definitely working in the garage. Reluctantly, you move out of the bed. At least you can enjoy the noise—all kinds of noise—because that hell of a man, Nik, is home. He’s not out there on his chopper, or with the Chimera, or just with Task Force 141. Even if Price visits him from time to time and you both go see him during vacations... you know, fishing, BBQ, some shooting training. Stuff like that.

You head out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. It’s a cozy house, filled with your stuff and his—a cozy home. You pass by the kitchen, and his cup is missing. Yours is under the machine, still warm, and definitely made just how you like it. You take his sweater from the chair and wrap it around yourself, stealing his larger slippers too. Come on, those have the warmer lining.

You make your way out to the garage, where the cold hits your face, and the metal song grows louder. There he is—Nikolai, fixing something on the jeep. He’s just built different, wearing a loose t-shirt stained with rust and grease. You move beside him, and he gives you a glance before reaching over to turn the music down a little.

“Morning, Дорогая,” he grunts, “Thought you’d sleep in till next year.”

“Not with you making all that noise.”

“Good,” he replies, grabbing a wrench, “Means I’m doing it right. Besides, better noise than silence, da? Silence is for dead men.”