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He'd signed up for promotion, finally feeling as though he was accomplished enough to move up, after an extended amount of time where he'd spun tires in places. Now that he could see, truly and clearly, unfettered: revenge had kept him in place, stunted his growth and ceased his progression.

It was, then, quite a surprise to see a coat already on his bed, laid out like a bride's wedding dress. Kostya closed his door behind him, the metal basement door slamming shut. He approached his bed and inspected the coat with growing disapproval, lips pursing in disappointment. Holding it up, Kostya's disapproval grew. While it was very appealing in colouration and pattern--

It was not his.

Gathering up the full hunter coat, Kostya went in search of Lucky, checking all the usual spots.

He was not in the labs. He was not in his room. He was not at any duty stations, and with each passing failure Kostya grew more and more annoyed.

Finally, he found him in the library. Approaching him from behind, silent as the night, Kostya dumped the coat on his head.

"I believe this is for you."

"Control yourself," Kostya said, weary, keeping his voice down and weapon unsummoned. No need for the both of them to look like buffoons. "It is just your coat."

Kostya turned in his heel, making his way towards A Certain Death Division Leader's office.

Grimacing.

The party ball flew over Kostya's head, trailing glitter in its wake. A disturbing amount settled in his hair, leaving him looking like an angry, sparkling, Russian unicorn.

He refrained from looking at Oz, given their last awkward conversation about Kostya's inability to do his job. It was a lot like the work equivalent of avoiding the awkward eye contact with an ex-boyfriend. An ex-work-boyfriend, and you've realized that you didn't even know them all that well.

All things aside, Kostya looked at Mark with a blank stare.

"I did not do anything," he said, slowly. "Except get a coat vith Lucky's name on it."

And then, after a long pause-- perhaps too long--

"I am not Lucky."

Kostya's brow continued to furrow.

"Kostya," he said, very slowly. "I vas looking to start my promotion, but it seems as if there has been a mixup. Mark."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "That is, unless you happen to know vhere I could find a second coat vith my name on it."

Kostya, on cue, golf-clapped to congratulate Mark on his many and wondrous victories. "Congratulations," he said, as dry as the Sahara itself.

And then, he stared out to sea, somehow, through several walls and buildings, and wished he believed in a god so he could pray for patience.

"Depends," he said, "how much is premium? Are you open to negotiation? Is it only cash you vant or do other assets count? Vill you take IOUs? Vill you take favors, but vithout interest?"

He raised a singular eyebrow in question.

Your move.

The only time Mark ever got serious was when money was involved.

Kostya tilted his head. "I do not carry hundreds of dollar around in cash, Mark. If ve go off island, ve can go to an ATM and I vill vithdraw the money for you. Preferably a Credit Union."

Kostya brushed glitter out of his hair, and stared blankly at Mark, trying to process his guilt. It was a rare creature, not often seen in the wild. For a moment, he thought about capturing the moment with a photograph, like some sort of safari explorer.

"Okay," he agreed, "vhatever is easiest."

A pause. Another pause. A slow, slow look at the blank sheet of paper, then at Oz, then back at Mark. Kostya plucked it from the desk, and walked over to stand in front of the other Death hunter-- not Mark, the other OTHER one-- amd held out the paper.

"This is for you."