How about Sergei making Margo caipirinhas (Brazilian cocktail), and Margo returning the favour by making caipiroskas (aka caipivodkas), which is where the cachaƧa is substituted with vodka ā because I presume she has to have tried to acquire a taste for it during the 8 years she thought she would be in the USSR for the rest of her life.
Disclaimer: this cocktail knowledge came from Google and I have nothing further about why either of these things are happening.
By the time Margo got home, she operated almost entirely on momentum.
She dropped her bag beside the front door and rolled the tension from her shoulders as she stepped into the hallway of their home.
The first thing she noticed was music. Bossa nova, mellow, coming from the kitchen. The second was the smell of lime. The third was Sergei, standing by the counter with his sleeves rolled up and a knife in his hand.
āShould I be concerned?ā she asked, her voice slipping into something lightly teasing as she took him in.
He turned, and there it wasāthat smile he only did when it was her.
āMargo, you had a bad day.ā It wasnāt a question. Margo crossed the distance between them, got on her tiptoes, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, the closest part of him she could reach without asking him to stop what he was doing.
āThat obvious?ā
āSit,ā he said.
Margo took her usual spot at the kitchen island, one elbow propped against the cool stone surface. The house was warm despite the open windows. This place never really cooled. Even at dusk the air carried a lingering heat that settled into the walls and furniture and skin alike. And, in a way, that felt like home, like Houston.
She looked at the two glasses in front of him, the cutting board with two limes, and then the bottle that sat beside it. āThis,ā she said, waving a hand loosely at all of it, āis new.ā
Sergei didnāt respond to that, because he was already sliding a glass toward her.
The drink was pale green, ice clinking softly against the sides. It smelled sharp and bright and slightly dangerous. Margo took a cautious sip.
āA colleague gave me a bottle of cachaƧa,ā he offered by way of explanation, careful with the pronunciation.
āDo I know this colleague?ā
āLuis. From the modelling team. I helped him with an equation he had been stuck on.ā
āHow long had he been stuck on it?ā
āThree weeks.ā
āAnd you?ā Margo asked, even though she could guess the approximate answer.
Something flickered at the corner of his mouth. āAn afternoon.ā
Margo picked up her glass again. āHe got off cheap with one bottle.ā
Sergei smirked and refilled her glass, the drink disappearing surprisingly quickly. Margo didnāt entirely notice it happeningāthey were talking, and then her glass was empty. Sergei was halfway through making another round, by which point Margo had developed several complaints about her day.
They began to leak out of her in fragments: Three separate departments had wanted answers she did not have. Someone had submitted the wrong set of calculations to the wrong team. Twice. By four in the afternoon, sheād found herself mediating an argument between a Brazilian and an Argentinian engineer who were ostensibly discussing telemetry and yet had somehow arrived at a personal dispute about soccer futebol dating back six years.
āI think,ā she remarked, after a long sip and an even longer sigh, āI need something stronger than this. Move.ā
Before Sergei could respond, she was already standing.
āŠ§ŃŠ¾?ā
āMove.ā She nudged him aside and took over the counter space.
āMargoāā He narrowed his eyes. āItās Wednesday.ā
āAnd this,ā she announced, pretending not to hear him, āis where your Brazilian assimilation ends.ā She took the cachaƧa from his hands and got a bottle of vodka from the fridge instead.
Sergei only stared. āI thought you disliked vodka.ā
He was right, but she wouldnāt give him that. āI figured,ā she said instead, āif I was going to spend the rest of my life in the Soviet Union, I should probably learn how to drink vodka without looking like I was being poisoned.ā
āDid it work?ā he prodded, grinning now.
āSomewhat.ā She set the bottle of Roskoff between them. āI no longer make a face.ā
They switched roles without further discussion.
Her version of the drink was stronger. Neither of them caught the exact moment it tipped from a single weekday wind-down into something more indulgent; Sergei continuing to make adjustments with the vodka āfor balanceā while Margo continued sampling what balance now apparently meant.
When she realized how much she had actually had, it was already too late to correct course in any meaningful way.
She just watched as Sergei leaned back against the counter as if he had suddenly decided the kitchen was an acceptable place to philosophize, and began, with great seriousness, to explain the āproper hierarchyā of vodka.
His cheeks were redder than they had been an hour ago. His accent had gotten thicker tooāeach glass adding a little more of it back. If anything, it made her want to keep him talking.
He went on about how some were for celebration (Stolichnaya), some for endurance (Moskovskaya), and some, he said, with a faintly offended look, were for āpeople who do not respect grainā (Russkaya). How it was meant to be accompanied by food ā boiled potatoes, salted herring, pickles, sauerkraut, rye bread, bacon, ham ā because after every glass you were expected to eat something, and just as importantly, to do it in company.
Otherwise, he said, you were just an alcoholic.
He gestured with the glass as though lecturing an absent committee, and Margo watched him through the slow warmth building in her chest, thinking distantly that she had seen him brief generals with less intensity than this.
She stopped following his explanation somewhere around sortirovka and continuous column distillation. His voice became part of the background she instinctively associated with being at home.
āI like coming home to you.ā It slipped out before she could measure it properly, and it was probably the alcohol that made saying it feel so easy, so unguarded. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of nights like this, of months like this spent with him.
The words hung in the air a fraction longer, and Sergei blinked once, slowly.
āThat was the vodka talking,ā Margo added quickly, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she avoided his eyes.
āMaybe,ā he conceded, setting his drink on the counter. He came around the island to where she was sitting and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
āDefinitely.ā
He shook his head, smiling all the while. āŠ½ŠµŃ.ā
āNo?ā
āThat is you, Margo,ā he stated. āVodka only makes it louder.ā
He didnāt let her protest. He leaned down and kissed her gently, without hurryāeven now, even with alcohol softening the edges of everything, there was still that familiar carefulness, like he was always aware she might disappear. His hand came down onto her waist, steadying rather than pulling, and Margo felt the last of the day finally give way under something warmer.
How about Sergei making Margo caipirinhas (Brazilian cocktail), and Margo returning the favour by making caipiroskas (aka caipivodkas), which is where the cachaƧa is substituted with vodka ā because I presume she has to have tried to acquire a taste for it during the 8 years she thought she would be in the USSR for the rest of her life.
Disclaimer: this cocktail knowledge came from Google and I have nothing further about why either of these things are happening.
By the time Margo got home, she operated almost entirely on momentum.
She dropped her bag beside the front door and rolled the tension from her shoulders as she stepped into the hallway of their home.
The first thing she noticed was music. Bossa nova, mellow, coming from the kitchen. The second was the smell of lime. The third was Sergei, standing by the counter with his sleeves rolled up and a knife in his hand.
āShould I be concerned?ā she asked, her voice slipping into something lightly teasing as she took him in.
He turned, and there it wasāthat smile he only did when it was her.
āMargo, you had a bad day.ā It wasnāt a question. Margo crossed the distance between them, got on her tiptoes, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, the closest part of him she could reach without asking him to stop what he was doing.
āThat obvious?ā
āSit,ā he said.
Margo took her usual spot at the kitchen island, one elbow propped against the cool stone surface. The house was warm despite the open windows. This place never really cooled. Even at dusk the air carried a lingering heat that settled into the walls and furniture and skin alike. And, in a way, that felt like home, like Houston.
She looked at the two glasses in front of him, the cutting board with two limes, and then the bottle that sat beside it. āThis,ā she said, waving a hand loosely at all of it, āis new.ā
Sergei didnāt respond to that, because he was already sliding a glass toward her.
The drink was pale green, ice clinking softly against the sides. It smelled sharp and bright and slightly dangerous. Margo took a cautious sip.
āA colleague gave me a bottle of cachaƧa,ā he offered by way of explanation, careful with the pronunciation.
āDo I know this colleague?ā
āLuis. From the modelling team. I helped him with an equation he had been stuck on.ā
āHow long had he been stuck on it?ā
āThree weeks.ā
āAnd you?ā Margo asked, even though she could guess the approximate answer.
Something flickered at the corner of his mouth. āAn afternoon.ā
Margo picked up her glass again. āHe got off cheap with one bottle.ā
Sergei smirked and refilled her glass, the drink disappearing surprisingly quickly. Margo didnāt entirely notice it happeningāthey were talking, and then her glass was empty. Sergei was halfway through making another round, by which point Margo had developed several complaints about her day.
They began to leak out of her in fragments: Three separate departments had wanted answers she did not have. Someone had submitted the wrong set of calculations to the wrong team. Twice. By four in the afternoon, sheād found herself mediating an argument between a Brazilian and an Argentinian engineer who were ostensibly discussing telemetry and yet had somehow arrived at a personal dispute about soccer futebol dating back six years.
āI think,ā she remarked, after a long sip and an even longer sigh, āI need something stronger than this. Move.ā
Before Sergei could respond, she was already standing.
āŠ§ŃŠ¾?ā
āMove.ā She nudged him aside and took over the counter space.
āMargoāā He narrowed his eyes. āItās Wednesday.ā
āAnd this,ā she announced, pretending not to hear him, āis where your Brazilian assimilation ends.ā She took the cachaƧa from his hands and got a bottle of vodka from the fridge instead.
Sergei only stared. āI thought you disliked vodka.ā
He was right, but she wouldnāt give him that. āI figured,ā she said instead, āif I was going to spend the rest of my life in the Soviet Union, I should probably learn how to drink vodka without looking like I was being poisoned.ā
āDid it work?ā he prodded, grinning now.
āSomewhat.ā She set the bottle of Roskoff between them. āI no longer make a face.ā
They switched roles without further discussion.
Her version of the drink was stronger. Neither of them caught the exact moment it tipped from a single weekday wind-down into something more indulgent; Sergei continuing to make adjustments with the vodka āfor balanceā while Margo continued sampling what balance now apparently meant.
When she realized how much she had actually had, it was already too late to correct course in any meaningful way.
She just watched as Sergei leaned back against the counter as if he had suddenly decided the kitchen was an acceptable place to philosophize, and began, with great seriousness, to explain the āproper hierarchyā of vodka.
His cheeks were redder than they had been an hour ago. His accent had gotten thicker tooāeach glass adding a little more of it back. If anything, it made her want to keep him talking.
He went on about how some were for celebration (Stolichnaya), some for endurance (Moskovskaya), and some, he said, with a faintly offended look, were for āpeople who do not respect grainā (Russkaya). How it was meant to be accompanied by food ā boiled potatoes, salted herring, pickles, sauerkraut, rye bread, bacon, ham ā because after every glass you were expected to eat something, and just as importantly, to do it in company.
Otherwise, he said, you were just an alcoholic.
He gestured with the glass as though lecturing an absent committee, and Margo watched him through the slow warmth building in her chest, thinking distantly that she had seen him brief generals with less intensity than this.
She stopped following his explanation somewhere around sortirovka and continuous column distillation. His voice became part of the background she instinctively associated with being at home.
āI like coming home to you.ā It slipped out before she could measure it properly, and it was probably the alcohol that made saying it feel so easy, so unguarded. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of nights like this, of months like this spent with him.
The words hung in the air a fraction longer, and Sergei blinked once, slowly.
āThat was the vodka talking,ā Margo added quickly, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she avoided his eyes.
āMaybe,ā he conceded, setting his drink on the counter. He came around the island to where she was sitting and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
āDefinitely.ā
He shook his head, smiling all the while. āŠ½ŠµŃ.ā
āNo?ā
āThat is you, Margo,ā he stated. āVodka only makes it louder.ā
He didnāt let her protest. He leaned down and kissed her gently, without hurryāeven now, even with alcohol softening the edges of everything, there was still that familiar carefulness, like he was always aware she might disappear. His hand came down onto her waist, steadying rather than pulling, and Margo felt the last of the day finally give way under something warmer.
Josef Davies said that he was a fan of for all mankind before he got the role in star cityš„¹ now i wonder if he liked Margo and Sergei when he was watching fam for the first time (i'm gonna believe yes until he says otherwise)
my mind is now fully occupied by baby Sergei and i've already rewatched his scenes probably like 10 times š so....
i suppose that's Sergei with his father? finally they showed us a bit of his family!!
1 pickle (ogurchik) spotted! he looooves ogurchiki! and sauerkraut of course!
can anyone identify this book?
(absolutely love the fact that he lives alone, listens to vinyl, is good at cooking, and is lonely to the point that he has so much free time he reads hundreds of pages of reports from baikonur. i mean, they were literally made for each other, him and Margo!!! i wish they had met when they were young š«š«š«š«š«š«)
tangentwithtanner
izzy806
dailybridgerton
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2087
titsay
gummygunk
